2:14 a.m. I went to dinner tonight with a young fellow who's decided to commemorate the entire year 2000 with a sort of memory scrapbook. He's taking a photo every day -- of whatever catches his eye -- plus he's writing a few lines of text. Bullet points, really.

He brought his camera into the restaurant and asked the waiter to take a photo of all of us around the table. It was a flash, so of course my eyes will be closed once it gets developed. I have a Pavlovian response to a raised camera. Goof-balliness overtakes me.

I was tempted to regale the young lad with my tales of cautionary optimism about attempting such a year-long project, but I'm well aware that I've become, through no fault of my own, one of Them. My tales are, perforce: Old Wives.

Wait two hours after eating before attempting to write your journal piece for the day, I would have told him.

Which is exactly what I did. I came home, took a nice nap, had a disgusting nightmare based on an undigested bit of tortilla, and here I am. It has been said that the only sleep that matters is sleep before midnight. Late to rise and late to bed would therefore make a woman sickly and poor and stupid.

But there could be worse things, I suppose. You could be a know-it-all. That's what I was when I was one of the Young Wives. My mother was such a fool. I would never use paper napkins -- not in my home! I didn't have a house. I had a home.

We didn't "get" the newspaper. We "took" the newspaper. All meals would be sit-down, with candles and wine, and there would be no tossing of coffee grounds and eggshells out the back door to spite the neighbors.

You know. All the major rules. For my very first dinner party, I attempted deviled eggs as an appetizer. They were a Protestant food. I was social climbing. I followed the recipe exactly, down to the last festive smidgen of paprika.

When the first hungry guest picked up the first one on the platter, all the rest of them wobbled and fell over and their pretty yellow hats slid and plopped into a gloopy mess in the middle. The eggs, not the guests.

It said to slice them in half, which I did. It didn't say "lengthwise" so how was I to know? And it had taken forever to get them all leaning against each other on the platter, just so. Slippery little devils, they are.

So many things to learn as the years wax and wane. And eventually, what do you know? You really do know it all ... but now you can't say anything because of biddy-meddling syndrome. That, plus it's a whole lot of fun to watch the young ones make mistakes.

I mean, we're already coddling them enough as it is. They have clearly marked expiration dates and self-flushing toilets, for crying out loud. You won't die of embarrassment if your Fruit of the Looms are pink. And don't look at me like that -- your face really will freeze that way.