Bloody Well Write

We sent 2010 on its merry way into the annals of tricky years last night, and we woke up to a brand-spanking-new year: 2011. Well, hello there, friend! Do unto me as you’d like me to do unto you, yes?

(I’m sorry about that last bit. I really don’t like writing to a day or year or whatever as if it’s going to respond, but I’m working on very little sleep at the moment, so my judgment may not be up to snuff.)

So — I am thinking this morning that I haven’t written a Bloody Well Write entry for a few weeks due to familial adventures and holiday revelry, and I am wondering what the heck I should write about since my brain is still slightly fuzzy from last night’s don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out 2010 sendoff. (A full round of Liverpool Rummy ended sometime around 3 a.m. Oof.)

How about the whole uppercase vs. lowercase issue concerning the new year? OK, let’s do it.

Happy 2011!

The AP Stylebook folks have it plainly written out in their fabulous printed guide and website; they’ve even presented the answer via Twitter (I highly recommend following @APStylebook). So here it is:

It’s New Year’s, New Year’s Day and New Year’s Eve. But lowercase references to the year: See you in the new year.

Those guidelines make complete sense to me.

New Year’s, New Year’s Day and New Year’s Eve should be initial-capped (i.e., the first letter of each word is uppercase) because they are concerning a specific day or night that is recognized as a holiday the world over. And if we get a day or so off of work because of them, by golly, I think that they should get some extra respect.

The new year is a generic statement and doesn’t refer directly to any particular event or well-celebrated holiday, so it deserves its lowercase status: What I’m looking for in the new year is just around the bend — I don’t want to miss the opportunity.

Hey, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? Nope. So all that’s left to finish this post is this: Thanks a heap for reading my fun little grammar blog, and happy, healthy, humorous days to you in the year ahead.

Happy trails!

SAK

I recently (i.e., yesterday) was in the midst of sending a text message to a friend and wanted to convey how ecstatic I was about something that had occurred. How to do that accurately with the vast English vocabulary that exists? A variety of ways, I suppose. I could’ve typed:

• Woot!
• Woo-hoo!
• Yay!
• Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!
• 
• OMGISEAT (i.e., Oh, my goodness, I’m so excited about this)

But I chose to type Yippie!

Yeah, that doesn’t look right. How about Yippy?

Ugh. No way, no how.

"Yippee" has been around since the early 1900s and was a major player in a Schwinn Corvette ad (image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jbcurio/2624079681/sizes/m/in/photostream/)

So off I went, virtually, to OneLook.com — the ultimate in online definition look-ups. And it gave me this:

Yippee!

But of course! The double ee — what other way to end a word that imparts the same levels of Wheeeee? That excitement, that kidlike thrill? None, I’d venture to guess. So Yippee it is.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s a short, to-the-point entry for your post-July 4th enjoyment.

Alongside, adjacent and adjoining are all words that could be mistaken for synonyms, but they have distinct meanings:

• Alongside = in the parallel position or along the side (yeah, no kidding): Lance Armstrong rode alongside his teammate.
• Adjacent = next to but not necessarily connected with (those pesky prepositions are such detail-oriented suckers, aren’t they?): The bread store is adjacent to the bicycle shop, with an alley running between the two buildings.
• Adjoining = next to and connected to (they share a boundary): The dining room adjoins the kitchen via a swinging door and a pass-through.

Short and easy — can’t beat it.

Happy trails!

SAK

I was writing an article the other day and wanted to write about something being paid attention to in a timely and appropriate fashion and, for the life of me, I blanked on how to spell duly (as in duly noted). Is it dooly? Dooley? Duley? Duely?

Good grief. My mind must be slipping.

So I looked it up, as I always — and often — do when I’m not 100 percent sure of the spelling or definition. Good ol’ Merriam-Webster to the rescue! Dating back to the 14th century, this adverb means “in a due manner of time,” and properly, at that.

Dudley Do-Right always duly notes the evil doings of Snidely Whiplash

Another way to look at it is that the matter at hand will be receiving the attention and consideration it has due (although this sounds slightly you-OWE-me demanding to me, which doesn’t often sit well with some folks).

And its correct spelling? Duly.

Duly noted.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s something for you noncomputer geeks.

OK, maybe that’s an assumption. Maybe you’re knowledgeable in all things computer but don’t know this little gem. Or perhaps you barely know how to turn your PC on but know the exact meaning and spelling of this topic. Either way, you probably have run across this big boy at some point.

And I digress yet again. Here it is:

Captcha. Or more correctly, CAPTCHA.

What the … ?! Um-hmm. It’s a real word. Really, it’s a loose acronym for Competely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart (or so says Wikipedia).

It sounds like capture. It frustrates many an Internet scammer and frequent Web surfer alike. And it’s brilliant. So what is it?

Some CAPTCHAs are discernible, some not so much (photo: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a7/KCAPTCHA_with_crowded_symbols.gif)

It’s that box with the warped letters and numbers, the one that you’re supposed to look at and figure out what those twisted letters and numbers are and then type them into another box, with the hope that you’ve got them right. If so, you move on to the next screen, you pass go. If not, you try again or get blocked from further attempts.

Granted, there are a lot of technical details that go along with the CAPTCHA, but this isn’t the forum for those details. Just know that I learned something today and I hope that I have been able to share a little somethin’-somethin’ with a Bloody Well Write reader or two.

Now, go and try to decipher one of those suckers.

Happy trails!

SAK

Yet another good thing to come out of the AP Stylebook folks’ ponderings of the English language is their recent decision to, well, not make a decision.

This particular point revolves around state names in print. Should they be abbreviated when in conjunction with cities? Or should they be spelled out, creating havoc for newspapers and any other organization that deals with skinny columns or persnickety designers?

The AP Stylebook editors had recently stated that the new rule was to spell out state names. But according to its Twitter account (who would’ve thought that Twitter would be a viable news source?), the Associated Press editors are now “postponing plans to change its style on state abbreviations, pending further review.”

Check out the misspelling that runs across the bottom of this political ad — ouchie!

I, along with many, many, many other editors and writers, am happy that they are rethinking that change. Living in Kansas, I don’t have as many opportunities to write about Mississippi or Massachusetts, but spelling out those extra letters seems like overkill.

Any thoughts out there about this change (or this non-change)?

Happy trails!

SAK

One of the most popular demographic maps on the Net these days is one that shows how people across the United States refer to the carbonated drinks that help round out the ubiquitous value meals.

Soda.
Pop.
Soda pop.
Coke.
Cola.
Soft drink.
Fizzy drink.
Sugar water.
Tonic.
Dope.
Sludge.

Good grief. Those add up to a lot of descriptors. So what’s the lowdown?

Lucky for me, someone else did the research, polled the peeps and plotted the map; I get to just relay the info. So here are the results of who says what where (click on the map for a detailed view):

Pop vs. Soda Map (image: http://tastyresearch.files.wordpress.com/2006/10/popvssodamap.png)

Soda — derived from soda water (sodium bicarbonate with acid, which is where all the fizz comes from) — is the word of choice for those in the Northeast, Southwest and, oddly enough, the St. Louis area.

Pop — introduced in 1812 by English poet Robert Southey describing “a new manufactory of a nectar, between soda-water and ginger-beer, and called pop, because ‘pop goes the cork’ when it is drawn, and pop you would go off too, if you drank too much of it” — is predominant throughout the Midwest and Northwest, as well as Canada and Britain.

Coke — probably a popular moniker because of the Georgia-based Coca-Cola plant — rules the South.

Other terms are much less popular in the U.S., although some seem to have staying power, such as soft drink, which tends to be used on menus. Australians and New Zealanders prefer soft drink, as well, although lolly water sometimes wins over in Australia. Brits tend to order a pop or fizzy drink, while thirsty Scots order a ginger. Tonic gets the nod in the Northeast, especially in Massachusetts. Sludge wins out for those who think that all of the sodas and colas are a waste of money and terribly unhealthy, no matter where they live.

A cola, by the way, refers to the caramel color of the drink, so clear or other-colored drinks (e.g., Sprite, 7Up, Crush, Mt. Dew) aren’t technically colas.

The AP Stylebook (at least my 2007 copy, anyway) doesn’t mention the soda-vs.-pop controversy specifically, but it does describe several trademarked drinks as soft drinks, so that would be my suggestion if you’re writing or speaking publicly about such carbonated delights.

Me? I was born and raised in the Midwest, lived on the West Coast and in Colorado and adore New York and New England — and I tend to call the carbonated stuff coke.

But I prefer Diet Pepsi.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s an ideal example of the way I thought as a young girl growing up.

I thought, for sure, that if I believed in something “hard enough” — as in almost bugging my eyes out while holding my breath or just willing something to happen with my awesome, mind-bending power — I could make something become true. Granted, the thing I was usually willing with all my might was usually something that had been sitting on the proverbial fence, like would the folks let me have some saltwater taffy at the next rest stop? Or would my parents not care that much that my peas were hidden in the tiny mound of mashed potatoes still left on my plate? (I liked the potatoes, otherwise it would’ve been a massive mound of mashed potatoes hiding the rogue peas.) I thought that I could will my body into producing boys when the time came for children. I believed that I could will myself out of paralysis if the situation were to come up. Very Bionic Woman of me, I’d say.

Whoever did this doesn't know how to hide the peas very well (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinwhelan/420240541)

I’m getting to the point, believe it or not, so stick with me for just a little while longer.

Up until very recently, I thought that patronize was pronounced two ways because it had two meanings. It made perfect sense to me. It should be pronounced PAY-tron-ize if it’s supposed to mean that you are frequenting someone’s shop or buying a company’s stuff on a regular basis. Why? Because you are a patron (PAY-tron), so you are PAY-tron-iz-ing the shop.

It should be pronounced PAH-tron-ize (as in “pat”) if it’s supposed to mean that you are being condescending or are being treated in a condescending manner. Again, it made perfect sense to me. It’s condescending, as if someone were patting you on the head, saying, “Now, now, little Nellie, you just run along and play and the big girls will take care of everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” Patronizing should totally sound like getting patted on the head or, perhaps worse, doing the patting on someone else’s head. That’s linear logic.

But there’s this pesky little thing called research.

I checked into the pronunciation issue on the word. And you know what? I couldn’t will the two pronunciations to mean what I wanted them to mean. Even with all my logic and self-admittedly rock-star Internet research capabilities, I couldn’t come up with facts to back up my beliefs. So disconcerting.

But I’ve decided to bend my mind around the facts at hand. Here’s the real deal on the pronunciation of patronize:

• PAY-tron-ize = American English pronunciation
• PAH-tron-ize = British English pronunciation

That’s it. Just the bloody American vs. English thing again. Doesn’t matter which meaning you’re trying to convey — just which side of the pond you’re on. If you’re in the United States, use the PAY-tron-ize pronunciation; if your primary audience is Britain-bound, use PAH-tron-ize.

Maddening as all get-out. You say “to-MAY-to,” I say “to-MAH-to.” Thank goodness that life goes on.

By the way, I have two lovely, amazing girly-girls. No boys. Go figure.

Happy trails!

SAK

This little acronym gets thrown around a lot. Often, it is used (not utilized, ahem); sometimes, it is abused. Let’s investigate.

RSVP stands for repondez s’il vous plait, meaning respond if you please. It is the French way of someone politely asking you to contact him or her in order to indicate whether you will be able to attend whatever event he or she sent you an invitation for. NOTE: The acronym does not call for periods, despite what some calligraphers deem necessary for high style.

High-style RSVP, with unnecessary periods

Let’s say that your friend Frankie mailed you an invitation to her son’s birthday party. The invitation has RSVP printed in bold letters, with a telephone number and e-mail address below it. The polite (and expected) thing to do, as soon as you receive the invitation, is to check your availability and immediately call or e-mail Frankie to let her know that you can or can’t make it to the party. If you two regularly contact each other some other way, such as tweeting or texting, that would probably be fine, as long as you verify that she received your message; but since the invitation listed a telephone number and e-mail address, one of those options would have less chance of somehow not getting your RSVP to her. It’s your call — just verify.

The purpose of the RSVP, by the way, is to help the person hosting the event to plan said event more efficiently. If 30 invitations are sent out (with 30 invitees) with no RSVP, then the host is assuming that 30 guests will arrive; the host will have to prepare to adequately serve 30 guests, plus the host and any of the host’s helpers or family.

But if an RSVP is on the invitation, the host’s hope is that if not everyone can make it and if those folks notify the host by the requested date, the host will be able to adjust the event requirements in time to save money and supplies. So, for example, Frankie could plan on buying a smaller cake and fewer jugs of fruit punch because seven invited guests replied that they could not come to the party, while 23 guests replied that they would be there, with bells on. And in these interesting economic times (yeah, you try to avoid that phrase these days), saving a few bucks here and there is a very good thing.

So please, folks, follow RSVP protocol and RSVP on or before the deadline on the invitation. If you’re a friend of the host (and you presumably are, or else why are you getting an invitation?), help him or her out and say that you’ll either be there or you can’t come.

One other thing: Don’t write, “Please RSVP by xyz.” The please is redundant.
One last thing: Don’t write, “RSVP in advance.” Duh — you’re expecting them to tell you they’ll be there after the shindig’s over?

Happy trails!

SAK

Sometimes it may feel like a crapshoot, trying to decide which word correctly describes what’s going on, linguistically. Isn’t that “verbal agreement” really verbal, because the dude told you that he would come by the house and buy your old, electricity-stealing freezer? Or is it oral? How about both verbal and oral? Is it a binding agreement? And in what kind of world does it matter if it’s verbal or oral or whatnot?

Ah. Now, don’t get blasé on me. This is a grammar blog, if you’ll remember, so yes, it is vastly important whether it’s verbal or oral (or written).

What’s the difference?

Oral = the spoken word
Written = the committed-to-paper word
Verbal = the having-anything-to-do-with-words word

In its innate sense, verbal means that something has to do with words, no matter if they are written, printed, spoken or thought. Although it has come to stand for the spoken word in loose terms, oral still trumps verbal as referring to anything spoken. The AP Stylebook suggests using verbal “to compare words with some other form of communication.” Some examples for clarity:

Oral — He gave an oral promise to stop by and take the freezer off her hands.
Written — She had a written agreement drawn up that stated the time and date that the man would come take the freezer off her hands.
Verbal — Once she realized that the man was not coming for her freezer — and that he had never signed her written agreement — she cried elephant tears that were more telling of her mind-set than any verbal sentiment she could have expressed.

Oh, the humanity.

Happy trails!

SAK