“Is that her with the ponytail?” asked Karen.

“That might be her,” said Chris.

Welcome to Do You Need a Ride?, one of my favorite podcasts, hosted by comedians Karen Kilgariff and Chris Fairbanks. The show’s schtick is that Karen and Chris provide a sort of taxi service for their comedian friends, driving them to or from the airport or other places and engaging in hilarious conversation in the car.

The snippet of dialogue above happened when Karen and Chris were picking up comedian Sara Schaefer. And technically, both Karen and Chris made a mistake. If they wanted to be grammatically proper, they would have said:

“Is that she with the ponytail?”

“That might be she.”

Record-scratch. Yuckola! That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Snooty. Antiquated. Ridiculous.

Here’s why it’s (again, technically) correct, though. In English, the pronoun she serves as a subject, while the pronoun her serves as an object.

She published her manifesto. (She is the subject.)

The FBI called her in for questioning. (Her is the object.)

She wore her mink overalls to the Oscars. (She is the subject.)
​
PETA has been giving her a lot of unwelcome attention. (Her is an object.)

The sentences spoken by Karen and Chris include what’s called a linking verb, which works like an equal sign in an equation:

She is a ventriloquist.

He is a scoundrel.

You are a nightmare.

We are taxidermists.
​
They are flat-earthers.

Similarly, Karen and Chris were essentially expressing this equation:

that (person) = Sara Schaefer

If we reduce that equation properly we get:

that = Sara
        ⬇
that = she
        ⬇
That is she.

The sentence is simply stating [Subject] equals [something]. There’s no object, so there’s no need for the object pronoun her. The correct pronoun is she.

Similarly, back in the days when we would actually answer telephones, if a caller asked for us by name, we might respond, “This is she” or “This is he.” Pompous, but proper.

But some rules just need to be broken, and Karen and Chris did exactly what they should have done. They threw the pretentious That is she construction out the car window and went with the perfectly acceptable (preferable, really​) That is her approach instead.

And you can too. As with all speaking and writing, you should consider your audience, your circumstances, the medium, and the mood. You can always break the rules in English, but it’s good to know you’re breaking them.

I suppose I can see the appeal of collecting insects—organizing them, labeling them, pinning them to boards. But I far prefer my own collection: words.

I've written about them before, sharing some noteworthy "bad" words and grody words. But today I want to share my growing list entitled "words I'd like to use." See, when I read good writing, I'll often stop and think, "Why don't I ever use that word? It's a terrific word!" And I add it to the list. 

Behold! Here is my treasured assemblage of fabulous words that I hope to pull out of mothballs more often so I can delight in them.

acolyte
admonish, admonition, admonishment
anguish
capitulate
captivate
castigate
cataclysm
clandestine
condemn, condemnation
consecrate
contempt
corrosive
craven
debase
debauchery
defamatory
deferential
degenerate
degrading, degradation
dejected
denounce, denunciation
depravity
desecrate
devoted
diminish
enumerate
exculpatory
execrable
forbearance
gormless
habituate
imperative
incendiary
indignity
iniquity, iniquitous
irascible
judicious
impediment
inscrutable
inveigle
insubordinate
lament, lamentation
manifold
obstinate 
obstreperous
oracle
paradox
pernicious
plutocrat
polarize, polarizing
polemic
postulate
potentate
predatory, predation
predilection
premonition
preternatural
profane
propitious
rebuke
recalcitrant
recriminations
remonstrate
reprobate
resolute
reticent
rhapsodize
rhetoric
sensibility
sorcery
spasmodic
speculate
subordinate
tacit
treachery
vacuous
venerated
vitriolic
vituperative
voluptuary

Now, butterfly collectors get to call themselves lepidopterists. But I'm not really wild about that word—it reminds me of chiropodist. I far prefer logophile. I like it so much, in fact, that I turned it into a shirt that you might say fits me to a tee.

I read this aphorism all the time, and I hate it.

First of all, it’s patently untrue. Of course there is “try.” That’s why we have the word, Yoda. We even have an abundance of synonyms for it: attempt, endeavor, take a stab at, etc. Don’t tell me there is no try. I try all the time. Don’t invalidate my efforts, you 26-inch puppet, you.

Also, trying and doing/not doing are not mutually exclusive. I could try to make a chocolate soufflé and end up with a tall, fluffy masterpiece; I could try to make that same soufflé and end up with an odd mutant dessert omelet. Either way, I have tried.

The Yoda meme, beyond being false, encourages terrible black-and-white thinking. You know, like: You’re either with me or against me. It says that if you don’t succeed, you fail—and that those are your only two choices.

Ugh. What terrible nonsense.

Trying is where the best things happen. If your chocolate soufflé doesn’t rise, you might learn the benefit of adding cream of tartar or using a copper bowl to whip your egg whites. Or you might create a delicious new protein-packed breakfast treat. You might simply enjoy some leisure time in the kitchen.

When you try, you demonstrate to yourself that you’re capable of trying, of taking risks, of experimenting and adjusting your path forward. You discover what works and what doesn’t. You learn. You grow. You get better.

But people just love that stupid Yoda line because it sounds so absolute and hard-core. They claim that if you so much as contemplate the tiny word “try,” you are swinging open the door for failure to rush in and ruin everything. They believe that you must possess complete conviction or you will surely sabotage yourself.

Balderdash! You can acknowledge risks and still succeed. In fact, that’s often the wisest way to go. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” I often ask myself when something feels intimidating. And if I answer myself honestly, I can see that “the worst” isn’t nearly so objectionable as inaction and the potential regret of what might have been. So I try, and quite a lot of the time, I “do.”

Think twice before believing Yoda’s terrible pronouncement. The full-blown, deaf-to-distraction, self-delusional certitude that he advocates gets people into an awful lot of trouble. I’m thinking of Elizabeth Holmes. I’m thinking of The Secret. I’m thinking of countless cults. Just because you really, really, really, really want something to happen does not—can not—not make it so.

Will this little rant on my little blog stop the legions of people who continue to share this horrible quote and use it to guide their lives? Nope. Can I make a few people think twice about doing so? Maybe.

I can surely try.

This ridiculous ad 👆 just popped up while I was working on the job I’m now procrastinating.

I saw those awful overblown smiles in that preposterously contrived pose, and I was reminded of my mother.

Not because she made those freaky fake facial expressions. (She did not.) No, it was because of a onetime experience we had together. 

I was a teenager, and my mother and I were in a mall together in Oklahoma City, walking around, looking at this and that. We stopped in front of a jewelry store where an enormous photograph featured a woman radiating the ecstatic delight that only a diamond can deliver.

Like in the photo above, this model had her mouth wide open, showing the world her irrepressible glee and her years of orthodontia. My mother and I could see that the situation demanded derision.

So we approached the picture and marveled at the outsized absurdity together. And that’s when we saw it. A line of saliva stretching between the model’s upper and lower teeth. Because the photo was so huge, so was this string of spit. Probably not quite the size of a baseball bat, but it may as well have been.

The laughter that ensued was truly maniacal. Physically taxing. Possibly dangerous. You know what I’m talking about—wheezing, crying, clutching our stomachs.

No mortgage, no diamond, no product or service can deliver the raw, wild, fabulous joy that my mother and I experienced on that day—or the memory that remains with me all these years later.

Thanks for letting me share. Time for me to get back to work.

I spend a whole lot of time on LinkedIn. It’s the place where I can procrastinate by building my business and vice versa. It’s a win-win, whenever I want.

Initially, I was careful to follow the conventional wisdom of only connecting with people on LinkedIn I knew in real life. But I quickly realized that such “wisdom” is poppycock, and you have much more to gain by consenting to connections somewhat indiscriminately—at least if you post daily, like I do. More connections means more eyeballs means more people understanding what I have to offer. Thus far, I have not been lured into a cult or lost all my savings to an overseas prince—or whatever the purported risks are of being like me—a self-proclaimed LinkedIn slut.

Anyway, every now and then, I receive messages from new LinkedIn connections that begin with some form of the question, “How are you?”

In real life, I know that such a question can be something of a throwaway line. You might walk past Dolores from accounting, smile, nod, and say, “How’s it going?” You don't really expect Dolores to answer. You two know one another, so it’s appropriate to sling and accept such niceties. Questions like “How ya doin’” are understood to be merely phatic. (👈 Great word alert!)

But when a complete stranger on LinkedIn asks me how I am, it feels both preposterous and off-putting. It’s like they’ve just asked me when I lost my virginity or had my last bowel movement. All I can think is, “Why on earth are you asking me that, and why would I ever answer you?”

Then part of me fantasizes about answering their question with the singleminded goal of rendering them speechless. I could say something like:

“So glad you asked! Are you familiar with scurvy? And scabies? And gingivitis? I have those. Plus two flat tires and a warrant for my arrest. On the plus side, a DNA test has revealed that I’m two-thirds Australian cattle dog, so I’ve filed for dual citizenship. Oh, and I’ve discovered an amazing opportunity I’d love to tell you about, and all I need is $999.99 for your first information session. No time like the present, I always say—would you rather use a credit card or PayPal?”

Alas, I never do this. Out of a mixture of self-preservation, laziness, and probably a soupçon of hostility, I simply never respond. I ghost them. So I will call this my ghost story, and with it, I will wish you a Happy Halloween—whether I know you or not.

Nearly two weeks ago, I treated myself to some new lavender-scented body lotion. It was rich and creamy, made by “artisans” using “pure goat milk.”

It gave me the worst rash I’ve ever had in my life, with the possible exception of that time when I was a kid, and my friend Amy Wyant and I took a bubble bath using dish soap. (Terrific bubbles; definitely not worth it.)

So today, I visited a new dermatologist in my new town. And afterward, I was asked to leave a review of my experience.

When I did so, I caught myself making an error that’s easy to make, so I thought I’d turn this whole itchy fiasco into something educational. Take a look:

When you read that first sentence above, you can understand it, but it’s not quite right. Take a closer look, and you see why. Here’s what it actually means:

Dr. Caufield was attentive, Dr. Caufield was kind, and Dr. Caufield was answered all my questions.

Whoopsie. So I rewrote it:

I’m only using two adjectives to describe Dr. Caufield: attentive and kind. So I don’t have enough for a series. 

I turned the sentence into two independent clauses joined by the coordinating conjunction and. Now everything is clear.

Except … one thing is not yet clear, alas. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pick up a prescription.

As I began to write this blog, Weebly gave me the following placeholder text at the top of the page.

Those little dots are all over the place!

Let’s get to know them better, shall we?

What is an ellipsis?

An ellipsis (plural: ellipses) is a punctuation mark comprising three periods in a row. (Whether or not there are spaces between these periods is a matter of style. More on that later.)

​I learned from Keith Houston in his wonderful book Shady Characters that the word “ellipsis” comes from the Greek élleipsis, meaning “to fall short” or “to leave out.”

How is the ellipsis used?

I’m so glad you asked. It can perform a few different tasks, outlined below.

An ellipsis can communicate a “trailing off.”

In this case, the ellipsis can act with the sentence-terminating power of a period. No additional period is necessary, and the subsequent sentence begins with a capitalized letter.

Where the heck is my wallet? I had it when I was leaving the bar. I put it on the roof of the car, and … Oh, no.

If you need that trailed-off sentence to be question-esque, then pop a question mark on the end.

Could this ice pick be the one that was used … ?

Similarly, if you need to get exclamatory, add an exclamation point.

What do you mean, you’re my boyfriend’s wife? You can’t possibly … !

An ellipsis can be used mid-sentence to convey faltering.

I didn’t lie under oath, exactly … I mean … I was being … poetic.

Let me point out here: Practically every writing authority says you should seriously try to avoid these “pausing ellipses.” Evidently, they’re annoying to read. You (and I) have been warned.

An ellipsis can say, “Text has been removed from this spot.”

This is really the primary job of the ellipsis.

If you pull out words from the middle of a sentence, you can indicate it like this:

A witness stated, “I saw the … spaceship land right on the polo field.”

Or let’s say you had a three-sentence quote and removed the middle sentence (“Its fleece was white as snow,” here):

“Mary had a little lamb. … Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.”

Notice how right after the word lamb, there’s:

1. a sentence-ending period
2. a standard après-period (single) space
3. the ellipsis, announcing a missing chunk of text
4. another space (more on that below)
5. another complete quoted sentence (which begins with a capital letter, as all sentences should)

You don’t typically need an ellipsis at the beginning or end of a quotation.

In Lapsing into a Comma: A Curmudgeon’s Guide to the Many Things That Can Go Wrong in Print—and How to Avoid Them Bill Walsh makes this curmudgeonly point: “It’s silly to indicate omission at the beginning or end of a quote, since virtually all quotes are from people who have spoken before in their lives and will do so again.”

Obviously—and importantly—you never want to misrepresent anyone’s sentiments, but if you eliminate the beginning of their sentence without changing the intended meaning of the quote, you can then portray the truncated sentence with a capitalized “first” word.

For example, if in real life I rhapsodize, “I love cauliflower so much that I believe it is a perfectly good choice for breakfast,” then the journalist following me around might quote me this way: “Cauliflower … is a perfectly good choice for breakfast.”

The interior life of an ellipsis: Should there be spaces in there?

Most of the resources I use, including my go-to Chicago Manual of Style, say that you should put a single space between each of the three dots, like so:

But if you do that for self-published online writing, you’re liable to end up with an occasional bad line break, with one or two dots at the end of one line and the remainder on the next—a bad look. Here’s one solution: Insert a non-breaking space before every dot to ensure the whole bunch stays together. To create a non-breaking space:

• On a PC, type ctrl + shift + space.
• On a Mac, type option + space.​​

You might be better off using the AP’s ellipsis style (like I’m doing in this blog), which dictates three dots in a row—no spaces between them. Now, when I type three consecutive periods on my Mac, a nifty thing happens: My three dots magically transmogrify into a solid ellipsis. It has a smidge of non-breaking space (but not quite a full space) in between its three dots, and they stay together, never to be separated. You can see a difference, if barely:

In places where this doesn’t happen automatically, I can type option + semicolon on my Mac to achieve it. The internet tells me that on a PC, you can hold down the alt key while typing 0133, or if you’re in Word, you can type ctrl + alt + period.

Oh, yay: a bizarre exception.

Just when I thought I had the two ellipsis styles (gapped and non-gapped) straight, I read this line from Bill Walsh in Lapsing into a Comma: “In headlines, … I prefer, like many publications, to omit the spaces between ellipses entirely.” Everywhere else, though, he puts spaces between the dots.

Neat, huh? The authorities swing from one ellipsis style to another if it suits them.

Relevant aside: I removed words from the middle and the end of Walsh’s complete quote above, but I didn't change his meaning.

Swaddle your ellipses in space.

Interior space is one thing; exterior space is another. The ellipsis is kind of standoffish most of the time. It likes to have a single space to its left and and a single space to its right in almost every scenario. Check out all the characters an ellipsis buffers itself against with a space.

The comma:

“I turned on the light, … and then I realized the kitchen was filled with raccoons.”

The semicolon:

“Randy knew he had to redeem himself … ; he spent the weekend cleaning the gutters, the windows, the chimney, and his text history."

The colon:

“Here is what I want … : a martini, a cigar, and several more martinis.”

The exclamation point:

Her eyes took on the shape and size of hubcaps as she uttered, “You can’t seriously … !”

The question mark:

“But Sally,” lisped her little brother, “how could the Tooth Fairy know … ?”

Words:

​As you can see in all my examples in this blog, there’s always a space between an ellipsis and the nearest word.

The only creature an ellipsis seems willing to allow to get close to it is a quotation mark.

Lady Gaga shot back, “If I had a dollar for every time someone …” Then she took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and strode away.

In UX/UI, spaceless seems to be the style.

On websites these days, we’re often coaxed to “continue reading” or to proceed further down some marketing funnel. This generally happens with a brief piece of text followed immediately by an ellipsis—with no spaces whatsoever.

In fact, on the AP Stylebook website, just beneath its guidance to put a space on either side of an ellipsis, there’s this flagrant contradiction:

In conclusion …

In “real” writing (no need to fret about your texts and DMs, and UX/UI seems to be a renegade universe):

• Consistency is queen. Decide how you want to approach ellipses and then stick with your approach.
• Don’t let your ellipses get torn asunder. Keep those three dots together. Don’t let a line break separate them.
• If looks matter, take extra care. If you’re doing actual typesetting in Canva or similar, don’t let a line break push an ellipsis to the beginning of a line.
• Ellipses are standoffish. You almost always want a space on either side of your ellipses.

This is just the tip of the ellipsis iceberg, dear reader. The Chicago Manual of Style can take you into topics like French, Italian, and Russian ellipses, to brackets and beyond. If that sounds like your cup of hot chocolate, well then …

Affiliate link alert: The two books mentioned above include affiliate links. And I’ll give you a few more, with these resources I consulted while writing this piece:

• Common Errors in English Usage by Paul Brians
• Dreyer’s English by Benjamin Dreyer
• Garner’s Modern American Usage by Bryan A. Garner, though you might be better off with his newer Modern English Usage
• The Gregg Reference Manual by William A. Sabin, also now available in a later edition​

​

A lot of people collect things. Bobbleheads. Beer bottles. Barbie dolls. 

I, on the other hand, refuse to collect anything. Or I should say: I refuse to collect anything that takes up space, collects dust, or requires special insurance coverage.

What I collect are words. I currently have nineteen different lists with titles like “naughty words I'll probably never use,” “malapropisms,” “eggcorns,” and “good names.” I collect words that sound mellifluous, that paint a vivid picture, or that simply perform a specific job beautifully. You can see a number of words I treasure here.

One of my lists is entitled “terrible words.” These are words that are difficult to pronounce or unpleasant to hear or that sound like the wrong part of speech. Some just rub me the wrong way.

My “terrible words” list was on my mind this week when I was shopping for postage stamps online. I noticed that the USPS has collection of Forever stamps dedicated to—of all things—backyard games. The collection’s eight different stamps cover everything from badminton to bocce, including cornhole. “Cornhole” has been #5 on my “terrible words” list for years. And coincidentally, it appears directly above “philately,” which means “stamp collecting,” but sounds like an adverb and has a sadistic number of l-sounds in it. Two thumbs down.

Anyway, I thought I’d share my “terrible words” list with you. And no, “moist” does not appear on it. I’m a copywriter who needs to write evocatively about cake from time to time, and I’m not about to take “moist” out of commission. Also, I remain in the minority that just doesn’t mind “moist.” I’ll write it again, looking you directly in the metaphorical eye. Moist.

If that made you uncomfortable, you may want to quit reading. Things are about to get a whole lot worse.

​Here we go—my list of terrible words:

​conurbation
ombudsman
contumely (A NOUN!)
smegma
cornhole
philately
sack/sac
diphthong
crampons
taintworm
epiglottis
crepuscular
suppurate
flaccid
fistula
crotch
contrariety
sillily
monthslong
palimpsest
shunt
stalk (the noun)
wilily
brobdingnagian
Behance
bespoke
carbuncle
sackbut
crumhorn 
ornerier
spendthrift
vuln
fleshpot 
I don't think it's *terrible*, but prolix has no business being an adjective.
severalty
spurtle

A number of my friends contributed to this list. (Thanks, Heather and David and everyone else.) One person wrote this gem: “‘Crepuscular’ is like a beautiful woman named Hagatha.’” (Apologies to all the Hagathas out there.)

How about you? Are there words that make you cringe? Please share!

Today is my (and my husband’s) 29th wedding anniversary. So I thought I’d tell you the story of how we got engaged. 

Bob (the now-husband) and I were living in Boston and had just seen the movie Rambling Rose in the theater. It was dark outside and we were crossing Dartmouth Street in front of Copley Plaza (as seen in the photograph) when Bob suddenly asked, “Would you marry me?”

We were literally in the middle of the street, right about where that arrow is pointing in the photo.

Now, if you know me, what happened next will not surprise you. But it may appall you.

“Would I marry you?” I asked.

You see, would can be conditional. It can convey a hypothetical situation. I didn’t know if Bob meant “Would you marry me if I were the last man on earth?” or “Would you marry me if I were Robert Duvall and you were Diane Ladd?” I didn’t want to answer the wrong question.

So I asked for clarification. And despite the perfect opportunity (and a pretty good incentive, now that I think about it) to back out, Bob rephrased his question and explained that he was, indeed, asking me to marry him.

We were now on the other side of Dartmouth Street (hello, Rubicon). And the question had been clearly articulated. It was my turn to answer.

​I didn’t say yes. I just looked at Bob and nodded my head. I knew better than to try to use any words.

I recently discovered that if you’re an Audible member (as I have been for more than 20 years), you can get a whole bunch of Lorrie Moore audiobooks for free.

Whee! I love Lorrie Moore.

I’m listening to her story collection called Self-Help right now, and I’m thoroughly enjoying and admiring it.

Most of the stories put the reader in the center of the action. (That’s de rigueur for copywriting, but an unconventional approach for fiction.) The author will tell you “How to Be an Other Woman” or give you “The Kid's Guide to Divorce,” colorfully spelling out what actions you might go through, what observations you might make, what emotions you might feel. It’s so intriguing, so effective, and so creative.

Also creative is the way the story “How to Talk to Your Mother (Notes)” moves backward, one year at a time. That sounds like it might feel annoying or confusing, but it works beautifully and really tugged my heart every which way.

Here’s a tidbit from it:

The hum, rush, clack of things in the kitchen. These are some of the sounds that organize your life. The clink of the silverware inside the drawer, piled like bones in a mass grave. Your similes grow grim, grow tired.

I could hear, see, and feel that kitchen drawer. And I appreciated how Moore poked fun of her own description.

There’s humor sprinkled throughout these tales. Here’s a cat cleaning herself in “Amahl and the Night Visitors: A Guide to the Tenor of Love”:

She sees you watching, freezes, blinks at you, then busies herself again, her face in her belly, one leg up at a time, an intent ballerina in a hairy body stocking.

Amidst all this entertaining, evocative writing, the thing that really stopped me in my tracks, that made me want to blog about this author and this book, is a device called a zeugma. (Great to know for Words with Friends or Scrabble. That Z alone is worth 10 points!)

A zeugma, as Merriam-Webster explains, is

the use of a word to modify or govern two or more words usually in such a manner that it applies to each in a different sense or makes sense with only one (as in “opened the door and her heart to the homeless boy”).

So. In the story entitled “How,” Moore writes:
​
But I love you, he will say in his soft, bewildered way, stirring the spaghetti sauce but not you, staring into the pan as if waiting for something, a magic fish, to rise from it…

Stirring the spaghetti sauce but not you. I love it.

If you look up “zeugma” on Wikipedia, you will find yourself in a complex hamster Habitrail® of rhetorical devices. But for regular people like me, zeugmas are typically just unexpected, playful, and fun. Wordplay, as they say.

(Side note: The etymology of zeugma has to do with connecting, linking, or yoking. The ancient city of Zeugma is so called because of a local bridge of connected boats that crossed the Euphrates.)
​
Here are some literary zeugma examples that I found on this Your Dictionary page:

Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tête-à-tête was over. – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

He was alternately cudgeling his brains and his donkey. – Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

They tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other’s nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory. – Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
​
I’ll tell you this much: Zeugmas are tricky to write. I don’t even want to admit how much time I spent on the title of this blog.

Give it a try. Write a zeugma. See how it goes—and why these things aren’t more common.

​
PS: The book link above is an affiliate link. So I can keep rolling in the pennies.