If two times makes a phenomenon, then I am phenomenally talented. Some people win big at tennis. Some folks are card counters, whizzes at blackjack. Others perform unexplainable acts of prestidigitation. Me? Well, you see, I am adept at hands free texting… with my stomach. I’ve done it twice. Alert the press.
Before we talk about the above subject, we need to parlay into a completely disconnected topic so we can tie everything up with a mauve velvet bow. You know the drill. Also, before we can introduce that new topic, I need to pre-apologize. I would never make fun of anyone because of age. After all, I’m turning 60 in a couple of years. I would never make fun of anyone for any other reason, unless you: litter, don’t return your buggy to a buggy carousel, keep giving away your pets to adopt new pets, dump your pets in rural areas, or anything else that has to do with pet abuse. Add being a serial killer to that list. I would make fun of you in all such cases. On with the show.
Newspaper columnist is not a popular title. There, I said it. I do love writing, but I fully understand that not very many people will read this or any other column I write. Once, someone said something really nasty about me on social media that alluded to me unjustly asserting my influence over a municipal government organization to get the result I wanted. At first, I was livid that anyone would think I’d behaved unfairly. That emotion morphed into woe as person after person commented things like, “I don’t think she writes that column anymore” or “I don’t even read that – it sucked” or “Forney has a newspaper?” Yet, I am extremely popular with a certain age demographic. I won’t identify you or out you, but you often approach me at Brookshires, adorable blue hairs bouncing with the coil of a recent perm, your Estee Lauder Youth Dew scent taking me back to the days when I was barely old enough to drive. You ask me to visit your friend who can’t get out anymore due to health circumstances. You tell me you either liked me better with short hair or that I should never have short hair again. You hate when I try to write a humorous column. You will certainly abhor this one. You wish I would only write about my daughter. You befriend me on social media. You add me into the oddest groups.
Recently, I started noticing an influx of messages on Facebook Messenger. I mean, a ton of messages. One lady commented, “Is this the gardening group?” Another wondered if it was the canning group. Still another felt it was certainly the Christian reading club group. After 10,000 texts, it was determined to be the gardening group. Yikes. I’ve been added to an octogenarian gardening club without my consent. Immediately, I felt indebted. To question anyone or to ask what happened, or who happened, seems disrespectful somehow. One lady likes telling us what she’s eating every day, usually a nice cobb salad. One lady texts the same thing, daily. “Is it still morning?” I assume she means “where you are.” Another person is starting zucchini and cucumbers in a few days. One woman, we’ll call her Sheila, says she has peas going already. I say, to myself only, I’m glad Sheila is giving peas a chance.
Years ago, I realized my talent. I had taken my large poodle, Finnegan, to the vet. He was gangly and a bit goofy, inexperienced with loud noises, leashes, and crowds. I had to carry him from the car to the lobby. Hours later, as I struggled with his harness and waited in line to pay for his visit, a weary vet tech behind the lobby counter alerted me to a horrific fact. My denim shirt with the pearl snaps had almost come completely unsnapped during the poodle tussle. Only one snap stood between me and Jezebel status. I resnapped and rewrangled and revisited all my life choices. The waistband of my pocketless pants was the only option for my so-called smart phone as I carried Mr. Awkward back to the car. That evening, my cousin called me. “What on God’s green earth did you send me today? Did you get kidnapped? Did anyone pay your ransom? Who is Kiki?” My stomach had sent a crazy text that did seem as though I was being held against my will & ended with the phrase kill Kiki. “It was Finn’s fault,” I told her.
Today, I mowed our yard. My biggest daily quest is to close all those rings on my Apple watch. The move one is the hardest when you’re my age. The activities don’t count as much these days. It’s like calorie inflation. Mowing helps. It’s been a while since I mowed. I couldn’t remember how to engage the blade on the lawnmower and my husband wasn’t returning texts. I responded to all the other unread texts I’d sent him saying, “It’s ok. I watched a video. I’m set.” Phone went into waistband. My stomach took it from there. “It’s A It’s arrrrrr It’s aaaaaa AAAAA.” At least Kiki is ok this time.
Today, back in the gardening club, I noticed something that deeply saddened me. All the people are leaving the group. Each time I get the notice that a Betty, Sylvia, Connie, or a Mildred has left the group, I practically sob. I’m not leaving. I’m going to continue reading all the texts. Gardening is fun, after all. I need to monitor those peas from afar. I’m invested. I figured out who added me to the group. She’s precious and often sends me little messages about my column. Phone mastery is hard. I should know. I’m a tummy texting phenom from way back. Hand me that bow. Can I use your finger?
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