Three AM……I am eating salt-less pretzels and drinking Kahlua and Irish cream. The salt-less pretzels were bought in a fit of “no sodium because it’s bad for me” obsession and Kahlua and Irish cream because Nyquil is usually my alcoholic knock-out medicine of choice, but I did not put it on “The List” after it ran out.

Naturally, I open up Facebook to see what my “friends” are up to. It’s a Monday, so most of them have commented on “What a Monday” it was. This is worse than Joan Rivers and the “Bitch stole my look” segment on TV. Although I have to say Celine Dion looks pretty good for a 42 year old woman with twins. Poor thing, her husband is eighty years old and now she’ll have three sets of diapers to change.

I turn back to Facebook and look up my real friends. I say “real” friends because they are the ones that deal with my daily shit and insecurities, unlike Facebook friends that only see the good pictures of me and hear about my amazing day!: Insert LOL and smiley face here. Real friends get the short end of the stick.

The first page I look at is Sam’s. Sam calls it “Stupid Facebook”, never just Facebook. He says the only thing people post is the “stupid” stuff. His profile picture is two years old and he never updates his status. I think the only reason he has Facebook is to use it to pick up guys. As my honest friend, he will tell me things other people would not dare tell me. “Don’t get all concentration camp on me Dameron” is what he told me when I lost twenty pounds. After a new haircut his only comment was “Huh, I like you with more hair”. I respect and expect these comments from him. I am not surprised that he would hate “Stupid Facebook”.

And then there’s Cary. His status updates are obscure 1980’s song lyrics. Not surprisingly, there are twenty four comments of people finishing those lyrics. Cary’s profile picture is always handsome and current. On his page today, there is a carefully orchestrated wall photo of two glasses of champagne and desserts sitting on a porch surrounded by palm trees from his trip to Punta Cana. Sam and I have to laugh about Cary’s oh so gentle e-mail to us when we joined Facebook, telling us he was not “Out” on Facebook; an admonishment. I don’t like to stereotype, but I’m pretty sure he has already outed himself.; Exhibit A) Duran Duran lyrics and Exhibit B) Staged photos of champagne and desserts. But we play along with it. Cary is the empathetic friend that you talk to when you need some positive reinforcement. If he told me I was looking skeletal or had a lesbian hair-cut, it would kill me.

And to round out my trio of real friends, there is my husband, who is asleep somewhere in Canada on a business trip. I wonder if he knows how fortunate I consider myself to breathe the same air he breathes. So, I open up my e-mail and prepare to tell him this. Instead I type the following E-mail:

Subject: Olson Twins

Watching TV and wondering why Mary Kate and Ashley never show their teeth when they smile? Can’t sleep, thinking about you. Love you.

And that is enough. I don’t post anything to Sam and Cary’s wall. These are my “real” friends. They don’t need a status update to know what I am doing or how I feel and that comforts me. Now, maybe I can sleep.

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