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."