I have seen two movies on the big screen in five years, and the newest song on my iPod might be something by Steely Dan. I really, honestly don’t watch TV. (The occasional 10 year-old episode of America’s Funniest Videos is my no-longer-secret indulgence.) I have never seen Dancing with the Stars or Lost. And yet I know all about Lindsay Lohan’s same-sex alleged fiancee (!), Heather Locklear’s latest breakdown and the fact that seemingly-nice Izzy may indeed get McMurdered off of her hit show for selfishly withdrawing her name from the illustrious Emmy pool.

God I love my hair salon.

They’ve got stacks upon towering stacks of Us, People, Star and more. And I’ve got untold hours to see the buff and the beautiful in all of their screwed-up glory. (My last hair salon only carried Yoga Journal and Vegetarian Times. The hair cuts I got there were fabulous, the space serene and they had the best cup of coffee this side of Seattle. But come on.) Shirtless studs, relentless panty-flashers, celebrity cellulite–magnified a hundred and sixty fantastical times!–there’s just no telling what delight lurks behind the next page. Then there’s always that touching “human interest” story, and by “human interest” I mean a piece about someone who brutally murdered one or more of their loved ones, shocking every last member of their “quiet, old-fashioned” community. Sure, there’s the occasional hard-hitting political expose, such as the fascinating interview I read with Michelle Obama about… her campaign wardrobe. Or the John McCain Q&A in which he reveals he is… best-buds with George Clooney. (He’s definitely getting my vote now!)

My husband thinks I’m insane for getting my hair done every two weeks. But honestly, a girl’s gotta keep up.

I’ve had a MySpace page for years, and it is pimped within an inch of its whimsical life. I’m LinkedIn with the best of ‘em, from CEOs to stoners to stay-at-home moms. Naturally you can find me on Facebook, although I’ve yet to join the Scrabulous team or determine my Sex and the City alter-ego. But my new obsession, some might even call it an addiction, is Twitter.

To be honest, I don’t understand it at all. But within 24 hours of joining, I have my very own, very pink page with 61 followers (In twitter-speak, I believe they’re called Tweets). These 61 near strangers are allowed—and apt—to send me and all of their other Tweets quippy messages at any hour of the day or night. About absolutely anything. If I’m so inclined to read all of the posts—each of which is 140 characters or less—I can learn what they are reading, eating, cooking, cleaning, doing, listening to, laughing at, working on and wearing. I can discover exciting job opportunities, unrelated and usually hilarious blogs, great books, new music and how, hypothetically, one might successfully get the smell of cat urine out of her down comforter.

And oh, the people you meet! First Netizenbane, the PR God of Gods, planted the seed. Then folks like Babyluxe, Pepperpolly and Thismommygig not only offered me free and very helpful advice, but they also asked to see a review copy of my book. And I’m almost positive they aren’t just looking for free crap to hawk on eBay. They like me. They really like me!

Oh, and get this: You can hook up Twitter to your cell phone, so you never, ever have to miss one nugget of crucial information. Never in your life have you been able to so easily and seamlessly have an uninterrupted connection with millions of people you don’t know and probably never will meet. Sure, you’ll probably lose your job because you no longer have time to work, but this is actually a blessing in disguise, as it will open up even more time to follow your Tweets!

So go ahead. DM me. Tell me something about you that I didn’t know. If you wrote a book on how-to-Twitter, I’m buying it immediately. And I promise I won’t sell it on eBay.