happy typo-ing

Every once in a while there comes along a truly great typo that just makes life better. Maybe it's an extra letter here, a misspelled word there, but whatever the case, when a zinger makes an appearance, I appreciate it.

This said, I was ichatting my sister-in-law Darby the other day.

We were just conversing, trading sentences back and forth, when all of the sudden she mentioned the word fragment. Now words like fragment inevitably remind me of something my beloved father, affectionately known as pop, would say. Those of you who know him and love him as I do know that he regularly utilizes some of the more obscure words, dusting them off and displaying them proudly in conversation. For instance, he wrote me this sentence in a casual email just the other day:

Another interesting dysfunctional strand in the knotted up ball of psychic string.

See what I mean?

It's great and it's totally him.

So anyway, after Darby wrote something or other about a fragment I immediately replied with:

Btw, you sound like poop.

And proceeded to press enter before I realized what I had actually written. As soon as she wrote back, WHAT?!?! I realized my mistake and started laughing uproariously. So much so that my roommate looked at me funny and my rib started complaining from the jostling all at the same time.

But I couldn't help it; what a hilarious stroke of lucky typo-ing.

I wrote her right away that I had meant to say she sounds like POP, not POOP, putting her mind at ease because, as she soon wondered, what does poop sound like, anyway?

Actually, it's not the first time I called Pop poop. It is, however, the first time I have done it accidentally. I was a little girl when I had the initial revelation that pop's name was only one small letter away from poop. And that was it. I called him poop.

But just once.

Luckily, he has a good sense of humor and laughed it off, but he probably wouldn't have liked if I had made a habit of it.

Still, you sound like poop.

HA!

um, a typo? really?

Typos really bother me.

Which is the one thing about the iPhone that I don't love. With that slick little touch phone feature, it's super easy to turn the word explanation into ezolamation.

See what I mean?

Or the little words--like up and okay and in and at--sometimes they end up turning into yo and play and on and are, changing the very meaning of the text in the first place. And suddenly whatever joke I was making not only is not funny, but now makes no sense, and everybody knows it kills all the humor of a joke if you have to explain it.

But of course without those typos, the joke would have killed.

Ahem.

Actually, the other night I was trying to download the iPhone app that enables me to send all those funny pictures with my texts (you know, to make my killer text jokes even more hilarious), but accidentally downloaded the typing genius app instead.

Please don't ask me how this happened because I have no idea.

At first I was completely bummed because after thinking that the humor of my texts were getting amped to the superior level that involved cartoon pictures, turns out I was unintentionally nerdified by my new app that allowed me to practice my typing skills with the help of all different exercises, thankyouverymuch.

Now that I think about how much I hate typos, however, actually utilizing that app might not be such a bad idea after all.

However, all of that is not why I started this post about typos, believe it or not.

It has more to do with my brunch yesterday, before the show.

It was my friend Gabi's last show, so a few of us had a little brunch in her honor at a restaurant across from the theater. Now breakfast is one of my favorite meals to eat out, and I was perusing the menu wishing that I could participate in the meal with abandon, while realizing I could not.

You see, I did have to wear a leotard in just a little while.

So bypassing my absolute favorite french toast, I looked for something a little less filling...Perfect, I thought as my eyes landed on the last item on the menu:

Irish Oatmeal with streusel and brown sugar on top.

It cost 4.95 and was worded just like that. It's important to realize this, and you'll know why later.

I ordered my oatmeal and a bowl of strawberries and waited for my food to come. Actually, I ordered my oatmeal and a bowl of strawberries twice, since after the first guy took our order, another waiter came by. It's just that Manuel doesn't exactly always get things right, if you know what I mean, he explained. So I'd feel better hearing your order myself.

Poor Manuel. But that's not the point.

After what was a pretty long while to wait for our food, they brought it to us. Well everything except my oatmeal, at least.

I asked Manuel if it was coming soon and he told me he'd go check. I couldn't help but hope that this was not one of the things that Manuel didn't get right.

The manager then came to our table for the customary, How is everything, ladies?

Glad you asked, I thought, and then told him about the missing oatmeal and asked if I could please have it soon.

Oatmeal? he said.

Yes, I answered.

We don't have oatmeal, he countered.

But your menu says you do, I reply. Irish Oatmeal. With streusel. And brown sugar, I specified.

Maybe granola...? he suggested.

No, I stood my ground. Irish Oatmeal. With streusel. And brown sugar, I reiterated.

He left and my friends ate their food.

The waiter who didn't trust poor Manuel came back.

Do you know anything about my oatmeal? I asked him.

His voice got soft and he started speaking quickly, About that oatmeal...It seems there was some sort of computer glitch...

But he was saved from any further exposition by the appearance of the manager again.

We don't have oatmeal, he said, this time with confidence.

But your menu--I started in, but he cuts me off, That's a typo.

A typo? I repeated incredulously.

A typo, he said with finality, leaving no room for questions.

So should I order something else, then? I said.

No, we are making you oatmeal, he said flatly.

Oh, so you do have oatmeal! I exclaimed.

No, we don't, but we are making you some, he corrected me.

So you don't have oatmeal but you are making it for me anyway? I said, just making sure.

And with a curt yes he walked away.

I did eventually get my oatmeal, but there was some shady business going on, folks.

First of all, what kind of typo is Irish Oatmeal with streusel and brown sugar on top? I mean what other words could that possibly resemble? A typo is when my sister wrote The Indians were pushed farter and farter away in her second grade report, giving my whole family a good laugh. Uh, about the word farter, not that the Indians were pushed away, in case you wondered. But the Oatmeal thing seemed pretty deliberate. Let alone, the whole Irish, streusel, and brown sugar part.

We finally came to the conclusion that they must have meant shmoatmeal and I was asked more than once how much I was enjoying my shmoatmeal. We also commented on how silly they must feel for writing oatmeal instead of schoatmeal, but hey, at least it's a pretty common mistake.

And really, editor's can't catch everything.

And second of all, there's the whole no we don't have oatmeal but yes we're making it for you. Um, what? Did they wave a magic wand? Did they sneak out the back door to the corner Starbucks, order their perfect cup for 1.99, and dump it into the fancy porcelain pot in which they served it to me?

I have many questions which I fear will never be answered.

But a typo?

I think not.

Rather, I think that the waitstaff was getting farter and farter away from the truth, if you ask me.