Texting
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"Happy Moron."

That’s the way I addressed my boss in the early morning hours of Monday, trying to let her know that I was running a little late.

Stupid text messaging. Stupid auto-correct. Stupid talk-to-text. Stupid stupid.

I’m a writer, and I like words. I like lots and lots of words. Big words. Little words. Punctuation … not so much.

It’s the words — at least the ones hijacked by technology — that usually get me in trouble.

For me, talk-to-text is the worst.

My young daughter Jellybean, rightfully so, chastises me for texting and driving.

Yes, I know it’s dangerous. In my defense, I usually only do it at stop lights or busy intersections when I’m waiting to turn, where the biggest danger is that drivers behind me will get annoyed while I’m trying to choose just the right smelly — I mean smiley — face emoticon to accentuate a particularly hilarious observation.

To avoid getting fussed at by either my 8-year-old daughter or the rednecks in the 4x4 behind me, I use a talk-to-text app to simply say what I want to text.

Such apps aren’t so great at capturing the Southern accent, especially when it comes to names like "Abbey."

That’s why the Lovely Mother of My Children has, on more than one occasion, been alerted that "A Bee’s in the Car" or, more awkwardly, "What is a boob’s size?"

The whole purpose of talk-to-text is to avoid being distracted from the road, not to cause a nine-car pileup because I’m trying to backspace in order to correctly let my Dear Old Dad know that I already have a particular Led Zeppelin record, not that I "dread Heflin."

Frankly, I think Heflin is a wonderful town.

Speaking of names, autocorrect simply refuses to accept my older daughter’s name. She’s always "Satan."

The Lovely Mother of My Children, whose real name has an unusual spelling, is referred to as "Dumber," "Simmer" and "Dimmer."

Bet I’m the only person to ever have dinner with Dumber, Satan and a Bee.

I once sent a text to a friend’s mother whom I was helping with yard work, asking if she had any "STD Feeler" instead of "weed killer."

In trying to set up a phone interview with the author of a book on OCD, I told him I was a "feathers waiter for the Anus Star," to which he replied, "Sure … that’ll be a first."

But by far my most egregious texting sin is sending a message to the wrong person. On more than one occasion, I have ranted about "typical diva" behavior to The Diva rather her mother, which left me saying lame things like, "not you … another Sarah … someone you don’t know who also has mold growing in her bathtub."

Why do I only send bad things to the wrong people? I never accidentally send stuff like, "I’m really proud of how mature The Diva’s become. I always knew she’d find her way." I type things like that all the time, but those messages are never intercepted.

As for my "Happy Moron" text, my boss laughed it off … mostly. Though something tells me the next text message I get from her won’t have a smiley face. Is there an emoticon for "You’re fired!"?

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com.