Posted by adiamondinsunlight on September 5, 2008
Since my mother and father got iPhones (1.0 – they’re early adopters), their interest in text messaging has gone from less than zero to 110% enthusiasm. But their texting styles are quite different.
My father sends telegram-style sms’es to communicate critical news like estimated plane arrival times – and full-on letter-style sms’es for all other issues. His sms’es typically begin “Dear Diamond,” include a paragraph of formal text, and end with a separate line for “Love, Dad”. I find them utterly endearing, although my own sms’es to him continue to be one-paragraph blobs of informal writing.
My mother’s sms’es average three screens’ worth, and arrive bubbling with enthusiasm. Her iPhone sends each 160-character message separately, however, and for some reason I tend to receive them in reverse order. I.e., I usually get something like “great fun! XOXO Mom” and only several minutes later get her first two sms screens, which explain what the “great fun” in question was.
My mother is also a big fan of the iPhone’s predictive spell-checker, which often seems to be making predictions after a big puff of a melon-scented argileh.
Yesterday, for example, spell-checker gifted me with a real doozy of an sms. Earlier in the day, my mother had texted me to say that she had found an old favorite skirt of mine in her closet. She offered to mail it to me; I said I could wait until we meet up at the end of the month for the wedding of a family friend – unless she would rather not have to make room for it in my luggage.
As you can tell from my recounting, these were fairly run-of-the-mill sms’es. But when I got out of the subway yesterday evening, my mobile began beeping immediately.
Will ship briefcase-sized pig to your office, my mother wrote.
WHAT? I thought to myself, torn between laughter and alarm. After all, my organization does a lot of work with Muslim communities in New York and elsewhere – and it is Ramadan. Not to mention that the local grocery stores are already stocking up their matzoh products in preparation for Passover.
I’m not sure whether pigs even come in briefcase sizes, but I am pretty sure that the arrival of one in my office building would make me persona less-than-grata with members of at least two communities (and, of course, our landlord).
Luckily, however, my mother had re-read this sms message. As I digested the idea of a postal service pig, another text arrived from Iowa.
OOOPS! she wrote. That would be ‘pkg’, haha.