I just learned that today is Love Your Pet Day. Silly, really, to designate one day of the year for pet owners to do something they ought to do nonstop. But it gives me an excuse to talk about Freddy.

You may know Freddy from his rocky adoption odyssey or his slow-improvement narrative. Or maybe you’ve been subjected to his glass-shattering bark over the phone or in person. (If that’s the case, I’m sorry.)

Before I go further, I’m going to break in with Freddy’s alleged genetic breakdown, in case you’re wondering. Yes, I’m one of those people who indulged in a doggy DNA test. It was something of a joke gift to my husband for our anniversary—a silly indulgence. But interesting, really, since we’d always assumed we had a thirteen-pound Jack Russell–rat terrier mix on our hands. Nay! Here’s what Embark says about our pup:

Freddy is a truly—truly—strange dog. Highly neurotic, he’s on the maximum dosage of fluoxtetine. But that med doesn’t seem to touch his defining idiosyncrasies.

In the same way that he is a combination of black and white, his behavior is built of competing contradictions. He’s a four-legged paradox.

Almost every day, I drive Freddy to one of three lovely nearby spots for a walk. Once I’ve collared, harnessed, and leashed him, he is raring to go to the car. He’ll even scratch at the door to the garage and/or the car.

But when we arrive at our destination, I have to pry him out of the car. Here he is, on the passenger-side floor, silently screaming, “Noooo! Don’t make me go outside in the fresh air!”

There’s an upside to his weird walking anxiety, though. First, Freddy never stops to sniff or relieve himself, so our walks are delightfully efficient. (I don’t even carry poop bags—I gave them all away.) And second, Freddy is completely nonreactive to other dogs. If they bark, if they stick their noses between his back legs, he just broadcasts, “I don’t want any trouble.”

Toward the end of every walk, he will start to pull the leash a bit, eager to return to the car. Such torture he endures, going on the very walk he hurried to initially! 🙄 Sigh. It’s just the way he is.

The other bizarre behavioral contradiction centers on my husband, Bob. Bob has never been anything but loving, patient, and kind to Freddy since the day we adopted him in the summer of 2020. In the right circumstances, Freddy returns the affection. And yet. If Bob is sitting in his comfy chair and moves to get up ... if he dares to close his laptop ... Freddy will flip his lid. He’ll go into full alert mode, barking a warning to me: “The man is moving! The man is moving! Danger! Danger!” His hackles go up. The decibels of his horrible, screeching bark hit the red zone. He doesn’t threaten Bob; he just wants the world to know that the y-chromosome monster is up to something.

I so often wonder what makes our dog the way he is. Was he abused as a puppy? Neglected? Or is he just genetically predisposed to hardcore, crippling worry? (Bob calls Freddy Don Knotts sometimes.)

We’ll never know. We’ll just keep proving to him over and over that he’s safe and that we love him—and not just on Love Your Pet Day.

That headline sounds way more salacious than it is. I’m not talking about anything erotic here—just a powerful, persistent wish of mine.

Here it is: I want to time travel, but in a very specific way. I want to

• Easily go to any place and time I fancy (only in the past; the future spooks me)
• Remain invisible, unnoticed, and entirely safe while I’m there
• Retain the use of all five of my senses
• Be dressed comfortably—I want to experience the weather, but I don't want to suffer from it
• Have my husband accompany me, and be able to converse with him without anyone or anything around us noticing

I want to hear what English sounded like in Jamestown in 1607. Hear Old English in 1000 AD and Latin in 1000 BC. I want to hang out among Neanderthals. Visit 9000 BC and see what life was like at Göbekli Tepe (maybe sneak a taste of whatever they’re eating). I want to walk in the filthy streets of the world’s biggest cities when they’re packed with horses and humanity. Experience the odors, the cacophony, and the social behavior. I want to smell the exhaust and hear the engines of the earliest Model T Fords. I want to observe the night sky from a lightbulb-free planet.

More than anything else, I want to rewind time more than 66 million years so I can get up close and personal with DINOSAURS. Can you even imagine? Hearing them roar ... feeling the ground vibrate from their footsteps ... watching a Tyrannosaurus murdering its next meal. I want to inhale that extra oxygen and marvel at all the bizarre flora and fauna. (Being imperceptible means that no mosquitos or other creatures would ever bite me.)

Similarly, in a more recent era, I’d love to get close to some wooly mammoths,* saber-toothed cats, and—above all—giant sloths. Actually, I might go on an extinction world tour and check out some dodos, elephant birds, and maybe the Titanoboa (a snake that was something like forty feet long and 2,500 pounds). 

It’s all a nice dream. But alas, it ain’t gonna happen.

So instead, I indulge in the next best thing: old stuff. I’m not talking about visiting grand cathedrals and monuments—rather, I crave anything that reveals the experience of day-to-day life. I want to know where people slept and what they ate. What did they wear? Where did they eliminate their bodily waste? How’d they attempt to care for their teeth and trim their toenails? What songs did they sing? What games did they play? How did they treat one another? What did they smell like? ​

I stare at daguerrotypes, including post-mortem photographs (👈 don't click on that if corpses upset you). When I discovered the early-20th-century color photos of Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky, I absolutely swooned. They show the actual vibrant hues of people’s clothing, and for me, they serve as a magical portal to a much earlier time.

​I follow social media accounts with names like “Abandoned Places” and “Ancient Marvels of Mankind.” I can’t get enough images of Pompeii—the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD is the tragedy that keeps on giving.

I delight in a well-stocked antiques store, but I especially appreciate those antiques that still remain in their original locations—things like hitching posts, milk boxes, boot scrapers, and, of course, cobblestones. I adore ghost signs and other types of old signage.

One of my favorite ways of slipping into the past is through old print advertising. A visit to the Internet Archive or Duke University’s John W. Hartman Center for Sales, Advertising and Marketing History can entertain me for hours. Old ads show us a lot about the hucksters of the era, sure, but they also hint at what the general public struggled with and cared about. Here are three ads I found this week, captioned with what they tell me.

Oh, advertising! There’s so much about you that’s disturbing, but you do such a wonderful job of helping me step back in time (and appreciate my ability to return to the current day).

*Did you know there’s a project to bring back the wooly mammoth? Horror movies just write themselves, don’t they?
​

The word euphonic perfectly sums up a theory I have. It means “nice-sounding,” and Merriam-Webster specifies that it often describes “the acoustic effect produced by words so formed or combined as to please the ear.”

The word euphonic is itself euphonic, and here’s why, I believe: It has a stressed second syllable: you-FAH-nick (in the US, that is—see the blue image above).

I can’t explain why (maybe you can, in the comments), but I feel that words with three or more syllables and a stressed second syllable are often the best-sounding words. For example*:

emphatic
vehicular
bombastic
calamity (my favorite word)
exculpatory
recidivism
velocipede
rapscallion
infantilize
barbaric
insidious
pernicious
voluptuous
etc., etc.

Sure, there are plenty of great monosyllabic words—shank, shiv, minx, jinx, and so on—but when I look at my ever-growing list of favorite words, I’m struck by this second-syllable phenomenon.

Phenomenon: There’s another one. Phenomenal, right?

​*Even example falls into this stressed-second-syllable category, but it’s used so frequently it can’t feel too thrilling.

When I was in college, I took an archeology class. Archeology is the study of human beings through the artifacts they leave behind, so when I was assigned a paper on the topic of my choosing, I decided that the “artifacts” I wanted to examine were full-page ads in Life magazine. I’d analyze them to see what they told me about the society that shaped them (or vice versa). I can’t remember the exact date range I focused on, but it was wide enough and far back enough that I got to delve into all sorts of wonderful old ads in the college library, all in the name of archeology. Those were good times.

I still love looking at old ads. They’re such fascinating time capsules. I enjoy seeing bygone products and strange social conventions; plus, I’m captivated by the ads’ art direction, imagery, typography, and copywriting. 

Today, we have the beautiful convenience of the Internet Archive. So let’s look at some of its treasure, shall we?

Now, using Santa and Christmas to hawk cigarettes is nothing new—advertisers did it for many decades. But this particular ad makes me wonder. Why did they go for such a fiendish-looking Santa? He looks ... depraved. Drunk. Sinister. No child of mine would be allowed to sit on this creep’s lap. 

I’m intrigued by Murad’s mysterious tagline, which delivers its social-proof allure in just two words: Everywhere—Why? I believe it’s shorthand for, “These Turkish cigarettes are smoked around the globe. Why do you suppose so?” Answering the “Why?” is really beside the point—Murad’s alleged popularity was the enticement.

As for the quotation marks around the word GREETINGS: Do they mean that Santa is muttering that word through his smirking lips clamped around his Murad? Or are those scare quotes?

Finally, notice that 15¢ price. You won’t be surprised to learn that this ad ran more than a century ago, in 1915. 

Oof. Where to begin? The ludicrous mechanism and straps? The preposterous before-and-after fakery? The aggressive stoking of insecurity? Or the way this huckster shamelessly dubbed himself a “face specialist”?

This 1915 ad features an electric product it calls “Nature’s own remedy for muscle-fatigue and wornout nerves.” I didn’t think that Nature used a plug or batteries, but what do I know?

Nowhere is the price of this product mentioned. We only know that it “[c]osts little and quickly pays for itself in INCREASED PHYSICAL AND MENTAL POWER.” The Monarch Vibrator Company would mail you their product for nothing. Presumably, once you knew the benefits, once you’d learned “the real joy of living,” you wouldn’t be willing to part with it. 

Exhibit D—beer for the whole family:

You know what you don’t see anymore (at least in the US)? Small children in beer ads. You don’t see beer described as “honest” or “wholesome” or “for the whole family,” as in this 1911 ad from Blatz Brewing Company.

You also don’t see hand-lettering like that anymore. Just look at those B’s!

In 1903, to send off for this “absolutely harmless” soap that “never fails to reduce flesh,” you didn’t need a street address. You just mailed your $2.00 to “Norwood Chemical Co., St. James Bldg., N.Y.,” and you’d receive your two cakes (not bars, but cakes!) of La Parle Obesity Soap. If we’re to believe the internet, that price tag would be more than $70.00 in 2024.

Seems preposterous, right? Who would ever fall for such a thing, right? Until you discover that people are still making the same nonsensical claims even  as I type this. 👇 🙄

This is only a small sampling of the advertising delicacies available on the Internet Archive. I suspect I’ll be back with more soon. Stay tuned!

I received this message on LinkedIn yesterday:

I had not written on this topic. I’d never even thought about the relationship between these two words. I couldn’t imagine what contentment had to do with containment.

I was all too familiar with the ubiquitous noun “content.” In fact, I’ve railed against that term. I hate the way it’s used these days to refer to so much writing—including blogs like this one. To me, it just connotes “void-filler,” and it’s an insult.

But how about the adjective content, describing a state of contentedness? What was that all about? I went straight to the wonderful Online Etymology Dictionary and got the answer. 

In other words, if what you want falls pretty well within the bounds of what you have, you’re content.

Interesting, right? It immediately made me think of two things.

One was a powerful photography exhibit I saw many years ago at the art museum in Lakeland, Florida. In each photograph, a family was posed in front of their home with all their possessions. The families were from around the world, and I remember the shocking surfeit of stuff* Americans owned compared to their counterparts in other countries. You couldn't help but wonder, as you looked at these photos, what we really need in our lives, and why we’re so driven to acquire more and more things.

By the way, you can get a book of these photographs called Material World: A Global Family Portrait. And the irony is not lost on me that I’ve just invited you to acquire something. (Plus, I used an affiliate link so that I could acquire something myself—0.0004¢ if I’m lucky.)

The second thing I thought of was a scene involving two yachts. I’d read it in the delightful, entertaining, and informative book by Richard Conniff called The Natural History of the Rich: A Field Guide (another affiliate link). The scene took place at a time when

... Oracle’s stock was soaring and Larry Ellison briefly passed Microsoft cofounder Paul Allen to become the world’s second-richest person. Ellison was celebrating aboard his 243-foot yacht off Capri. Then he spotted a 200-foot yacht heading out on a twilight cruise to the village of Positano. It was Paul Allen’s Meduse ... Ellison ordered his captain to crank his yacht’s three engines to full speed. He overtook Allen’s yacht at forty miles an hour, throwing up a huge wake that sent Allen and his guests staggering. “It was an adolescent prank,” Ellison told The Washington Post afterward. “I highly recommend it.”

Don’t recommend it to me, buddy. I think it makes you sound like an insecure, childish fool. I can’t imagine feeling compelled to do such a thing.

​The book is filled with anecdotes like this—of obscenely rich people not merely displaying their wealth, but rubbing others’ noses in it. Conniff explains that such behavior is natural, because we’re mammals who want to achieve and demonstrate dominance.

Yes, I’m a mammal. And I’m not an ascetic, by any means. But I don’t run with the crowd that yachts around the Gulf of Naples. So the “adolescent prank” above just strikes me a bizarre and kind of ... pathetic. It’s the very opposite of contentment. It’s not enough for this guy to be be the second-richest person in the world—he has to literally push his zillionaire adversary around with his huge pleasure craft. I mean: 🙄.

Contentment gets the suspicious side-eye in America, particularly on LinkedIn, land of hustling, humblebragging overachievers. According to all the “boss babes” and “bropreneurs,” you must never stop “crushing it.” You have to “stay hungry,” even if Americans have so many calories available that staying slim has become a $90 billion industry. “Never settle,” we’re commanded. “Manifest that shit.” (A search for that sentence pulls up five thousand results on Etsy.)

I have goals, sure. But when I look at the Venn diagram of my life, I know I’m living very happily inside my “what I have” circle. I love it here. I appreciate it here. I’m content here.

Ohhhhhhh. Now everything began to make sense. (Why did it take me so long to figure this out?)

I decided to go right to the horse’s robotic mouth:

There you have it. AI says that “price-slashin’” is “just a fun and informal way to describe” something.

No, it’s not. It’s weird and awkward and distractingly hokey. It took up a lot of my brain-space today.

So let me say this to Priceline and others of their ilk. Please listen to this living, breathing, HUMAN copywriter. Your brand matters. It is the lifeblood, the heartbeat, the personality of your company. With just a pinch of exaggeration and poetic license I’ll say that it’s the very soul of your company. It’s what makes human beings (read: customers, potential customers, partners, etc.) remember you. Understand you. And ideally, LIKE you. Take care of your brand, for crying out loud!

Penny and the rest of her AI brethren do not care about your brand. The question is, do you?

Recently I gave a CreativeMornings FieldTrip presentation online. I began by asking attendees what words, punctuation, or grammar they struggle with the most. Several people mentioned the semicolon, and one participant wrote this:​

The poor little semicolon! So misunderstood! So unfairly reviled! Even after serving us for so many years as the friendly emoticon wink. ;-)

Please allow me to demystify my friend the semicolon. I want to allay your fears and enable your enjoyment. 

First, forget the word colon and instead think of the semicolon as a period riding around on the shoulders of a comma. It’s kind of like a hybrid of those two punctuation marks, but it has very specific uses. Two, to be exact.

1) It enables two conceptually connected sentences to hold hands.

Sometimes you’ll have two sentences that feel like they belong together. Rather than separating them with a harsh full-stop period, you can let them indulge in a public display of affection by placing a semicolon between them. Like so:

You want to raise Madagascar hissing cockroaches; I want a divorce.

I guess I’m past due for an oil change; my engine appears to have caught fire.

His phone never leaves his hands; I shudder to think of the microbes it hosts.

That “man of God” sure owns a lot of Lamborghinis; I guess he’s answered the age-old question, “What would Jesus drive?”

(Notice that the first letter following the semicolon doesn’t get capitalized unless it’s a proper noun or the word I. You’ve turned two sentences into one.)

​2) It tidies up and clarifies complex lists.

Usually when you punctuate a series of things, commas will easily do the job of separating one thing from the next. Like this:

I notice you’re buying rubber gloves, a ski mask, a gun, and bleach.* Got plans for the weekend?

But sometimes, the items in your series are complex:

• Bacon Level, Alabama
• French Lick, Indiana
• Zzyzx, California

In this case, you could use semicolons to separate the three listed places:

The shell corporation had offices in Bacon Level, Alabama; French Lick, Indiana; and Zzyzx, California.

Those semicolons reduce the chaos and make things easier to read, right?

Another example might be:

The featured speakers at the triplets convention were Huey, Louie, and Dewey Gravelpit; Sandy, Mandy, and Candy Shrinklepie; and Ed, Ned, and Fred Pseudonym.

That’s it! Now you know how to use the semicolon!

To review: You can use a semicolon 1) to bring two sentences together or 2) to keep several complicated phrases apart. Either way, it’s making the world a better place.

Thanks, semicolon; I'm sorry I've been bad-mouthing you for so long.
​
The semicolon never hurt anybody; it only wants to help.

You don’t need a PhD to use a semicolon; it’s here for everybody.

I could keep doing this all day; instead, I’ll let you go forth and punctuate.

A weird thing happened. Two weird things.

On Thursday, I was talking with my friend Vickie. She was struggling to remember the name of the bird pictured above. She said she always has trouble remembering this name, and she began to describe the bird.

“MAGPIE!” I blurted out. “I always have trouble remembering that name, too! It’s on my list called ‘Words I can never remember.’”

That was the first weird thing: magpie eludes both Vickie and me.

Then tonight, my husband and I were struggling to remember the word that describes large-spotted animals like paint horses and our dog Freddy, shown here. I had to lean on ChatGPT to remind me. The word is piebald.

“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.