Mrs. Malaprop

You may not know this about me, but I'm a regular Mrs. Malaprop.

Actually, I'm not. I didn't really know what a "Mrs. Malaprop" is until I Googled it a moment ago, and found out that I've been using the expression incorrectly for a while. What I mean to say is, I'm really bad at pronouncing a word the first hundred times I see it, but I don't think there is an amusing literary character for that. Perhaps I'll write one.

In the meantime, my family and friends get a lot of enjoyment out of my difficulty with new words. At least I'm brave enough to try saying it, I say; they never answer because they are usually rolling on the ground laughing. (I'm often tempted to jab them with my umbrella.) Generally, if it is an English word in question, I put the accent on the wrong syllable, as in the case of "vicar", which I pronounced as "vie-car" for a year before someone stopped laughing long enough to correct me. With words that aren't English, Spanish, or Scots Gaelic (for all of which I at least have the basic tools for pronunciation), I just wildly swing for it and hope I land in the neighbourhood. The only problem with this approach is that I'm wrong about nine times out of four.

Pre-ganoush eggplants.

For instance, my first trip to The Pita Pit: I saw a sign informing me that avocados and "Baba Ganoush" were extra. I decided that whatever "baa-buh ganish" was, I wasn't brave enough to pay 50 extra cents to try it. So when the nice young man at the counter asked if I'd like any perfectly pronounced baba ganoush, I said, "Huh?" Yep, that's me, the rhetoric major and aspiring novelist. I have such a way with words. After politely declining and eating my delicious pita ganoush-free, I made a beeline to a computer to find out that it's like hummus, except made with eggplant. Why didn't they put that on the sign? You don't even want to know how I pronounce "gyro". Let's just say "badly" and leave it at that.

Even worse is when I know none of the words on the menu:
I: What's call-bus-chin-tzel?
Waiter (patiently): It's veal.
I: Oh. How about sour-brat-in?
Waiter (sighs): Pot roast.
I: Okay. What is cart-o-fill-puf-fer?
Waiter (rolls his eyes): What?
I (pointing at menu): That.
Waiter: Ah. Kartoffelpuffer. It's a potato pancake.
I (sensing that he is now expecting a rather large tip): I'll have that, thank you.
Waiter: Very good, mein frau. (runs away before I can ask what that means)

No, I'm better off at restaurants that have a life-size stick-on skeleton on the door and plastic Jack-O'-Lanterns glowing on the counters at this time of year. The places where they ask, "Would you like fries with that?" and the only words I need to know are "I'll have a number three, please." I can already say all of those words.

What a strange blog post, no? That's because it's in response to the Second Crusader Challenge. Think you would like a shot at it? Head on over to Rach Writes and see what the fuss is all about. And to check out the winner of the last Crusader Challenge, click here.