I get my fix first thing in the morning, usually before I pour my morning coffee. I get another hit before I get dressed- must have a little more. Then usually at least one more time, before I leave the house. I’ve done it at work, once or twice- just a quickie, though. I would do it at Starbucks, at an airport, even in my car, if I had the means to do so. I do it while I’m writing- I even do it in front of my kids. (Bubble popping sound)- I’m doing it right now….must keep in touch with someone who I haven’t seen in 22 years, since we were in fifth grade together, but for some reason, I feel compelled to talk to her about her daughter peeing in the potty for the first time, on Facebook!

It is a global obsession, and I have fallen prey to it! Three years ago, I was very content in my little world of a handful of friends and my family, until one night, I went to a bar to hear a local band play, and after, they said “You can hear more of our new music on Myspace!” What the hell is that, I wondered? So I asked my sister, who is eight years younger than I, and way more hip what it was. Like a crack dealer, she snuck me into her room upstairs at my parents house, locked the door behind us and said, “Dude- check this out…” Then she pulled up her Myspace account, and showed me all these pictures of long lost friends, bands and music that she loved, tons of pictures….my first question was, “You can just look someone up by their first and last name?” “Yeah, TRY IT…” she said in a low, convincing voice. My fingers trembled as I entered the first and last name of the first ex-boyfreind to pop into my head. Voila! He appeared- picture and all- pictures of him, his wife, their kids. Holy cow! This is fun! I started typing in the names of all of my ex-boyfriends, and one by one, got the scoop on all of them, what they were up to, whether or not they were married, whether or not their wives were hotter than me- if they upgraded or downgraded ( I know I’m not the only one who does this…don’t judge)! And like that- I was hooked!

Just when I really started getting into Myspace, and had even dared a couple of times to play drunk Myspace (kinda like drunk-dialing, but not as dangerous, ’cause you can’t really talk to anyone), and started friend requesting all these ex-boyfriends…I do not recommend operating a Myspace page while under the influence, by the way. I would run into people at the mall or around town, and feel super cool and uber-trendy when I could tell them “find me on Myspace- we’ll keep in touch!” I would change my song every day or so, I would “pimp” out my page with graphics and codes and glitter, send comments, post pictures- I had become a Myspace whore.

Then one day, I saw a comment from a gal I worked with that said, “Peace out, Myspace- I’m moving on to Facebook!” Facebook- what is that? Some Myspace knock-off, no way! I’m staying true to my roots, I’m sticking with Myspace. Oh, sure, I took a little peek and I was totally bewildered by the “status” the “posts”, the applications and getting “Poked”- yeah, don’t think I want to be “poked” by some creepy dude I blew off in highschool- thanks, but no thanks.

So, as my friends started to drop off Myspace like flies to jump onto the Facebook bandwagon- I was steadfast. I kept answering the “all about me surveys”, posting pictures, changing my music, until one day I realized that the people I really wanted to keep in touch with were all on Facebook now. That I went from trendy Myspace girl to not-cool girl who’s not yet on Facebook. Nobody wants to be the not-cool girl, right? So, I did it- gave into the peer pressure, and opened a Facebook account.

At first, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I posted a bunch of pictures into what I thought was an album, that ended up instead on my “wall”. I would send my friends messages, instead of writing on their wall, and they would bitch at me, “You never wrote me back! So, I figured you didn’t want to go to girl’s night out…” “WHAT? I totally wrote you back! I messaged you!” I would exclaim. “Noooo- you write on the wall- it’s faster” they explained. Oh. Not a cool girl quite yet.

After a couple of weeks, I got the hang of it. I was posting my status daily, finding friends, suggesting friends, even drunk friend requesting ex-boyfriends! After a month, I even closed my Myspace account- “Myspace- that’s for amateurs”, I thought to myself. I’ve had people friend request me that I went to Sunday school with when I was seven, and a girl that hated me in high-school- even slapped me once, were now my “friends”. Some, I had to reach into my deepest depths of memory, past all the haze caused by years of partying in L.A., to try to grasp who this person was, but I would always add them, even if I couldn’t remember how on earth I knew them, ’cause I’m an equal opportunity friend adder.

BUSTED! I’m supposed to be writing a book review, but I’m playing Facebook instead!

I even walked the uncharted territory of adding people I work with, my bosses and co-workers. I struggled with this one. Do I want them to know that my status is “Kristin is recovering from a blaring headache from a bottle of red wine she drank last night.” Or, do I lie on my status, censor myself, ignore my whole First Amendment right to my freedom of speech? I finally figured, “I’m a bartender, I’m not curing cancer- it’s not that big of a deal if my boss knows I tie one on once in a while.”

Then out of no where, WHAM!  “Charlene would like to add you as a friend”. *Gulp* I only know of one Charlene…my Mother. Now, I am close with my Mom, and I love my Mom, but if she’s my Facebook friend, she’s gonna know all kinds of crap that I might otherwise omit from casual conversation. For example, if she asks how my night was out with my girlfriends, I would tell her, “It was fun! We had some drinks, we were safe, took a cab.”  But, if she was my Facebook friend, she will see pictures of my drunk ass dressed all slutty singing “I Touch Myself” at karaoke, or the occasional cigarrette in my hand in pictures snapped before I could quickly hide it behind me… all evidence that would certainly out me from being the sweet little wifey-poo and mommy dearest that I would like for her to believe that I am! Now, I’ll really have to censor myself! But, she’s my Mom- she gave birth to me, I can’t NOT add her- how disrespectful is that? But if I do, then Facebooking is no longer fun, and every time I post a picture or a status, I have to wonder “what would my Mom think about this?” After half a day of agonizing over my decision, I decided to add her. Thankfully, she seldom checks her page, hasn’t even uploaded a picture yet, and definitely doesn’t get on enough to catch all my updates, so, it’s really not a big deal.

Yesterday, I received a message from my cousin, asking if I received a Friend request from my Grammie. Are you kidding me? I type her name in the “Friend Finder” and sure enough, my 78-year-old Southern Baptist, heart of gold, pure as snow, knows the bible from cover-to-cover Grammie is on Facebook. Now that would definitely put a damper on my Facebook party! The woman has never let alcohol touch her lips, or sinned in her life, and I’m gonna let her see status posts about ”Kristin is still voiceless after singing ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’, and twisted an ankle while doing cartwheels on Main Street while she was out with the girls last night”- I THINK NOT! So, for now, I’m in Facebook undercover spy mode- adding a hyphen in between my two last names every couple of days, taking it back out, changing my location once in a while, and so far, sweet Grammie hasn’t found me yet! But, if she does, believe you me- I will be forced to jump ship, and give into the enemy, at which time, you can chose or chose not to “Follow Me”.

Allow me to paraphrase by saying that my son has a slight speech issue- he can’t say his S’s. So, when he tells his sister, “I’m gonna smack you!” It comes out, “I’m gonna ‘mack’ you!” And when he says, “Mom, my poo is smelly”, it comes out, “Mom, my poo is ‘melly’”. I think you get the idea…

We recently went on a camping trip, and prior to leaving, I had to do the traditional Target shopping spree to stock up for the weekend’s adventures. While shopping at Target (or anywhere for that matter) with a three and a five-year-old is much like assigning yourself as a glutton for punishment, it had to be done. One trick I have up my sleeve that I use while shopping with my kids, is right when we walk in, I let them each pick a cheap toy or treat to carry around with them, then if they act up, I take it away! Works like a charm.

On this particular day, my son chose this 3-foot long wand full of bubbles as his “prize” for good behavior. Against my better judgement, I let him carry it with him through Target. Within minutes, he hit his sister with it, so I took it away. Allow me to ellaborate: I grabbed the bubble wand, my son fell to the floor in hysterics, screaming through the entire tampon/pantyliner/KY jelly/feminine product aisle of Target, “I WANT MY BIG STICK BACK MOM!” Now allow me to translate what every mom/child/hot single dad/red-hued shirt wearing Target worker/cute guy stocking Pepsi products/anyone within a 10-aisle radius heard: “I WANT MY BIG ‘DICK’ BACK MOM!” In as calm and refrained manner as I could muster, I said to my son, “Stop it! You can have your S-S-STICK back when you can behave.” Good Mommy. My son wails down every remaining aisle in Target, “I won’t hit sister with my ‘dick’ anymore! I want my big ‘dick’ back, MOOOOOO—MMMMYYY!”

I try to power through- just grab what I need, and of course about $50 worth of shit that I don’t, because that’s what everybody does when they go to Target or Wal Mart, or any variety of the two, while my son is blaring out of the cart over and over about his “big dick” and how he wants it back, and won’t hit anyone with it, et cetera. Finally, we get to the checkout, and I tell him that if he promises to be good, he can have his bubble stick back after his nap…amazingly he is satisfied with this, and we go home, he takes a nap and gets his “dick” back.

The next day, we leave to go camping with my family, and my in-laws for our anniversary weekend. I know you’re thinking wedding anniversary + parents + in-laws = romantic Tahoe getaway? I think not….but that’s another Oprah for another time. So, we’re all sitting around the campfire, and all of the kids (my two, plus my sister-in-laws two) are running around trying to gather wood for my dad-in-law “for the fire”, which is really a ploy to keep them away from the fire while therre is a can of firestarter and a blowtorch being used to light said fire. My son tromps up, dragging this huge tree-limb and yells to my mom, “Grandma! Look at my BIG ‘DICK’!” He yells- my head goes directly to my hand, and I shake my head in disbelief. Then he walks up to everyone in the campfire circle (not all family, some are friends of family that I barely know), “I found a big ‘dick’!” as he trodges through the camp dragging this huge 4-foot tree branch behind him. To increase my embarassment, because of his love for Gravedigger and everything monster trucks, he says “big dick” with this loud, growling monster truck voice that makes him sound even more pornographic. The soft-spoken sweet British lady that camps with us now and again looks at me, and says, “Dear, are you aware that your son is walking around the camp refering to his plonker?” in her beautiful English lilt. I sigh, and explain to her that he can’t pronounce his S’s and that he’s talking about his big stick that he found for the fire, which sends her giggling away.

By this time, my mom has had a couple of Long Island Iced Teas, and thinks it’s roaringly funny to have my son walk up to people and tell them what he has found.”Go up to Papa, show him your stick!” She prods….sure enough he walks up to his Grandfather and declares,”I got a BIG ‘dick’ Papa!” As he holds up the end of the tree branch, my dad laughs and says, “That’s ’cause you take after your Papa!” Now, my face is in both hands- I am truly mortified. I should be laughing…and I am now while recalling the “Big Stick” incident, but at the time, all I could do was let me son walk all over Tahoe Valley Campground, and declare to anyone who would listen that he had and/or found (not sure which is worse) a big ‘dick’, while I sat in silence, pretending not to know who’s kid he was, while I sat by the campfire and had a glass (or three) of wine.

A continuation of “Do Not Drink and Shop”, including a review of the “Smooth Silky Leg” product:

I am so excited with my new little purchase, that the minute we walk into the house from a long exhausting day at the fair, I hurry, help get the kids to bed! “Kiss, kiss, love, hug, rock-a-bye baby, I love you, go to sleep!” And I lock myself in the bathroom, take a nice hot shower, dry off completely, then rip open the box and instructions for my little device that promises to set me free from the hassle of shaving, waxing and buying razor blades…the Smooth Silky Leg miracle in a box.

I carefully read the instructions, distracted by envisioning my whole body as smooth and perfect as the quarter-sized patch on my arm that the demonstrator defuzzed a few hours before, all for the bargain price of $20…then I slide the little mitt onto my hand, perch my right foot onto the toilet seat, like some deranged flamingo, and start my little circles. “Just like ‘wax on wax off’ on Karate Kid!” I remember the little hottie demonstrator telling me, it’s only dawning on me now that my buzz has worn off, that she’s not even old enough to have been born when Karate Kid came out! I shrug it off, and continue my little circles- a few to the right, then a few to the left. The hair on my legs is not really coming off like the hair on my arm did at the fair…maybe I need to rub harder? I know that the box said that “minor irritation” may occur by rubbing too hard against your skin, but I’m thinking that I’ve gotta be doing it too soft, or the hair would just erase off like it’s supposed to, right?

Fifteen minutes later, I only have a 2″ by 5″ patch finished on my right leg, the hair is off, but my leg is as pink as boiled shrimp, and I’m convinced that the hair only came off because the top four layers of skin on top of my legs came off too! Now, one would think that I probably should have decided at this point that this little trinket is not for me. But, no. I am stubborn as hell, I hate to quit, and I always make it happen if I want it to happen. And damnit- I want legs like that bimbo bitch demonstrator’s, and she uses Smooth Silky Leg, so so will I!

I take the mitt off my hand, march into the kitchen, pour a rather generous glass of Cabernet, stomp back into my room, and shut the door- liquid determination by my side. I finish the leg that I started, in record time of 47 minutes, and decide that I need a change of scenery (the Cabernet has worked it’s magic on my inhibitions by this point). I have very sensitive skin, and am always plagued with red, bumpy skin after I shave, especially THERE (I have discussed this issue in a former post titled “the Brazilian Wax Incident” feel free to refer back to it to laugh your ass off at yet another of my painful attempts to have a perfect bikini line, or rather no bikini line).

So, I sit on my bathroom floor, indian-style, and start on my inner thigh with the finger-sized mitt, which I read was “specifically designed for delicate areas such as the lip, eye-brow, or bikini area”. And away I go with my little circles, “Ouch”, I’m thinking- “this hurts, and it’s really not supposed to…” Little circles to the left, little circles to the right….wax on wax off…and I’m distracted by singing “You’re the best…. around…no ones ever gonna keep you down” from the Karate Kid soundtrack, as I do my little drunken circles all over my nether regions…then the wine really kicks in and I’m onto “Glory of Love” from the Karate Kid II soundtrack, “I am a man…” I’m singing in my bathroom, with the fan on, at the top of my lungs, “who will fight for your honor”…little circles little circles, “I’ll be the hero that you’re dreaming of”…damn I sound good in here, “Eat your heart out, Peter Cetera!” I say. Aloud. No, really.

I’ve been sitting in the bathroom, singing all of the score and soundtrack to both Karate Kid movies, while sandpapering my “area”, oversized glass of Cab is empty and has even served as a microphone during my rendition of “the Moment of Truth” by Survivor (also from Karate Kid), when suddenly, the door clicks open, and the Husband is standing there staring at me….reality comes to a screeching standstill before my eyes…embarrassment disguised as being a bitch kicks into high gear, “WHAT?” I hiss. “I fell asleep on the couch, and I woke up to this loud singing, and you’re in here…what are you doing?” “Remember, I bought that hair removal thing? At the fair…the hot girl with the awesome legs…” “You’re doing it now? It’s 1 A.M.” Really? Am I that drunk that I have been in here doing “wax on wax off” to my pelvic region and right leg for nearly three hours? Nooo….but the look of bewilderment on the Husbands face tells me it’s true. “Is it supposed to make your skin so red and bumpy like that?” He asks, genuinely concerned. “Well”, I stammer, “the hair wasn’t coming off when I did it soft like the girl did, so I just did it a little bit harder…” I realize the instant the words came out of my mouth how moronic they must have sounded to my Type A, follow every single instruction to the letter and by the book Husband. “Maybe you should give it a rest for tonight and finish tomorrow,” he suggests. Yeah- he’s probably right- it’s going to be way less fun without the singing and bathroom accoustics, and it is late. I’ll pack it up for now, finish in the morning, and off to bed I went.

The next morning, I was still a little foggy from my Cabernet-induced slumber, and I stumble into the bathroom, look at my reflection in the mirror, and as soon as I see the girl in the mirror staring back at me with scathing red bumps and welts down one leg, and all over her bikini area, I am reminded of the night before as gently as one would be if they walked dead on into a brick wall. “OH MY GOD!” was all I could say as I surveyed the damage that this stupid-ass little mitt had done. Apparently, I am allergic to one of the minerals that make up the “superfine crystals” A.K.A. fine-grit sandpaper, that are used to sand off your hair. The combination of rubbing in circular motions and “exfoliating” as I removed the hair, opened my skin and pores up to receive more of the mineral that I was allergic to, and I ended up with painful welts and hives all over my most sacred parts, and up and down one leg. All in all, it took about 5 days and two tubes of Cortisol to calm the angry allergic reaction, and I have vowed to myself that my search for being hair-free will never venture further than the handle of a razor. Ever.