Every time I think I've got an ounce of maturity....

.... I go ahead and prove myself wrong. Oh so wrong.

Care to hear how?

When I was a wee lass, boy did I love me some Barbie. For serious, she was my homegirl. Between Rocker Barbie, Prom Barbie, Lifeguard Barbie, not to mention the piles of Barbies inherited from my two older sisters, our house had no shortage of six inch-tall plastic dolls. The clothes I had for my Barbies outnumber the clothes I have for myself now, and the accessories didn't stop there. Barbie owned a tricked-out convertible and a sweet vacation camper, not to mention a dream house with a pony tied up out back.

Yep, Barbie had everything money could buy.....but sadly no one to share it with, as I could never convince my parents to let me introduce Ken into the mix. My powers of persuasion having not yet matured into what they are today were no match for what I now realize must have been their fear of walking into the playroom and finding this or similar:

(btw, a Google Images search for "Barbie and Ken bad" is not for the faint of heart. Just sayin', people out there are gross.)

Anyway, years of my childhood were spent in our basement playroom, fixing Barbie's hair and changing her clothes. Rearranging furniture in the dream house or going for a ride on the Barbie pony. Putting in long hours at the office and then coming home and cooking up a feast. As the sacred aria goes, I truly was a Barbie girl, living in a Barbie world.

And aside from the Career Barbie I still have* packed away in a shoebox in my office closet, I thought I had put that phase of life behind me. After all, I am in my thirties. I am a home owner and a triathlete. I do things like vote and pay taxes and wax poetic about wine. I routinely monitor my stock portfolio and 401(k). For God's sake, I host an annual Soup Swap. Clearly, I have matured.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Unfortunately, there is oftentimes ample evidence to the contrary. Case in point:

Last Sunday found Tim** and I sitting on my sofa, leisurely puttering away on individual tasks, Sunday football playing in the background. At one point the scene going down on my laptop caught Tim's eye, and he asked what I was doing. I warned him that what I was about to share would be slightly horrifying and then let him know that I was creating a new Google email account to pair up with the new fake Facebook account I was about to make. See, there's been a friendly little wager going on over here in Charm City, and I needed something of a Trojan Horse to gather potential evidence of a victory. I was quick to defend myself by pointing out that someone who is willing to accept a friend request on Facebook from a complete stranger clearly does not value his or her privacy very much.

I had no additional defense, aside from my sheer shamelessness.

As promised, Tim was horrified.........at first.

I proceeded to let him know that there was room for him in this covert operation. After all, my new alter-ego (let's call him Ken to protect the integrity of the bit) needed to look legit, and for that to happen, he needed a few friends to kick things off. Cut to Tim, typing away, creating his Barbie's entire elaborate life story, including how she went from growing up in Illinois to landing spinning instructor-by-day, Appleby's hostess-by night gigs in Fayetteville, NC. She also quickly "liked" the fact that my Ken was listed as single.

Dr. Shazam, easily accessible via gChat, was also dispatched, and within hours another Ken doll showed up to play. With an impressive opening bid, too, commenting on my Ken's wall, "ur pecs are killin it bro. I gotta amp up my bench press lol".

In subsequent days, my Ken doll has made several additional friends, a mixture of real people I actually know, seeking to spectate this amusement first hand, and utter strangers belonging to this vast parallel society where befriending and allowing someone you've never met have access to a whole lotta personal information is considered completely normal. Preferable, actually, as this is a crowd with a higher than average per capita of fake boobs, fake tans, fake hair color and fake muscles, and I suppose the rationale is that if I'm gonna spend all this money to look like an actual Barbie doll, I'd like as many people as possible to see me. The two targets of the original wager fall firmly into the latter category.

The creepy origins of this endeavor have quickly become a fringe benefit to what has largely become an indulgent game of make-believe, very reminiscent of my games of Barbie, all those months years ago. I get to make up everything about my virtual Ken doll, where he's from, what he does, "what's on his mind" and how he interacts with the others. With a quick search on Google Images, I can even change his appearance. The sky is the limit.

Thus far I've pinpointed two reasons why I've found playing with Facebook Ken a particularly addictive pass time. First, unlike fantasy role-playing type games like Sims or Dungeons and Dragons, this is playing make-believe in the real world. With people who aren't always in on the joke. And whether I'm interacting with them or others who are in the know, that fact makes this all highly amusing. And to be honest I'm not entirely sure why.

Second, in order for the original scam to work, this particular Trojan Horse needed to resemble these guys as much as possible. Therefore, there is a huge amount of misbehaving that I now get to do on Facebook that I would never in a million years do under my own name, like speaking exclusively in "text", purposefully misspelling, and grossly overusing "lol" and "lmao". Of course, Dr. Shazam has me beat at every single turn, consistently taking it up a notch with status updates such as, "t minus 2 days until miley cyrus turns 18. happy thanksgiving to me lol"

Go ahead. Snigger. Pass judgement. I'm secure enough not to be bothered. Plus, I know you want to join in. I know you do.....

Wondering what Ken's up to,

Khop

* Um, btw, Career Barbie is legit. She talks and has a laptop and a monogrammed travel coffee mug and a briefcase full of money and her suit skirt flips inside out to a party skirt. I think. But I really can't remember since it's been so long....

** The reason why I have been devoid of internet dating writing material, in case you were wondering.... great for me, but devastating for the blog. Meh, screw the blog.

Reason #652 Why Dating Is Rough: The Bad Boy

Let's see, what do I know about you so far? You're a jerk. You're opinionated, wildly arrogant, just a hair creepy, I suspect disrespectful, and who knows? If I date you for any length of time, perhaps I will find myself cut up into little pieces and stored in your freezer.

(I'm sorry, but that last one is just a baseline assumption that is necessary for anyone one meets on the internet.)

If you were only those things, it would be so easy to just walk away. And by walking away, I mean clicking on the icon that sends you a pre-drafted Dear John email, letting you down ever so gently.

After all, you do realize, don't you, that you are stealing time away from the SEVENTY THREE other men who have thrown their names in the Khop Ring in the ten days since I've burst onto the Charm City internet dating scene? Of course you do. You wouldn't have it any other way.

For research purposes, I googled the question, "Why do women like bad boys?" and came up with this hit on "Self Growth.com". And even though the dude who wrote the article is trying to sell me a five-part mini-course on flirting with women, I have to admit, he's not all that far off.

How so?

Challenging and Adventurous? Check, aaaaand Check! You've got my attention, partially because I know that at any moment I could lose yours. This is interesting to me, as while I suck at actual chess, I quite enjoy a mental game of it. You take liberties with me in our conversations, pushing the limit of what's appropriate. You're cognizant that you've walked right out on a limb, and you're interested to see if and at what point that branch will break, landing you flat on your ass and at square one with someone else. Why are you not concerned about that happening?

well......

Confidence and Indifference? Check! Check! Your online profile gives a veritable middle finger to the main stream, and based on my preliminary observations, this is fairly reflective of how you live your life. You're not terribly fussed if I throw up my hands and you see the back of me walking away. In fact, in the event that happens, you'll have already convinced yourself that it must be due to a character flaw in me, not you, God's gift to women.

My friends and loved ones are undoubtedly reading this, shaking their heads and thinking, "Please, Khop, not again. We've done this with you before. Please settle down with a perfectly nice, perfectly bland boy. She's got all these choices, and who does she gravitate to? The jerk off."

Come on, give me a little credit.

First off, I'm giving good playing time to the others in the que, lining them up and spitting them out as fast as one who has a full time job, several hobbies and other social commitments can. In fact, I have two dates on the books, three pending, and the other night I had "drinks" (see, I'm learning!) with a perfectly nice gentleman, who unfortunately turned out to have a very elitist world view, not to mention slightly crossed eyes.

[Note to cross-eyed men out there: I beg of you. Schedule an activity for the first date: bowling, skeet shooting, cow-tipping, anything, so that I'm not sitting across a table from you for two hours, having the mental dialogue, "Sweet Jesus, this guy has crossed eyes. Don't stare. Wait, you need to make eye contact. Do I have eye contact? I'm not sure. Crap, what'd he just say??"]

Second, employing Stephen Covey's highly effective Habit #5, "Seek First to Understand", I'm in the information-gathering phase here, trying to assess what I'll find once I peel back the layers of this bad boy's onion. Is there depth and kindness there? Do we want the same things out of life and relationships? How similar are our values? Or, at the end of the day, is he just your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety asshole? I think it's fair to say that I've demonstrated that when the answers come back negative on those big questions, I politely turn and look elsewhere. I just can't bring myself to give up the hope that I can find someone who wants the same things I do and will treat me the way I deserve to be treated, while at the same time catching my interest in a manner that I can only describe as intellectual catnip. In essence, I'm rooting for Bad Boy, but I'm not afraid to cut him from the team if he's not up to par.

Besides. Thus far, he's given no indication that he's poly-amorous. Sadly, given his recent competitors, that puts him far in the lead.

Just call me Sookie,

khop