Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
Verbal Burnouts Big Time!
by Phylis Ann Warady
The more I write the worse I talk. A tennis fan, I refer to Wimbledon as "Wimpledon." I call my favorite sandals "Burgermeisters" but mean Birkenstocks. During a San Francisco earthquake, I phoned my daughter in Houston to tell her "Candlewick Park" sustained extensive damage. I once informed everyone within earshot at a social gathering that the actress under discussion had had "cosmic" surgery.
Off deadline, away from my computer, I'm a never-ending source of amusement to my husband. Once, seated beside him in our pickup, I said, "We need to stop at Longs and get some Excedrin for my hands." His response? "Your hands have a headache?" Of course, I meant Eucerin.
I don't write during the holiday season. Instead my two daughters, my son, and their respective spouses, plus four grandkids, visit. During this annual get-together, all wait with bated breath to hear what I'll say next. Or do I mean mis-say?
Picture this: A boxer dies in the ring after a brutal bout. His mother donates his body parts. My husband glances up from the sports page and asks, "What parts would they be, Phylis?"
"His heart, liver, kidneys," I tick off, then after a slight pause, add, "and his eyes, unless, of course, he has ‘Glockamorra.'"
My husband laughs so hard, he cries. He insists I tell Frank and Ann. When I do, Ann casts Frank a puzzled look and asks, "Is it a Mexican dip?"
I refer to this particular malapropism as the three Graces: Glaucoma, Glockamorra and Guacamole.
As I said at the beginning, the more I write, the worse I talk. Even I, the author of all these malapropisms, have no idea what I'll say next.
Phylis Ann Warady began to write when her three children were under age five and she needed to save her sanity. Nowadays, when not otherwise engaged in murdering the King's English, she writes historical novels set in Regency England. Her latest release is a large print edition of The Earl's Comeuppance (Thorndike Press).
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