So the other day, we were driving home from XMAS and stopped in Santa Barbara to run the dogs on the beach and then grab a taco at a taqueria. I wander up to the counter of a taqueria at some strip mall, and the guy in front of me in line is taking a really, really long time to order. He is large-ish, and really sweaty. Wearing navy blue poly type work pants and thick black rubbery shoes and a navy jacket stretched tight over his back gut. Like a security guard maybe? Low budget rent-a-cop? But he’s like going through EVERYTHING on the menu with the counter girl like every single item is some kind of rare disease with a 9 part Latin name and numerous side effects. And did I mention he’s really sweaty? Because he’s all hunched over the counter, and I can see his sweaty neck hairs and then I notice. He is wearing a wig. A sort of flowing, chestnut colored Ray Orbison wig. So I am sort of sidling over to try and peek at his hunched over face. Because I just have to. I see meaty, fleshy fingers, crumpling up the paper taco list, his running commentary on each thing just wacked out. It’s tacos, buddy. But I can’t quite peek at his face. I’m dying to know what his face is.

Finally, he selects some kind of burrito, and mentions that they don’t have all these kind of burritos at home.

The counter girl says, “Oh, where are you from?”

There is a long, dramatic pause. And he straightens up, and announces, “Somewhere else.”

Then he turns around and looks me dead in the eye. I glance away because he has freaky lips and the look of the insane. Plus he has sweaty neck hair and is wig wearing and just took like 4 hours to select a burrito from your basic tacqueria. And it’s like, what is the etiquette on that?

I ordered my tacos, and we went to separate corners to wait for our orders. No one else in the joint. Every so often, I surreptitiously peek over because it’s hard to tear my eyes away from his wig. Sort of a page boy cut, you know? But sometimes I can tell he is looking at me and I’m like, ew. Then I’m like, I’m a mean, shrewlike lady and what is the big deal and you could even just march over there and strike up a conversation, you know? I know people that would do that. You are so obsessed about his damn wig and you wanted to know who he was and now you are totally obsessed with him but you won’t even go and talk to him.

So instead, I just dig through my purse and fish out my reporter’s notebook and write down some incomprehensible scribble about his wig. But I glance up one more time and now his fleshy, shiny haired face is chomping into a foil wrapped burrito.

So I bring this up because I just learned the Facebook and honestly, the Facebook has me sort of baffled. I know you know how to use it because some of you have friended me. Befriended me? Friend collected me? Some of you are friend friends and some of you are internet friends and some of you are dog agility friends and some of you I didn’t really know we were friends and some of you are maybe someone that lived down the street from us and I am honored that you have friended me.

I think. I think I am honored. To have 12 friends. Which in Facebook land is like you might as well be wearing sweatpants that say Juicy on the butt and walking your goldendoodle dog around with a choke chain. So not cool. In Facebook land, 112 friends is a border collie that never budges an inch in their down stay and if you’re toting Louis Vuitton, it’s a super rare obscure one. Although I don’t know what I’m talking about. It could be ok to have 12 friends?

And we write on walls and network socially and then the Facebook people do what with our data? I guess it’s sort of like blogs except no, it isn’t. Blogs is like I go stand on my front porch in my underpants if I want but you can only go sit in your car out front and honk the horn. And if I want, I can drive over and sit in front of your house and stare at your porch and maybe I’ll honk my horn or maybe I won’t. Because mostly I spend a lot of time picking out my underpants and don’t really care about seeing yours. Facebook is like we are all wandering around in our underpants and you can see everyone else’s underpants and you tell one person about your problem with sweaty neck hair and then all the other kids in the cafeteria know about it too? But you still have to ask them if you can sit down at their table to eat your lunch and maybe it’s just easier to just have an apple and go play with the dogs?

Or just wear your wig in a taqueria and sweat a lot?

So the moral of this story is what? Were we talking about running contacts, Susan Garrett? Uh. The answer is yes. I will be your friend. Super duper thanks! But I am not going to show you my underpants.