I sometimes get the words “ravage” and “ravish” mixed up. They kind of mean the same thing, don’t they? (Also, “radish.” But this is not the same at all. This is a “swollen pungent-tasting edible root.”)
Mixing up words out loud in conversation is one of my great fears. As most fears do, this stems from traumatic childhood experiences.
When I was 7-years old, New Kids on the Block released a Christmas album with a song called “Funky Funky Xmas.” It was the coolest song ever, so naturally, while the Parsons family was doing our annual pajama-clad Christmas light drive, I was singing it at the top of my lungs.
When we got home, my dad confiscated the NKOTB tape, because how dare they teach children the F-word.
There was also that one time that I asked an old lady if she lived in a condom, I mean, a condo.
But now I’m a grown-up, and it’s time to confidently know the difference between broach/breach/brooch/breech. I won’t breach the subject. The baby wasn’t born brooch. I mean, COME ON.