Hi My Name is Aubrey, and I’m Dyslexic

I’VE ALWAYS JOKED THAT I inherited my father’s good hearing and my mom’s selective hearing.

(Sorry mom.)

(Thanks dad.)

What I’m not sure of is where I got this dyslexia. Some distant relative perhaps? Or maybe it was a freak gene of my own that mutated, transforming me into a word-twisting freak. Whatever the reason, it’s got to stop.

I try to stop myself, I really do, but there’s no pattern to the madness. I seem to have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the most inconvenient time. Take for example last Wednesday, when I told my boss “have a great weekend”, instead of “have a good night”. Or when I read the sign on the fridge as, “the clean will be fridged out every Friday” instead of “the fridge will be cleaned out every Friday”.

It’s a disease, I tell you.

Wanna know other things I’ve said?

• Hear ache (hearing aid)
• Three Frows (free throws)
• Eye glass (hour glass)
• Sland your ham (slam your hand)
• Bookwork (book worm)
• Cwommas (commas in quotes) “they put the cwommas in…”
• Tan of coona (can of tuna)
• Cookie Cukkers (cookie cutters)

The worst by far, however happened when Kevin and I were cooking dinner a few nights ago. He was watching the chicken to make sure it didn’t burn when his phone started ringing. I picked it up off the table, glanced at it and held it out to him.

“It’s Timmer Dunn,” I told him.

He got a weird, questioning look on his face for a split second before he bust up laughing.

“What?” I asked. I didn’t get the joke. I was still trying to figure out who would name their kid that. What a stupid name. Maybe it was a practical joke?

“Um sweetie? It’s the timer. As in, ‘Timer Done’.”

And because everything is better with a random photo:

Go ahead. I dare you to caption it.