Every now and then QuionMonkey adds a new link on our blogroll after she’s been up until 4 in the morning. I click on it, find she has exquisite taste in blogs, and then start sending her emails about what I discover as I surf. This time I thought I’d share my enthusiasm with you.
One of the newest additions to our blogroll is Typo Of The Day For Librarians. What a beautiful site. Every day there is a new, commonly misspelled word. (In online catalogs, but also in general, I believe.) Words where letters get transposed (fascimile) or left out (aniversary).
It hasn’t made the list yet, but manger will eventually get there, I’m sure. I see it all the time in email communication at work. (All mangers are expected to pass down this information to their staff members…)
It must be a certain type of person who notices words this way. I know I always have. When I was in third or fourth grade we each wrote a page for a class book on what or who we loved. I wrote about my grandma. Bucky Mulvaney wrote about his horses. One of the sentences in his story read, “My hores eat clookes.” I remember some of the kids laughing that he’d used the word hores (pronounced whores) which I laughed about, too, even though I didn’t know what it meant. Much more hilarious, I thought, was that he used clookes; even this afternoon I said to myself as I passed a package of molasses cookies on the table, My hores eat clookes.
The other blog connection QM made was to Grammar Police. (Grammer, btw, already appeared in Typo Of The Day.) A few days ago, Shawn of Grammar Police did a post on words mispronounced in childhood. She shared an embarrassing incident where she asked her mother what the word episcopal meant, except the word got so butchered in the asking that her mother didn’t know what it was. That led to her mother’s admission that she, too, had one of these words.
I shouldn’t make fun of Bucky. I had (and still have) plenty words of my own. One I’ve been thinking about lately is saloon. I used to spend summers with my grandma and grandpa in a small town in northeastern New Mexico. Grandpa had been a cowboy, and I guess to get some excitement in retirement he went almost every day to the saloon. He’d say he was going grocery shopping, but Grandma would say in a disgusted voice, “Agh, he’s going to the saloon.” Having never been to a saloon, yet having been to the A-la-Mode Salon where Grandma got her hair done, I spent at least two summers wondering why my weathered ol’ cowboy of a grandpa liked going to the saloon every day.
Anyway, thanks QM, for loving words as much as I do, especially when we get them all wrong.