THE CURSE OF THE SELFIES

My daughter, Foghorn, is eleven.  She'll be twelve this summer.  In reality she's thirteen no matter what the calendar says.  This is an infuriating interesting age and is accompanied by mood swings, a fresh mouth, and the unwillingness to wear any clothing picked out by her mother.  It is also wreaking havoc with my smartphone. 

At least once a week I try to take a photo or add an audio book to my phone, only to find there's no room.  In the past this would leave me perplexed and scrambling for an explanation.  Now I know to just go to the photos.  If I'm stupid enough to leave my phone unattended it will inevitably be filled with lovely shots like these:

Then there are the texts.  My husband suddenly finds himself on the receiving end of a barrage of texts allegedly from me.  They are invariably nonsensical, insulting, or are giving permission for Foghorn to do something/buy something that in reality is out of the question.  An example from this weekend:

The Vulcan and I have a secret code word we use whenever there is any uncertainty as to the writer of a text, for obvious reasons.

Foghorn also has a butt obsession.  She thinks Kim Kardashian is the queen of all things because of her larger-than-life derriere, as well as her ability to be rich while having no visible talent.  Since I have contempt for all things Kardashian (Kim and her entire extended family), this causes some mother-daughter conflict.  Foghorn twerks compulsively and talks butts compulsively and I continually find obnoxious things written on my to do lists, chalkboard grocery list, or Post-Its.  This little baby was on my laptop to remind me of where I left off reading on a certain blog and Foghorn decided to add her own touch:

And then there are the times she manages to combine two or more of her favorite annoying habits into one text.  This one to her father...from my account, of course:

Yeah, Foghorn as a real thirteen year old ought to be one big thrill fest.  I can't wait.  Sigh...