When Good Words Go Bad

I run across loads of interesting typos in my editing job. Some of them make sense; I can see how they might easily happen. Others are such freaks of nature that I can only assume the writer suffered an episode of some sort while typing. 

Still others are the amusing results of the perfect storm: a cut-and-paste error, a blatant disregard for spellcheck, and the rock-solid faith that someone like me will catch any mistakes before we're all horribly embarrassed.

I've taken the liberty of providing new definitions for two of my favorite examples:

possibilititties (noun, plural)

1. the contents of an A-cup bra: I hope he's not a boob man, because I'm only rocking possibilititties.

pooportunity (noun, singular)

1. a chance to use a restroom where a person will be completely undisturbed and/or undiscoverable: A private basement bathroom provided the perfect pooportunity.

It's glorious errors like these that pay my salary. And sometimes get me through the day with a super nerdy smile.

Feeling Fruity

I don't know how many of you live alone, or how many of you talk out loud to yourselves, but in my experience, I've generally found that the two go hand in hand.

I'm not talking about incessant mumbling -- just random comments that you don't think twice about uttering because no one will care that you sound a little crazy. Most of the phrases that float around my apartment are reactions to TV shows or reminders of things I should be doing.

But last weekend I punctuated the silence with something new. I heard myself say the following sentence, quite angrily, and it was directed at a bowl of watermelon:

"You're supposed to be seedless, you son of a bitch."

That's right. I trash-talked fruit. So if you're ever wondering what kind of lunacy escapes my brain when there's no reason to filter it, there you go. I'm off to shame an avocado.

Double Vision

My sister's friend Laura was nice enough to drive her to a recent eye doctor appointment, since it involved minor surgery. As they flipped through magazines in the waiting area, Laura kept sneaking glances at two men sitting across from them.

Finally, she leaned over to my sister and whispered, "Meghan . . . those two guys over there . . . they're twins, right?"

She simply wanted confirmation that she wasn't imagining the resemblance. But my sister, seeing such an easy setup, couldn't help herself.  

She turned to her friend with a deadly serious/scared face and replied, "Laura . . . there's only ONE guy sitting there."

Funny Money

Overheard a couple in their 60s joking at a restaurant. The husband handed some money to the wife to chip in for dinner.

WIFE:  "Don't give me cash in public. People might think it's for sexual favors."

HUSBAND: [considers for a minute] "Um, then I'm going to need some change."

Radio Hack

Years before a handheld, one-bit Space Invaders game found its way into my possession, the most amazing piece of mobile technology my tiny brain could imagine was a walkie talkie. 

I suppose I was about six when I got a pair of them. They were grey with an orange tip on the antennae, and the entire Morse Code alphabet was printed on the front. My sister and I beeped messages to each other constantly  . . . until we were kicked outside, where (joy of joys) we discovered that OUR walkie talkies worked with all our FRIENDS' walkie talkies. 

We quickly set about creating a communications network. It wasn't overly sophisticated, but it kept the neighborhood informed when someone sneakily won "kick the can."

One afternoon, as a group of us gathered by the swings to plan our next game, there was a sudden crackling on our handsets. Then a very stern, authoritative voice broke through:

"ATTENTION!"

Static.

"THIS IS THE NATIONAL GUARD."

More static.

"YOU ARE ON A RESTRICTED CHANNEL."

Our eyes grew wide.

"STOP BROADCASTING IMMEDIATELY, OR WE WILL NOTIFY THE POLICE."

We were frozen in terror. Nobody had the guts to reply, but we all clearly saw that our futures included prison bars.

And then I happened to see something else. Across the backyard, my father's eyes peering over the windowsill, alongside the orange tip of an antenna. 

So many things happened in the sandbox in that moment -- relief, outrage, maybe a little bit of pee -- but looking back, I feel like we all should have applauded. Because he saw his chance, and he took it. And he got us good.

Well played, sir. Well played.

Butthead

I was reminded last week of one of my most embarrassing slips of the tongue to date. 

Every Monday morning, my team at work meets to discuss our plan for the week. I typically arrive about 20 minutes before the meeting starts, but on this particular day I was running late. When I got to my building, I rushed to the conference room (wearing jacket, sneakers, backpack) without stopping at my desk.

Thankfully, there was only one other person there (who wasn't my boss). She asked why I was so frazzled. I told her my bus had taken forever, and I didn't know why.

Then, what I MEANT to say was, "Usually by 9:30 my butt's in my seat."

However, in my hurry, something got scrambled between my brain and my lips.

So what I ACTUALLY said was, "Usually by 9:30 I'm in my butt."

At that exact moment, one of my other coworkers sailed into the room, just in time to catch the last bit of the sentence. She sort of looked at me, looked at my other startled coworker, and in one swift movement turned and walked out. Like "I saw nothing, I heard nothing."

I was left in tearful laughter, trying to explain myself but failing. I just can't account for everything that comes out of my mouth. And in the end, I think we're all better for it.

And Eat It, Too

My sister's coworkers are a tight-knit group of people with a collectively wicked sense of humor. A couple weeks ago, they threw a farewell party for a woman who *dared* to leave the team.  This is the cake they ordered, emblazoned with their best wishes for her new endeavor.

Deviled Eggs

For Easter this year, my mom got me something very appropriate to a kid's basket: a coloring book. But, you know, an "adult" coloring book, which is (sadly) not as dirty as it sounds and is currently all the rage among people who want to unplug and unwind while doing something vaguely artistic.

And I have to admit, breaking in those amazing, brand new colored pencils while watching NCAA basketball was a supremely pleasant way to spend an afternoon. When the game was over, I had a bright and lovely page suitable to hang on anyone's refrigerator.

But I recalled an article my mom had sent me in jest several weeks before. Obviously written by a legit crazy person, it was all about how adult coloring books were dangerous to Christians because they often included mandalas as designs.

If you're unfamiliar with mandalas, they are beautiful geometric symbols that represent the universe, and they're typically used in Hindu or Buddhist religions. This ludicrous article claimed that concentrating on these images while coloring them could open Christians up to evil.

My mom sent it to me like, "Can you even believe this junk?"

So when I finished my first coloring page, which happened to be one of these instruments of Beelzebub, I tore out the sheet and addressed an envelope to her. On the back of the mandala, I simply wrote this:

Dear Margaret,  Join me.  Satan

My mom said it made her week.