One Man's Junk Is Another Man's Treasure

I didn't actually write this title.

I stole it, from the very last student essay I graded before the school year ( finally!) ended, freeing me up to play a lot of Fruit Ninja and mutter goddamn KIWI! every three seconds because they're impossible to see against the 70's rec room wood paneling background, which is apparently very Zen but mostly just pisses me off. 

Anyway.  Her essay was about recycling, I'm pretty sure, not gay erotica.  I'm disappointed in you.

I don't really blame her. It could happen to anyone. Especially now that we text everything, and there are no vowels, or capitals or punctuation needed, and even then the phone gets bored with you and just starts writing its own thing.  For instance, recently I sent my daughter a text because she was out of town and missing home.

The text said Your brother wore his tophat to the park to play baseball.  (This is what it was supposed to say.)

Only my phone disapproved and jazzed the message up without informing me, and what it really sent her said Your brother wore his gopher to the park to play baseball.

He's a weird kid, but even he draws the line at wearing gophers.  If you are new to this blog you may not yet know that I am haunted by the subject of rodents, totally against my will, and now my phone is in on the game. It's creepy.

Also my mother is now texting, and beautifully, I might add.  Here is the transcript of our first-ever text exchange:

Me:  Rumor has it you are now a texting goddess!  Why have you not been texting me? I had a banana for breakfast. Thought you needed to know.

Mom:  Th[

She already knows way more acronyms than I do.

By now you may have noticed that this post lacks a certain....substance. I'm disappointed in me. It's like a ricecake post, where the title is the caramel drizzle on the top, and that's okay, but the rest is just air and the promise of  indigestion. 

Mostly I wrote it so that I could stop seeing a post about poodles and EASTER everytime I opened up the blog. It makes me look like a slacker. They aren't even my poodles, they're my mother's, and I'm beginning to think they're the ones who sent me the text message.

My next post will have a lot of weighty social commentary, probably, like how the failing economy has created an unlooked-for shortage of giant metal dinosaurs, so don't even try to find a 25 foot steel T-Rex to put next to your mailbox.  You can't find them except for online maybe, and the shipping is ridiculous. It's sad.

Or. 

Maybe I'll start a series for summer!  Vic's Secret Shame!  Shames!  I'll swear you all to secrecy first, so it's all confidential, and I don't lose my job.  

Let me know what you think.  I've got some kiwi to kill.