How’s that for a salacious headline? Salacious is a great word that means something like raunchy or obscene. Read to the end if you want to learn about its etymology. (And of course you do.)

Testicle, Sara. Get to the testicle.

But wait! First I need you to know that the photo above is not a testicle. It’s merely a fruit that my mother described as “testicular” in appearance: a fig. I’m comfortable writing a salacious headline, but I draw the line at showing a photo of a testicle.

OK. Onward. To the testis, singular.

Wait, though. Can I just interrupt this story to tell you about one of the more embarrassing moments of my life? I was in high school, and I was trying to ask a teacher—in front of a full classroom—whether he’d be returning our graded tests that day. To put a playful spin on things, I used a diminutive of the word “tests.” Yes: I asked about “our testies.” Out loud. 💀

So, back to Ralph’s testicle. Remember how I told you that I stole two puppies when I was a kid? Ralph and Floyd were their names, and they lived as “outside dogs,” meaning that they were filthy and ill-mannered and not allowed in our living space. They generally ran around, dug into the lawn in pursuit of moles, and hosted ticks of various sizes. 

They were little terrier mongrels. Ralph was mostly black; Floyd, the color of a used cigarette filter. They were probably in the ten-to-twelve-pound range and had no trouble escaping our backyard and running loose—it happened all the time. They weren’t the only dogs roaming the neighborhood, either, so it was no great surprise that they sometimes got into fights with other dogs.

Did I mention that this was the 1970s? Things were different then.

Anyway, one day, I noticed that Ralph had sustained a heinous-looking injury in his nether region.

(Interestingly, when I looked up the term “nether region,” Wikipedia informed me that yes, it does mean “Euphemism or slang for the buttocks, groin and genitals of human body, separately or collectively.” But it also means “Hell, the Underworld, or any place of darkness or eternal suffering.” Take from that what you will.)

When I saw Ralph’s bloody boo-boo, I reported it to my parents so they could do whatever grownups did to take care of such things.

And it was not until decades later that I realized that what they did to address this situation was absolutely insane.

I wasn’t present for the any of the conversations between my parents and the veterinarian back then, so I can't tell you who decided what tack to take or what the rationale was.

But I do know the following, because my sister corroborated it.

After Ralph sustained an injury between his hind legs and he was taken to the vet…

...he came home with some black stitches and...

ONE REMAINING TESTICLE.

Yes, a man with a veterinary degree decided to anesthetize my peripatetic, fertile little mutt and remove only ONE of his puppy-propagating sperm sacs. (I detest the word “sac,” but I will employ it here, where it is so perfectly accurate.)

What the actual furry, four-legged fornication?

Did people understand reproduction back then? Did they believe it was a mortal sin to remove a male’s virility? Was superstition involved? Laziness? Alcohol? I so wish I could ask my parents, but alas, they’re no longer available.

If you have any insight into the animal-control practices in Oklahoma City at the end of the Ford administration, please share. Otherwise, you can just let the absurdity of this tale wash over you like I did when it occurred to me a few years back.

Spay and neuter your pets, people. Completely.

OK, I promised the backstory on salacious. It comes from the Latin salax, meaning “lustful,” which comes from salire, “to leap.” As the wonderful Online Etymology Dictionary explains, salacious probably came from this concept: “‘fond of leaping,’ as in a male animal leaping on a female in sexual advances.”

I love Friday the 13th. I am not superstitious, so today is a reminder of the freedom I enjoy in that regard. 

I don’t suffer from paraskevidekatriaphobia (fear of Friday the 13th) or triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13). I’m comfortable walking under a ladder, opening an umbrella indoors, and using the number 666. I don't care if a black cat crosses my path. Spilled salt and broken mirrors only bother me because of the mess they produce.

As the brilliant Stevie Wonder sings:

When you believe in things
you don’t understand,
then you suffer.
Superstition ain’t the way.

It boggles my mind that multilevel buildings still mark their thirteenth floor as “14” or “M” (the thirteenth letter of the alphabet). Ships, I’ve heard, will also avoid naming the thirteenth deck by its proper name.

That isn’t to say I don’t have fears and worries--I have PLENTY of those. But I don’t believe that numbers and mundane activities have any effect on the trajectory of events. And for that, I am grateful.

But I understand that even we so-called rationalists are susceptible to superstitious impulses. For example, I’ve been intrigued for years by Bruce Hood’s serial killer’s sweater test and wonder how it would make me feel. (Would you wear a dry-cleaned sweater that had belonged to a serial killer?)

If you suffer from superstition, consider all the superstitions you *don’t* believe in and ask yourself why one superstition could possibly be more “real” than another.

• In Italy, the number 13 is lucky, but the number 17 is unlucky.
• In China, the number 4 is seen as unlucky because its pronunciation is similar to the word for death. Many buildings in China skip the fourth floor.
• In Japan, the number 4 is also seen as unlucky for the same reason, while the number 9 is taboo because it sounds similar to the Japanese word for torture or suffering.
• In some parts of Afghanistan, the number 39 is seen as cursed or shameful because of its association with pimping and prostitution.

And those are just a few number-centric superstitions. There are sooo many other kinds. In Turkey, you’re not supposed to chew gum after dark. In Lithuania, you shouldn’t whistle indoors. In India, you oughtn’t give or get a haircut on a Tuesday. And in the US, people knock on wood, pick up pennies, and break wishbones—all in the hopes of coaxing luck to their side and feeling like they have some control over this chaotic series of events we call life.

Whether you believe in superstitions or not, I do hope you’ll have a happy Friday the 13th, and that it will be, for whatever reason, filled with good fortune.

Freddy didn't start out as a dog. When we picked him up from Farfel's Farm & Rescue on July 16, 2020, he was nothing but a quivering, biting diarrhea-producer. (You can read about those early days, when his name was Nolan, here.)

He would barely come out of his crate. He would barely eat. Every toileting excursion (with a leash because we had no enclosed yard at the time) was either harrowing or exhausting—usually both. He would spin around and try to escape his harness. He would fearfully listen to every noise as if it were an approaching lion or bomb squad. He always kept his tail tucked firmly between his legs and would shrink away if you tried to touch him.

This went on for a long, long time. When Freddy finally dared to emerge from his crate, he wouldn't walk more than a few feet. He was terrified of hard floors, so he stayed on the carpet. Carpet that he soiled more times than I can count.

After something like a week, we saw his tail start to go up. After about a month, he was bold enough to go into our kitchen. The first time we heard him bark, we were utterly shocked.

Slowly, slowly, over the months, he continued to improve. He learned to sniff around the kitchen floor to find all the bits of food that seem to fall there. He learned the joys of a belly rub. He began to tolerate walks. Eventually, I was able to pick him up.

In March of 2021, we moved to a house with a fenced-in backyard, and that made a tremendous difference. Freddy started to explore. He began playing with the squirrels who love to taunt him. He ate things he shouldn't. He rolled around in substances he thought smelled beautiful. He got baths. 

Last month, he survived a night of boarding when we went out of town. He went to the vet and got immunizations without incident. And about a week ago, he got his final dose of Prozac, which he'd been on since the early days.

There remained just one more hurdle.

Both the condo we used to live in and the house we're in now have more than one story. But Freddy had never once made it up or down an entire flight of stairs.

Until this past Sunday, July 11, 2021, that is. On that day, my husband and I sat on the basement stairs together and encouraged Freddy to come down a few steps. Oh, but he wanted to. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Until later that night, when I was in the basement doing laundry, and I noticed that I had surprise company: a little thirteen-pound terrier mutt who had conquered his final limitation.

​Congratulations, Freddy! You were worth the wait.

Gravel. Goose down. Sawdust. Hay. These are just a few of the generic commodities you could stuff into a pillowcase, if you were so inclined. Any of it would become the pillowcase’s content.

When someone asks for “content” for a website or social media post, they’re essentially saying, “I don’t care what you put in there, just fill it up.” The gist is, “I need this empty space to stop being empty.”

Whoever came up with the term content sure didn’t appreciate the power of language. They didn’t recognize its ability to grab attention, stoke emotions, change minds, and incite action. The coiner of content wasn’t a writer—and probably not much of a reader. They surely won’t read this particular, erm…“content,” so I could probably take this opportunity to call them a troglodyte or doo-doo head.

But I’d never.
​
Now, as a copywriter, I should point out that originally, the term “copy” wasn’t all that great, either. The word hearkens back to the poor hunched, eye-strained scribes who spent their days and candlelit nights meticulously copying documents and books by hand. They had to write a copious amount of text. The root of both copy and copious is the Latin word copia, meaning abundance. It’s the same copia we see in our Thanksgiving-centric cornucopia—“horn of plenty.” (See below.)

But copywriters don’t copy. (The ethical ones don’t, anyway.) We write the words that get reproduced by printing presses or computer monitors. We create original text that’s worthy of wide distribution.

What we don’t write—or certainly shouldn’t—is mere fluff and filler. That would be no better than the common placeholder text “Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet….” (That wording is called “Greek,” but it isn’t Greek. It’s some slightly mangled Latin from a treatise published by Cicero in 45 BC.)

Whether copywriters are writing ads or emails, posters or packaging, blogs or scripts or tweets, our words are meant to have impact. The sentences we so carefully craft are not inert stuffing; they accomplish goals. They tell stories. Gain interest. Build trust. Make sales.

Good writing does not, as the name content implies, merely fill a void.

Almost any name would have been better than content. Fuel, maybe. Magic, or gold. Honestly, I’d settle for the simple term that evokes all of that power and value to me: just words.

But we could have come up with something else. Splendor? Sparkle? Voltage? Vim? How about lexi, which sounds like sexy but is rooted in the Greek lexikos, “pertaining to words”?

No matter what, whoever came up with content should have hired a writer.
​
What would you have called “content,” given the chance?

Someone from Mumbai just sent me a message on LinkedIn. He wanted to show me a writing error he’d spotted. The allegedly misused word was oversight.

Uh-oh, I thought: Janus word.

I read the problematic sentence, and sure enough—there was no error. Just English being wacky again.

I explained that oversight has two different meanings that are essentially opposites. You can make an oversight if you’re sloppy (overlooking something); conversely, if you’re extremely reliable, you might be granted the oversight (supervision) of an entire department or company. So you might say there’s a bad kind of oversight and a good one.

Thanks, English.

Similarly, in the springtime, you might seed a garden (place seeds in the soil). But after you grow a cucumber, you might want to seed it (remove the seeds) before you cut it up for your salad.

You might dust your tiramisu with cocoa powder (that is, add a dusting of it); you might also need to dust your furniture (remove the dust).

If you permit some sort of behavior, you sanction it. But if you don’t permit it, you might threaten sanctions as punishment.

It’s no wonder these types of words are called Janus words. The Roman god Janus had two faces, as in the statue above. (Side note—January is named after Janus, too.)

These words are also called contronyms and auto-antonyms and a few other terms you can learn about on Wikipedia and elsewhere.

If you peruse an article about Janus words, that means you examine it very attentively. But it also means that you just skim it in a cursory manner.

Do you have any favorite Janus words?

Apostrophes tolerate a lot of abuse. They get stuck into words where they don’t belong and left out of words where they do belong. They frequently get recruited for pluralizing words they have absolutely no business pluralizing.

Watch out: Apostrophes get their revenge for this mistreatment with an act of subversion I’ll call the smart quote flip.

​Let me explain.

So-called smart quotes are provided as an act of automatic typographic beautification by our electronic devices. The smart quotes feature…

But this automation tends to backfire when you type an apostrophe (which can also serve as a single quote) at the beginning of a word to signal that you’ve removed  letters or digits.

This will make some of your readers clench their teeth, which I’m sure you’d like to avoid. So I’m going to tell you how to discipline your errant apostrophes and ensure that they maintain their correct orientation.

Step 2: Once you’ve achieved a proper left-curving apostrophe, you can go back and insert the missing space.

But wait! What if you don’t have a preceding word to wrap your apostrophe around? This is where the following suggestion from reader Adrienne Charlton works well.

Solution #3: Type two apostrophes, then tidy up.

Just tap-tap that apostrophe key and then erase the first character.

Whichever approach you use, I do hope you’ll make the effort to keep every apostrophe in its correct orientation, showing the world its best side.

And now, go forth and apostrophize (real word) with confidence.

PS: Beyond preventing AFS (Apostrophe Flipping Syndrome), I encourage you to pay close attention to all your apostrophes, placing them only where they’re needed. If you’d like help with such endeavors, consider signing up for my weekly email. You’ll learn, among other things, when to use its and when to use it’s; when you want lets and when you want let’s.

Look, it was a long time ago. It was a decision made with my heart, not my head. And Lisa Perez didn't deserve them.

Here's what I remember.

I must have been something like six years old. Lisa Perez, who was about my age, had two adorable new puppies with her in front of her house—a black one and a beige one. Were the puppies in a box? Was Lisa holding them? I'm not sure. What I recall is that she claimed to have found them, and she told me in a sort of braggy way, "My mom says if I don't find who they belong to, I get to keep them."

Oh, no. That could not happen.

Lisa Perez shouldn't simply get to keep two tiny, out-of-the-blue, windfall puppies. And her mother probably hadn't actually given her permission, anyway. Lisa was a known teller of falsehoods. She had once pointed at some velvety moss growing on a rock and assured me it was gravity.

So, within a matter of seconds, I took action.

I started running down the street toward my house while calling, "Here, puppies! Here, puppies!"

And they ran after me! Clearly, they sensed who would make a better owner.

I don't know what ensued between the Perez parents and my own, if anything. All I know is that my Great Dog Robbery was successful, and I got to keep that pair of scruffy little curs.

My much older brothers named them Ralph and Floyd. But I often continued to refer to them as simply "puppies."​

​My career as a criminal was short, but it served me well.

Like just about everything else "in the time of COVID," adopting a dog is tricky. No more casually visiting shelters and interacting with a multitude of pups in person. You have to search online and make appointments. You have to meet dogs with half of your face covered and the smell of sanitizer on your hands.

And because everyone is stuck at home, a lot of people—particularly in Colorado—are adopting dogs right now. Inventory is tight. Dogs are flying off the proverbial shelves.

For example, a month or two ago, my husband (Bob) and I found a dog we liked down in Denver. Right before we got in the car for the long drive down (which would prove particularly trafficky and unpleasant that day), we called to make sure the dog was still available. He was. But by the time we arrived at the shelter, the dog was gone.

There were technical troubles with the application. There were emails and phone calls. But before too long ... success! We were deemed fit dog-parents. Before we could even meet this 14-pound creature (he was still in New Mexico), I paid $509.66, signed a contract, and began counting the minutes until we could pick him up.

We knew he'd be exhausted when we went to get him from Farfel's Farm & Rescue in Boulder. He would be coming straight from the vehicle transporting him and other dogs from Texas and New Mexico.

But things were worse than we'd anticipated.

"There's been a little incident," the woman behind the desk at Farfel's let us know when we arrived for our pickup appointment. The "incident" involved a frightened Nolan and a well-intentioned human trying to pick him up. And, well, a bite. (Dog-on-human, if you're wondering.)

OK. So now we were picking up a "dog that bites." But whatever— we were OK with that. (Just look at his picture.) It was decided that Nolan would stay in his dog crate so we could spare him the stress of taking him out. (And maybe spare ourselves from snapping jaws.)

The next few days were rough. The only way we could take Nolan outside for toileting was to carry him in the crate he stayed in all the time. He was very reluctant to leave it. Here he is on his second day with us: standing with three legs out, one leg in. He stayed in this position for a loooong time.

He developed a hardcore case of "stress colitis." That's fancy talk for explosive, unremitting, horrid-smelling diarrhea. So much of it. So often. Day after day. I've done so much carpet cleaning. (You know, I've never made a penny from affiliate links, but I will happily plant one right here for Nature's Miracle.)

This dog was such a basket case, in fact, I had to check with Farfel's Rescue about his backstory. They had described him as "a bit shy at first," but this he was beyond shy. He was a wreck. I texted the lovely woman from Farfel's and got the whole story.

When Bob learned this, he began indicating that he might not want to adopt this dog, after all. Nolan's brain probably isn't wired for human companionship, Bob conjectured.

But I knew we had a full two weeks to "try out" this dog. And I hoped that with enough affection, safety, peace, and consistency, he might begin to settle.

I wanted more than anything to avoid taking him to the vet for his gastrointestinal issues, because I knew it would only traumatize him more. Could strings be pulled with the Farfel's vets? Could we just give them a "sample" from Nolan (what a euphemism!) and get a prescription?

Nope.

​My sage friend Sara Webster told me what I didn't want to hear about the vet:

Sigh.

I bit that bullet and made an appointment.

By this point, Nolan was starting to make some progress. He'd graduated from his opaque Farfel's crate (see above) to a wire one that let him see out and get used to his surroundings. He'd even ventured out loose in the house a little. I hoped that the trauma of a car trip and vet visit wouldn't take him right back to square one.

On his sixth day with us, we took Nolan to the vet.

He survived.

He got meds.

​He got better.

And Bob's been won over. Nolan is a keeper! 🎉

I'm writing this on day ten. Nolan's belly is all better. He has an appetite. He has energy. He has a personality! Now all he needs is a new name.​ (Opinions of the following and suggestions welcome.)

​

I've said before that I am not a grammar Nazi. I have no interest in shaming anyone or trying to prove any kind of superiority. I promise.

I do believe, however, that many people—particularly businesspeople—want to write clearly and correctly, and I'm happy to help them achieve that goal.

So a while back, when a customer service rep typed "your welcome" to me, I shared the above screenshot on LinkedIn. I pointed out that it's an extremely common error and explained ​that when you say "you're welcome," you're creating a contraction of "you are welcome." I thought it might help some people better understand and remember the correct spelling.

(I did not​ write, or even imply, "Look how stupid this person is." I simply explained the correct spelling.)

I was surprised when I got this response from a "senior business development manager":

Huh.

I had to think about that just a bit.

While I was thinking, I did a bit of "research" (read: Googling) about this conviction that so long as we can understand each other, we shouldn't be fussing about apostrophes and spelling.

And I discovered that this senior business development manager's opinion was not unique. I found a meme that echoed his sentiment with just a touch more vulgarity:

I won't even comment on that missing apostrophe. I'll just address the question.

First—in my defense, I never correct people directly unless I know they want me to, and then I only do so privately.

But as for the "correctness" thing, I'll explain "why the fuck" it matters.

It matters because we live in a society. With conventions and expectations. And—occasionally—manners. We abide by certain rules to get along harmoniously. To establish credibility. To gain trust and respect. This is why you don't typically show up for a job interview barefoot or pick your nose when you're meeting your new neighbors. It's why you stand in line and wear pants in Starbucks. It's why your doctor doesn't buff his fingernails while he's listing your treatment options.

Also, writing is about connecting and communicating with our readers. We owe them the kindness of making our message as clear as possible. It's like holding a door open for them. It's polite. We're helping them along. We're putting in a good effort to save them trouble. We're showing them respect.

I admit that writing is a series of judgment calls, and I might write more casually on Twitter than I would on behalf of a higher education client. But fundamentally, I always try to think about the people reading my writing, and I try to treat them well.

So that's "the issue," and that's my position, for anyone who's wondering.

You're welcome.

Pandemic: bad.

Having to put down your beloved dog during a pandemic: extra bad.

Actually, I didn't have to do it myself—thank goodness. The wonderful, compassionate folks at Pets & Pals Veterinary Hospital in Lafayette, Colorado, have stayed open during this outbreak, and they handled the euthanasia. (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Below is a piece I wrote for my husband's dog photography website many years ago. I'll leave it here as a tribute to Little Guy, my funny, handsome, and tremendously comforting friend. ❤️