Earlier this week, I wrote about learning a second (or in my teenage daughter's case, a third) language in college and the potentially painful physical consequences of too much texting.
This morning, I'm going to combine those two topics and share highlights (or, I should probably say, lowlights) of a glossary I recently came across.
If you're the parent of a teen or tween, you already know how fast those young fingers can zip across a smartphone keypad. And, if you've been on the receiving end of texts, you also know how rare it is to see a mark of punctuation or even a vowel. And, it isn't simply a matter of shorthand. Texters have developed their own language, much of it created not just for speed but for subterfuge.
Here is a quick A-Z of some of the naughtiest (and in some cases, grossest) texting acronyms.
Be warned, however, if you bother to commit these to memory, they are sure to be replaced as quickly as ... well, as quickly as your daughter or son can text.
AYMM - Are you my mother?
BOBFOC - Body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch
CU46 - See you for sex
DBABAI - Don't be a bitch about it
ESADYFA - Eat sh*t and die, you f*cking a**hole
FOGC - Fear of getting caught
GNOC - Get naked on camera
HPOA - Hot piece of a**
IITYWYBMAD - If I tell you, will you buy me a drink?
JEOMK - Just ejaculated on my keyboard (Editorial note: ew!)
KPC - Keeping parents clueless
LHOS - Let's have online sex
MIRL - Meet in real life
NNWW - Nudge, nudge, wink, wink
OSINTOT - Oh sh*t, I never thought of that
POMS - Parent over my shoulder
Q2C - Quick to c*m
RU//18 - Are you under 18?
SFB - Sh*t for brains
TBIU - The bitch is ugly
UFUF - You f*ck, you fix
VRBS - Virtual reality bullsh*t
WTGP - Want to go private?
XTC - Ecstacy
YCMTSU - You can't make this sh*t up
ZMG - Oh my God!
And, yes, ZMG is exactly how I feel right about now.
There used to be a gameshow (a very silly gameshow) called Bumper Stickers, in which contestants tried to decipher vanity license plates. I can imagine a new one: The Ten Thousand Dollar Text, or Wheel of Texting, or Family Fingers.
The only problem is that the average age of a gameshow enthusiast is 57.
And that's just TFO.
(Too f*cking old.)
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
I recently had to have physical therapy for some pain, stiffness and "clicking" in my neck. (Yes, that's a thing. A 54-year-old thing.) With a handful of sessions, some daily exercises and an increase in "postural awareness," I'm feeling significantly better. And, looking on the bright side (because what, after all, is the alternative?), at least I don't have "text neck."
Text neck, which the Washington Post recently referred to as "an epidemic," is ...
"... the term used to describe the neck
pain and damage sustained from looking down at your cell phone, tablet,
or other wireless devices too frequently and for too long. Children and
teens are especially at risk for suffering symptoms of text neck."
My own teenage daughter is a voracious texter, but I don't think she has text neck. Happily, she spends a considerable part of each day working with horses. This can lead to many injuries, sore muscles, bumps, bruises, the occasional concussion, even "horse hickeys," but it does preclude one from all-day every-day texting and, consequently, the dreaded text neck.
(This is just another reason why all those payments to the stable have been worth it. Well, this and the fact that there are virtually no boys there at all, of which fact I remind my husband on a regular basis.)
Anyway ...
Text neck, or more officially "Text Neck Overuse Syndrome" is characterized by:
• Upper back pain, from chronic, nagging to sharp, severe.
• Shoulder pain, tightness and possibly muscle spasms.
• Pinched nerves and pain radiating down arm, into hand.
OMG.
And, if all of this doesn't sound sufficiently UN-pleasant, text neck may lead to arthritis later in life.
I repeat, OMG.
So what's a texting teen to do? According to Spine Health, there are steps to take that can counter the negative effects of text neck:
• Lift the phone to eye level.
• Take frequent breaks. (Like that's gonna happen.)
• Change position. For example, lie on your back.
• Focus on maintaining upright, neutral posture.
• Stretch and arch your back periodically.
• Exercise to build strength in your back and neck.
All of this is fairly common-sensical, right? The problem is, in human nature and teen nature in particular, common sense is anything but common. I'm a few years (okay, a few decades) past my teens, but I didn't address the pain in my neck until it actually was a pain in my neck.
As parents, we may think that teens texting is a pain in the neck. But the teens themselves don't.
Or at least, they don't yet.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Yesterday, my daughter competed in a horse show. (This is a common occurrence around here, and has been for about half of her life). As usual, she had to be at the stable at ohmigod o'clock to groom her horse, pack the trailer and in this case help some junior riders do the same. The only difference was that she was planning to drive herself to the stable and I could, in theory, go back to bed. Or, in reality, take a fitness walk and get a few hours of work in before driving out to watch the event myself.
After checking to see if she was up (two alarms plus a "Puh-leeeeese, Mom, just five more minutes"), I cut a peach into slices and thought about the rest of her breakfast. With a long day of competition ahead of her, I thought something more substantive than a chocolate chip muffin was in order. I made a pizza bagel instead.
"I don't feel like it," she announced when she came downstairs in a crisp polo, shiny boots and show breeches.
This is where my first mom-fail of the day came in. Basically, any parenting manual worth its salt would have advised me to (a) insist or (b) acquiesce. I took a third completely futile route and cajoled then lectured her then ended with some snipey comment about how she doesn't take her sport seriously. She headed out with a Chocolate Chip Cookie Zone Bar (yes, said disgusting thing does exist) and I was left to wrap the pizza bagel and put it in the fridge.
Crap!
As she was headed out the door, she asked in a mildly exasperated voice, "When can I stop texting you when I get there?" she asked.
"I don't know" I told her. "Not yet."
"Uggghhhhh," she groaned and headed off.
Since obtaining her highly anticipated and much cherished driver's license four months ago, we've had a deal. She puts her phone on "airplane mode" while she's driving (no calls in or out, no texts). She's very careful. She doesn't play her music too loud. No other teens in the car (that's Massachusetts's rule, not mine). And, she texts me when she gets wherever she's going.
That, for me, may be the most important part of the agreement.
With a text upon arrival (and a corresponding text when she's leaving for home later in the day), I only have two thirty minute blocks of sheer terror. Otherwise, I'd be looking at an entire day of it.
After our breakfast debate, I expected a terse "here" text from her. Instead, I received this:
"here i forgot my saddle pads after all that!" with a little freaked out face emoticon. We had washed them the night before and they were drying in the sun on our patio.
I quickly texted her back that I would bring them to the event location. It would simply mean getting there a bit earlier than I had planned.
"great thank you I'm sorry"
It was a gorgeous day, and I really didn't mind leaving work for a couple of hours. My daughter was genuinely happy to see me. Afterall ...
1. I had her clean white saddle pads
2. I could drive her jumping saddle and other equipment to the ring so she wouldn't have to make trips back and forth to the trailer between events
3. I could take pictures for her
As far as her actually wanting her loving mother to watch her compete? The bloom faded off that particular flower long ago. These days, I have jobs to do.
The show went well, and she left with two first place ribbons: dressage and stadium jumping. Along with the rest of her team, she headed back to the stable to celebrate. I headed back to my home office to work.
It occurred to me that my daughter is like the push-me—pull-you from Dr. Doolittle (you know, the weird, two headed llama thing in the old movie with Rex Harrison). She's moving away from me as fast as she can at times, and then returning just as quickly when circumstances change. Usually, that means when she needs something.
I always think that she'll appreciate all the above-and-beyond. That she'll understand how lucky she is that her mother is Mrs. Fix-It. But, I don't think she does. Maybe she will someday. Right now, it's all she knows.
In fairness, I do get a lot of "i'm sorrrrrrry" texts when there's a request. And, often "thank you soooooooo much" when said request is fulfilled. But, she's sixteen and her life is moving pretty fast. She can't stay repentant — or grateful — for too long. She might miss something.
So, back to her earlier question ...
"When can I stop texting you when I get there?"
How about "When you stop texting me with emergencies."
Or better yet. "When you're thirty-seven."
Yep. That works for me.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
This past weekend, we went down to New York with another family: a dad, a mom and two teenage girls.
The dad has been my husband's best friend since they were in sixth grade or so. The mom is also a good friend, who won me over early on. She came to a New Year's Eve party and met her then boyfriend's (now husband's) friends for the first time. When she excused herself to go to the powder room, she said "Okay, you can all talk about me now."
After so many years, I feel as though the two girls are an extra set of nieces. One is about a year and a half older than my daughter. The other, about six months younger. With the oldest of the three girls graduating in just a couple of months, we figured this might be their last trip together.
The weekend was a success by anyone's measure. We walked all over Manhattan, had fantastic food, saw a wonderful Broadway show. Rather than reserve multiple hotel rooms, we rented a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper Westside. Each adult couple had their own room. The three girls crashed together on fold-out couches in the combination living/dining room.
An important proviso as we looked for and found a place was — of course — WiFi. I didn't actually stop and count, but between the seven of us, we had six smart phones and at least four laptops. When we weren't seeing the sights or painting the town red, the girls were online. In fact, even when we were, in theory, seeing and painting, the girls were online. It was not uncommon to see one or two or all three of them texting while we walked down the street.
I'd like to think that they were narrating a travelogue of sorts, that they were keeping their less fortunate friends abreast of their adventures.
Yeah, right.
Did they write about the High Line or Chelsea Markets? Greenwich Village or the 9/11 Memorial?
Um, probably not.
Did they tell their BFFs back home about the rat sightings in the subways (two of them, I'm sorry to report)? Did they take and share pictures of Central Park's Great Lawn, the Delacorte Theatre, Belvedere Castle, Bethesda Fountain, the Mall or the Carousel?
I doubt it.
Did they talk about Fifth Avenue's annual Easter Bonnet Parade? Or meeting the lead actor in a hit new musical? Or seeing the real Times Square ball? Any of the important stuff we did?
Unlikely.
Truth is, most of the texts I've encountered over the past few years have been strikingly unimportant. Sure, there's the occasional homework question or "whose-mom-can-pick-us-up-after-the-movie" logistic. But, most of the time, texts seem fairly random, quite succinct, and abysmally misspelled.
Granted, I'm not the target audience.
Nevertheless, it seemed a shame to me that any of the girls would miss even a single shop window, architectural element or colorful character. I would also have liked to hear them talk more amongst themselves. Then again, they certainly yucked it up each evening after the parents went to bed.
And, who knows, maybe some of the texts they were texting were being texted to each other.
It could happen.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The other afternoon, I was sitting in Dunkin' Donuts, working on my laptop while my daughter rode her horse about a mile away. (I've never been a big loyalty club member, but with all the time I spend in Dunkin' Donuts, I should be earning something. It's the closest WiFi to our stable, and I'm there ... well ... a lot.) There were four teenagers sitting at the table next to mine.
"Yeah," said one. "My brother's all over it now. But I didn't get a phone 'til I was eleven."
"He doesn't need it. I didn't get mine 'til I started travel soccer."
"I got mine when my mother forgot me at daycare."
"Really?"
"No sh*t."
"Snap!"
The interesting thing was that as these teens were sipping their massive frozen coffee drinks and carrying on an enthusiastic (if rather shorthand) conversation, what were they doing?
Texting. Four teenagers, four smart phones. They never looked up, even as they spoke to each other. Maybe they weren't texting. Maybe they were SnapChatting, Instagramming, Tweeting. Who can keep track? Regardless ... they didn't miss a beat.
The last time I looked for a job (nearly two decades ago), I'm sure I presented myself as an effective "multitasker." And, in the adult scheme of things, I am one. But, by my daughter's standards? I am SO not. Anyone my age doing multiple things at once — we're talking amateur night compared to today's teenagers.
My daughter almost always (as in always, always, always) has her phone with her. The only times she doesn't is when she's actually riding her horse (never fear, it's close by in a pocket or on her tack trunk) or when she's asleep. And, the only reason we get away with that last one is because we made the rule years ago, when we were still in charge. Luckily, it was during her cell phone honeymoon phase when she would agree to anything.
We would never get away with it today.
My daughter's phone is more than a phone. It's an alarm clock. It's a camera. It's a reminder. It's a stereo and a record collection in one. It's a tool for homework. It's her connection to every friend she has, and — believe me — they expect her to be there pretty much 24/7. This makes it difficult to lay down many laws.
No phones at the dinner table?
"But, I'm waiting for so-and-so to get back to me about the English homework."
"But, whatshername is thinking about going to a different school; she needs me."
"But, the auction for the Imagine Dragons tickets ends in five minutes and I have to make sure I get them."
"But, but, but ..."
You see my point.
My daughter is an exceptionally gifted multitasker. But, it does rub us the wrong way sometimes. My husband finds it even more aggravating than I do; in fact, he's coined a term for the phenomenon. "FIP" meaning "face in phone." As in, "I asked her a question but she didn't answer; she was fipping."
I don't like it either, but I do understand. This morning, I left for my walk and realized, about a quarter of a mile away, that I'd left my phone. I had the most minuscule moment of panic; I honestly considered turning around. Then I decided to keep going. After all, it would be great to forget about emails and voicemails and just enjoy the beautiful morning. It snowed a bit yesterday, and our seaside town was still encrusted in sparking white.
I walked down to a small beach and suddenly saw two magnificent swans floating in the tide.
"Damn," I thought. "I wish I had my phone."
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
