We Hate it When Our Friends Become Successful. Only Because We Slept Late and Are Only Just Now Unloading the Dishwasher.

It's a normal Sunday morning - I'm vacuuming, putting the laundry away, and watching some ducks float across the lake.

My friend Robert, on the other hand, is getting ready for this evening's opening of Alice Tully Hall, a 4-year architectural project that he just completed, hailed by the New York Times as "a revelation". My childhood friend Gary (who I've decided is the nicest person on earth), is up for an Academy Award tonight.

I am wiping scuff marks off the moulding in the living room and mentally tracing back the steps of my life to see where I veered away from fame and fortune, desperately trying to discover if any of my dwindling existence is salvageble. And these scuff marks won't just get cleaned on their own, I'll tell you that much.

If it weren't for the boring Facebook statuses of other people, I might actually feel sorry for myself. Alisa's trying to get organized. Allison's making something in the crock pot. Noel is hung over. (That's my girl.) David is getting a massage from his cat. (Been there). Lauri is watching her turtles while they sleep... (wow, folks, I think we've found a winner).

It's amazing how Facebook can cast such a harsh and judgemental light on my own failure, and yet, simultaneously comfort me with the sad lives of others. Point a screeching finger, give a hug. Scream, "WHY AREN'T YOU MORE LIKE YOUR SISTER?!", and then bring me a hot cup of tea and a cookie. It so parallels the relationship I have with my mother. No wonder I respond to social networking so well.

Thank you, Facebook. Thank you for breaking me so I could learn to love myself.

I just went into my downstairs bathroom with some Windex and a paper towel, and said to myself in the mirror, "Wow. I really thought you'd be taller."

@TwirpingTweetyTwodTwootie: Paper Dress, Stirrups. Yowzah.

I just signed up for Twitter. I'm not sure why - I think it was mostly because I was aware of the fact that I was avoiding it.

Twitter's pitch is "Real life happens between blog posts and emails."

Thank you for reminding me. I wasn't sure what all that superfluous stuff was, without anyone there to instantly validate me. Real life. Gotcha.

Little does Twitter know that between blog posts and emails, I pretty much just drink myself into a stupor. Not a lot of Twitter fodder there. Or "Twodder", if you will. My alcohol-induced comas are not Twittertastic.

I was able to check my Gmail, Hotmail, and Yahoo accounts and see which of my friends were already Twittering. Out of my hundreds of contacts, six of them twittered. Or send "tweets", as the kids are saying. My peeps and their tweets. This is sounding a little too Easter eggy for me. And the fact that I'll be 40 in a few short years, and am blogging about my tweeting peeps, is unnerving. At least I'm not still saying "posse".

Fo' shizzle.

So next week, when I have an appointment with the gynie, if I tweet about it via a text message, does that become "twattering"?

I'm just sayin'.

TGIT.

Sir, I asked you not to play the song again, didn't I.

OPA!

It was Greek week for me this week - we went to a fantastic Greek festival with some friends, and the same friend took me to see Mamma Mia when she scored some unused season tickets from an uncle.

Mamma Mia was fantastic. I should really brush my hair and go out on a Saturday night more often! We had orchestra seats, and sat behind two women in their late 50's who were dripping in diamonds. Neither of them could stop dancing in their seats when the ABBA music started to play, and they were absolutely adorable.

The festival was also amazing. We went in the afternoon, and the kids hit the rides, and we all sat down to dolmades, and saganaki, and pastichio... and there was a baklava sundae (crumbled baklava on top of ice cream) that I refused to taste because I was certain it would spoil me for all other desserts for the rest of my life. Seriously.

Around dusk, we hit the ferris wheel. Smartly, someone had placed a snowcone machine next to the long ferris wheel line. Malena got a red one, and I got a blue one. We teetered precariously in a rickety ferris wheel seat, our lives dependant on someone's ability to use a wrench. From the top of the wheel, we looked over the treetops as the sun went down and the sky turned pink, and our paper cones began to collapse and drip ice water on our hands.

"Fuck it", I thought, and swung my legs back and forth as Malena and I screamed and giggled and my panicked friend Jeannine tried not to turn her head over her shoulder to watch us in horror, lest she allow her seat to gain any momentum.

Since Jeannine's husband drove, I got to sit in the back of their minivan with the rest of the kids, and watch Ratatouille on the sleepy ride home. It had been a perfect day, I had a snowcone, there wasn't a single complaint about any of the food, we swung like monkeys on the top of the world, and now, someone else was behind the wheel. It made me fully appreciate how wonderful a kid's life can be when you fill it with new sights and sounds and shit that's just fun.

Oh, to be four.

I hope you're having fun, baby. :)