If laughing were an Olympic sport, I would be on a Wheaties box.

This fabulous friend celebrated her birthday with us this weekend -- and as always when we gather with these pals, we had just the swellest time.

Our hostess was very clear as she invited us: "It's last minute, I know, so let's just have cake and champagne. I think it'll be fun!" Of course when we got there we were treated to glamorous hors d'oeuvres and smelly cheeses and multiple wine offerings and sophisticated mixed drinks. And chocolate.

When I asked our hostess what I should wear, she gave the least helpful answer possible: "Oh, you always look so nice!" Oh, please! Keep up that kind of lingo and I'll be showing up in flip flops and some sort of "I Heart Jesus" sweatshirt, which can I just say would be an unfortunate party look. I mean, I do heart Jesus, but the shirt? Unfortunate.

But then I pressed her for details, and of course she had gotten a clothing report from everyone:

"The birthday girl is wearing her new red pumps because after her long recuperation from surgery, she has been given the high-heels all-clear." Fabulous news!

"And the paragon of elegance says she's wearing sparkles."


It's hard to keep up with these babes sometimes . . . .

I wore what might be described as a "summery frock." Really. I wore a frock.

Well -- I regret to inform you that I spent most of the evening laughing my ass off, which means that I took very few pictures. I think this should be a new Law of Physics or similar: "The amount of fun one enjoys is inversely related to the documentation of that fun." Or something like that.

I did get a picture of the Lego Death Star that claims a place of honor in our hosts' dining room -- just to torment the tall boy. He will turn nineteen next month -- and I bet for his birthday, he would love to get the Lego Death Star wrapped up with a shiny black bow. Keep dreaming, tall boy.