And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for: a new malaprop post. This is my ongoing (and also frequently onstopping) series in which I collect fabulous mistakes and misspellings (if any of them were yours, I thank you heartily) and then, with great effort, combine them into sparkling new blog posts. Writing research papers in college was easier.
I think there are 31 malaprops here (Tracy, feel free to correct my count.) (Update: The final count is in, and for once I got it right — 31 malaprops, or 32 if you count the title.)
Now that my baby is out of my whom and I’m done with the postpardum stage, I’m ready to be done with the duldrums. I’ve had enough of living var cariously and making due through reading other people’s blogs about their fun vacations and all the great momentos they bring back. I am so hairbrained I almost fell for a mesmorizing timeshare sells pitch — I got all gunho after I saw the shinny brochure. It’s a good thing my help mate isn’t as guilable as I am and he talked me out of it. So for a concelation, he has been promising me on a daily bases that even if worse comes to worse, we will find something fun to do this summer. I will hold him to it or the forces of karma will enforce upon him! He’s into splunking so he wants to go somewhere with caves, but traipsen around in the dark isn’t really my idea of fun – it’s more like being in some post-apoplectic horror movie, and symotaniously so boring I’m sure it would make me not off. I say if it doesn’t put me at risk for basil-cell carcinoma, it’s not a real summer activity! Honest engine, I just want to relish in some descent ready-maid type of activity. Not that I bear my husband any ilk, since I’m sure it will all turn out honky-dory. Soon, instead of me clodding up this blog with kid stories, you’ll be reading all about our outrages summer fun!
[Update: If you’re visiting from Reddit, here’s a link to the archives of my other malaprop posts.]