I am an old-fashioned guy. You call me on the phone. I say hello. You say “I’m on my way home.” I say “OK.” We hang up. It seems so easy.
Mo, on the other hand, has joined the Cool Kids who refuse to acknowledge that their little handheld gizmo allows you to speak, just like Andy Taylor did on his party-line phone in his Mayberry kitchen. She insists on texting.
No big deal, right? Wrong.
Mo is an arteest. As such, she cannot be restrained by the concept that each key is assigned to a particular letter, and that to form sentences you have to hit specific keys.
I was waiting one day this week for her to get back from a haircut before I went for my daily run. It was supposed to take an hour, which stretched into four hours. Lord knows what one does at a hair place for four hours. Although as a lad, I remember getting haircuts on Saturday with the Game of the Week on the TV and wishing it took longer than two minutes to get my flat top.
I inquired as to when she might be returning. Her replies were less than enlightening. I finally gave up and left for my run. Just as she came home.
There is nothing crueler than sending an undecipherable message to a copy editor. Which is probably why she’s doing it. Mo is a Bad Person.
This sort of thing never happened to Andy Taylor …