My friend CA and I used to have breakfast together a couple of Sundays a month in the Before Times. The pandemic slowed that down, and it’s been a number of months now since we last met up before noon. So on Friday I texted her in an exchange that turned out rather like a French farce. When we finally got it sorted, I told her, “We have to stop texting each other like we’re the Cool Kids, because we’re not.”
Here’s what I mean:
For the translation:
BB: Wanna do brunch on Sunday at Café Montmartre to enjoy the weather?
CA: Yes.
Then we go off the rails.
CA: Wish we could do it tomorrow.
BB: Not tomorrow, because the Farmers Market fills up the whole plaza and you can’t get a place to park. I'm from LA; parking is a BFD.
CA: No, can’t do the Farmers Market tomorrow because Saturday chores.
BB: Well, poop—we’ll shoot for another weekend.
Which we found out at 1009, when I got a text from her saying she was at Café M, and had we miscommunicated?
Well, within ten minutes I was there and we had a lovely brunch and chat. But—as I said—we need to communicate in full sentences and not cryptic shorthand.
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