I Hear We'll Get Keys to the Outhouse For a Bottle of Gin

Being a lifetime fan of the written word, it's no surprise that I've become a text messaging addict.  As a matter of fact, though I've "talked" to my mother every day since I moved to Louisiana, I've only actually spoken to her maybe twice... No wait, three times if you count voicemail.  Here's a few gems from my Inbox Archives.




On the subject of planning our weekend getaway:

Him:  Don't forget to look stuff up in Gulfport.  Nothing too fancy.

Me:  What counts as "too fancy?"

Him:  Most places you'd like.

Me:  Ok.  Well, I hear tell there's this old dirt farmer in Mississippi what would let a couple of city folk such as ourselves spend the night in his barn for twenty bucks and some chewin' tabacky.  Still too fancy?

Him:  No, that's perfect!




On the subject of my impending birthday:

Me:  I can't believe I'm going to be 33 next week!

Mom:  I don't even want to talk about how old that makes me!

Me:  Well, I haven't broken out into hives yet* and my birthday doesn't fall on PMS week this year so the casualties should be minimal.

*Yes, as my 32nd birthday got closer last year I started breaking out in hives.  I spent my 30th birthday in bed for three days.  I don't deal with aging well at all.  I'm considering starting therapy now to properly deal with the event of turning 40 without having a total galactic meltdown.