Mouse has announced that the countdown is now at 29 weeks. I wasn't clear if that's until school is over, but it's not; or until school begins, which is close; or her milestone birthday, which it is.

In her mind, that means 29 weeks until she is out of the house forever, reference her "I was born with one foot out the door," comment.

So several weeks ago, in the midst of her 20-1/2 day "winter break," we were ranting at each other about her curfew and my early bedtime/early to rise for the workday routine.

"Just go to sleep," is her way to solve my angst.

"But I wake up and you're not home yet and then I can't get back to sleep," I wail.

"Not my fault," she reasons.

And then she said, "Well, if you'd text, you'd know where I am."

I'm really absolutely positive that she never ever dreamed that I actually would.

But last week, I paid my minuscule, no-contract, ancient-plan, cell phone bill with no extras and the fewest amount of minutes allowed by the industry.

And as the line of patient folks for the one customer service person grew behind me, I inquired, "How much is it to text?"

When I found out I could text on my ancient phone for the cost monthly of a couple of dollar menu lunches, I said yes on the spot.

When Mouse came home, we sat next to each other on the couch, and with her thumbs flying, she went through the steps.

"Do you know what letters go with what numbers?" she quizzed.

Uh, no.

I'd never even been in my phone's menu before. Don't need to be to call around looking for Mouse or press the button with the green phone on it when it rings once every couple of weeks.

So we had a couple of quick lessons, and I got stuck finding where to go to send.

Then, since it was her "last night of vacation," she left to go watch movies with friends just as I was getting ready to tuck in.

When she'd been gone a minute or two, I picked up the cell phone, which typically isn't even in the house, typed "b crfl, i luv u" and hit send. Seconds later, she responded. Very cool.

I've got the shorthand thing down. It's how I've taken notes - with pen, on paper - for 29 1/2 years, but who's counting?

Interviewees, or victims as my family refers to people I talk to for my job, often ask if I'm trained in old-fashioned shorthand. I say, "No, but if these notes ever get subpoenaed, it's very doubtful anyone could understand them."

Because, you know, there are lots of subpoenas issued for human interest stories and fundraising gala advances.

With only three numbers in my contacts - Skinny Son, Mouse and the friend - I am confident but not positive that I'll stay within my monthly allotment of texts. The problem will be keeping Mouse, aka "Thumbs," from sending me a dozen messages a day.

Then again, if it lets me know where she is, paying the over would be money well spent.

Community News editor Sally Ann Shurmur can be reached at (307) 266-0520; sallyann.shurmur@trib.com or see her profile and blog at my.trib.com/Sal/blog