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.

The Weather is Here, I Wish You Were Beautiful.....

The other night found me sitting in Old San Juan sipping a mojito. A damn fine mojito, I might add. The occasion warranted a photo, and that was all good. Glasses up, smiles flashed, click! Aw, such a good shot. But before I knew it, that photo was posted and tagged on Facebook courtesy of “Mobile Uploads”. Over one thousand people (my 300+ friends, as well as the 300+ friends of each of my two companions) were suddenly given a window to my dinner in Old San Juan to watch me enjoy my mojito in real time. And I must admit, even through the heady haze of vacation euphoria, I was annoyed by this.

I love you all (well, most of you, anyway), but honestly, you weren’t invited.

Right now, I am away. I am on vacation, on a remote Caribbean island off the coast of Puerto Rico, sitting on a patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, sipping my morning coffee. The only sounds hitting my ears are the waves crashing on the beach and my fingertips clicking on my keyboard. I am in heaven, doing something that refreshes me in an environment that simply oozes endorphines. There are no conference calls to attend, no sales figures over which to fret, no parking spots to find. If you call my cell phone, the outgoing message is a somewhat politely worded way of saying “unless you are about to tap me on the shoulder, you are shit out of luck until I return.”

There is a rooster crowing in the background, reinforcing my point.

As one who pens a blog regularly featuring her dating life, who is an avid Facebooker, and aspires to Twitter more frequently (if only to quell the peer pressure from one Mr. O’Neill, but still), I am cognizant that writing a blog entry ranting about not wanting to appear on Facebook during my vacation, while that vacation is still taking place, seems highly hypocritical, even nonsensical. But there it is.

You ask a hundred different people about social networking, and you’ll get a hundred different opinions. As a consequence of where we have landed in time, every living, breathing human being in the Western world falls somewhere along this new continuum, from those who tweet, blog, Facebook, or Google buzz (or for God’s sake all four - seriously, We.Get.It.) every time they pick their noses to the total boycotters, who between firing up their VHS recorders to watch reruns of Mr. Belvedere, judgmentally take their own noses and throw ‘em way up in the air. They then look straight down those antisocial noses at us and all the perceived narcissism that comes with assuming that people to whom you haven’t spoken since high school graduation care to know that your kid peed like a big boy today, you got concert tickets to that thing you wanted to see, your fibromyalgia is acting up, or you just posted a new blog entry about Booty Call Shrimp.

We social networkers participate for versions of the same reason, to stay connected to someone or something. Although for many of us, our individual desire and quite frankly our need for it seems to cycle through peeks and valleys. I can site several examples where a friend has moved to a new city, is rendered firmly outside of his comfort zone, and a very noticeable spike occurs in activity. My news feed will light up like a Christmas Tree with updates on the his first day of work, a new sofa purchase, the discovery of a place that makes a mean Italian sub, just like the place back home. Perhaps to calm anxiety about the new place by solidifying connections to the old as if to say, “Please don’t forget me!”, perhaps to blow on the embers of a new local connections, probably both. Then, as time goes on, those embers become flames, and the spike of FaceSpacing goes back to the pre-move baseline.

I’m a shameless example of this myself. And a lot of you know this because you access this site through my Facebook page. Khop’s doing this, khop’s up to that, khop just commented on my status, khop just posted a highly inappropriate eCard on my wall. Woops, looks like khop might be drunk right now. At least, I hope she is.... And why not participate? It’s fun, and it keeps me engaged with so many people I can’t see on a regular basis. The downside, though, is that all that online living puts me at terrible risk for not fully living. Instead of being present, I’m distracted. Instead of entirely focusing on you, the person at whom I’m looking, I’m somewhat focused on them, the couple hundred people I’m so anxious to tell about what I’m doing, I’m not really gonna experience it myself. So this time, I’ve gone rouge. I’ve pared down the activity, instead turning my attention this iguana crossing the street (seriously, there’s an iguana crossing the street). And even though I know that the masses greet each new day in utter terror that today will be another khop-absent day, I have to think we’ll all survive.

Social networking tends to strike a nerve in folks, and I’m cognizant that the tone of this post may rub some the wrong way, as plenty (myself included) have documented their way through many a vacation without missing an online beat. We get off the plane - tweet! We have that first margarita - status update! Off to a massage - buzz! In fact, several of my friends are currently on vacation themselves. How do I know this? Facebook, of course. No judgement intended - who am I to say boo on this, anyhow? It’s not like I succeeded in going completely off the grid myself, nor did I want to. I checked my email everyday, caught up with a few people over gChat, took a peek at the ol’ news feed, even posted a buzz (albeit completely unintentionally) that my cousin rightly heckled. But what I did want was to practice the art of being completely immersed in the present moment, not only with all five senses, but also with my thoughts, something I so rarely do, but so keenly long to do more. And now, several days later, on the plane ride home, I’m happy to report success. How refreshing.

Besides, would you really want to have seen any of the following in real time anyway?

khop may have just found the most beautiful beach on the planet.

khop scratch that, *now* may have just found the most beautiful beach on the planet

khop if there is a downside to banging out a 2 mile open water swim in the Caribbean, it’s the tan line left by the damn swim cap across my forehead. Heavy emphasis on *if*.

khop just saw a guy riding on a horse through town, carrying a rooster. Can I move here?

khop thinks there’s no shame in taking a ride back to shore from pirates. In fact, there’s glory in it.

khop just glowed in the bio bay. w.o.w.

khop just finished her third 2+ mile open water swim in three days. This last one hurt. But I-ah beat-ah Steve-ah!

khop has some horrific tan lines, compliments of Speedo.

khop is zooming back to san juan in a taxi driven by a man drinking Johnny Walker Black out of a coconut.

khop just kissed Puerto Rico goodbye. :(

Postin’ the photos on MyFace,

khop

PS: Emphatic, eternal thanks go to Oscar and Kara for welcoming us onto their island and into their home.