Q: Do you know the word for the plastic thingy that’s used to close bread bags and sometimes bags of produce?

A: You won’t find it in standard dictionaries—at least not yet—but that thingy is usually called a “bread clip” (about 81,000 hits on Google). Other common names for it are “bread tag” (18,000 hits) and “bread tab” (9,700).

The Kwik Lok Corp., the company that gave us the bread clip, calls it an “all-plastic bag closure” (18,000 hits, but mostly on business websites). You’ll find a lot of other jargony names for it on commercial sites.

Floyd Paxton, the founder of Kwik Lok, is credited with inventing the notched plastic contraption for fastening all kinds of plastic bags.

In 1952, the company’s website says, Paxton “whittled the ‘first’ Kwik Lok out of a piece of plastic while flying home from a business trip to the Pacific Northwest.”

Paxton, a member of the John Birch Society’s national board of directors, failed in four attempts to win a Congressional seat from Washington State—twice representing the Conservative Party and twice as a Republican. He died of a heart attack in 1975.

If you haven’t had your fill of bread-related reading, check out a posting we wrote a few years ago about the expression “bigger than a breadbox.”

Descriptive phrases like “no larger than a breadbox” and “not much bigger than a breadbox” were known in the 1940s. But the question “Is it bigger than a breadbox?” was popularized by Steve Allen back when he was a panelist on the TV quiz show “What’s My Line” in the 1950s and ’60s.

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Q: My dictionary says “metrics” should be used with a singular verb, but a sentence like this doesn’t sound right to me: “The economic metrics doesn’t show improvement.” What do you say?

A: The plural noun “metrics” takes a singular verb when used in its traditional sense: the study of meter, especially in poetry.

The word has been used in this way since the late 19th century, according to citations in the Oxford English Dictionary, replacing a singular version dating from the 15th century.

But you’re asking about a much newer meaning of the plural “metrics” that showed up in the 1980s: measurements, figures, statistics, and so on. In this sense, the word “metrics” is used with a plural verb.

A somewhat similar singular version, “metric,” which dates from the 1930s, refers to a standard of measurement, a quantifiable criterion, or a set of such criteria. (A technical use of “metric” in mathematics and physics dates from the 1920s.)

The earliest written example in the OED of the newer sense of the plural “metrics” is from a 1988 report on avian ecology: “Prediction of bird-community metrics in urban woodlots.”

The Oxford editors describe this sense of the word as colloquial—that is, more appropriate to speech or casual writing than to formal writing.

The example above, however, sounds pretty formal to us. And we see a lot of “metrics” now in all kinds of writing—too much of it, in our opinion. It’s tiresome.

Standard dictionaries have entries for the singular “metric” in its statistical sense, but most of them don’t yet list the new measurement sense of the plural “metrics.”

However, the newer usage is alive and well among English speakers, especially those who like techie talk.

Here’s an example from an Aug. 31, 2012, article on ZDNet about the use of statistics to evaluate information technology employees says:

“Although appearing beneficial, metrics can drive shortsighted behaviors at the expense of innovation and real business value.”

As for the earlier poetic sense of “metrics,” the first citation in the OED is from an 1892 issue of the journal Modern Language Notes: “Metrics and aesthetics go hand in hand.”

And here’s a later citation, from a 1970 issue of the Journal of English and Germanic Philology: “Rules for syntax and metrics in Beowulf.”

We won’t get into all the technical uses of the nouns “metric” and “metrics,” or the use of “metric” as an adjective in the metric system of measurement.

We’ll also skip the suffixes “-metric” (relating to measurement) and “-metrics” (applying statistics to a field of study), though we recently discussed “sabermetrics” on the blog.

Ultimately, all these metrical words are derived from ancient Greek terms for meter or measure.

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Q: My husband and I were talking about the remainder of solid material after a pot of coffee has been consumed. I have always called it “coffee grinds,” but Starbucks offers free “coffee grounds” for your garden. So is it “grinds” or “grounds” or both?

A: Starbucks, in its Grounds for Your Garden program, offers gardeners free five-pound bags “of soil-enriching coffee grounds” to use in composting or as fertilizer.

Is Starbucks using the term correctly? Yes.

The noun “grounds” in its coffee sense refers to the gunk left over after making a pot of java.

The noun “grinds” refers to the different degrees of ground coffee; for example, there are fine, medium, and coarse “grinds.”

Although many people use “grinds” to mean “grounds,” we haven’t found any standard dictionary that includes this usage.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “grounds” in this sense as “the particles deposited by a liquid in the bottom of the vessel containing it; dregs, lees.”

The OED has published examples dating back to the 1300s for “grounds” used in reference to the sediment from beer, tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and other liquids.

Here’s an 1860 citation from All the Year Round, a literary magazine founded, owned, and edited by Charles Dickens: “Cups of smoking black coffee (half grounds as the Turks drink it).”

The use of the noun “grind” to refer to the way coffee beans are ground is a much more recent usage, dating back to the mid-19th century, according to OED citations.

The dictionary defines “grind” in this sense as “the size of the particles of a powder, e.g. ground coffee.”

Oxford’s earliest citation for this usage is from All About Coffee, a 1922 book by William Harrison Ukers: “A progressive coffee-packing house may have … a pulverizer for making a really fine grind.”

The noun “grind,” according to the Chambers Dictionary of Etymology, comes from the verb “grind,” which is ultimately derived from the Old English verbs grindan and forgrindan (“to destroy by crushing”).

The noun “ground,” though, is ultimately derived from the Old English noun grund (bottom, foundation, earth).

As we all know, the past tense of the verb “grind” is “ground.” But there’s an etymological as well as grammatical connection between the two words.

One early sense of  to “grind,” Chambers says,  is to put something in or on the “ground.”

Enough caffeinated language. We’re beginning to feel like Too Much Coffee Man!

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Q: As a copyeditor and English-Spanish translator, I’m amused that so many Americans think Mexicans fry their beans twice. How did the Spanish frijoles refritos come to be “refried beans” in English?

A: You’re right, of course, that “refried beans” is a poor translation of frijoles refritos. A better translation of the Mexican and Tex-Mex dish would be “well-fried beans.”

The beans (traditionally pinto beans) are typically boiled, then mashed, and finally fried to make a thick paste.

However, the mistake in translation is understandable since the prefix “re-“ has several different meanings in English and Spanish.

Some of the senses, such as “again” and “back,” are similar in both languages. For example, “reconstruct” and reconstruir mean to “build again” while “replace” and reponer can mean to “put back.”

But the prefix is often used in Spanish (though not in English) as an intensifier. So buscar can mean to “search” while rebuscar means to “search thoroughly.” And, as you know, frito means “fried” while refrito means “well-fried” or “very fried.”

When the verb “refry” first showed up in English in the mid-19th century, it literally meant to fry something twice, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

The OED’s earliest citation is from an 1860 book of recipes. After slicing and frying pork, the book says, you can “take out what you wish and re-fry suitable for eating.”

Interestingly, the OED’s first example of the adjective “refried” used in the Mexican sense comes from New England, not the Southwest.

Here’s the citation, from the Dec. 4, 1897, issue of the Lowell (Mass.) Sun: “If I had my choice I should prefer them [frijoles] ‘re-fritos’, or refried, with all the pork fat fried into them.”

However, the OED’s earliest published reference for the phrase “refried beans” is from a list of various dishes cited in the Aug 12, 1911, issue of the Brownsville (Texas) Herald.

Later in the 20th century, according to the OED, the word “refried” took on a more general sense: “Merely reused or carried over with little or no change or improvement; rehashed.”

A 1916 citation from the Classical Journal says the classics will be read long after popular works have been “rehashed, refried, re-served, and finally consigned to the literary swill-can.”

However, the rest of the OED cites for “refried” used this way are from the second half of the 20th century.

The 1968 song “Canned Heat,” for example, refers to “refried boogie,” and a 1977 book about Bob Marley and reggae refers to “re-fried oldies.”

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Q: I enjoyed the wordplay in Woe Is I, but I was offended by this example in the chapter on plurals: “Romeos who wear tattoos and invite bimbos to their studios to see their portfolios are likely to be gigolos.” I’m not a prude, but I found the word “bimbo” to be inappropriate in a book professing to teach better English. I most likely will not let my 10-year-old daughter use this book as a reference.

A: We’re sorry that you were offended by the word “bimbo” in the “Plurals Before Swine” chapter of Pat’s grammar and usage book Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English.

But we’re surprised by your objection to “bimbo.” We looked it up in eight standard dictionaries and none of them label it offensive. It’s usually listed as slang but some dictionaries consider it standard English.

Although most of the dictionaries say a “bimbo” can be a man or a woman, it’s generally defined as an attractive, empty-headed woman. A couple of references add that the woman is loose or sexy.

Pat thought “bimbo” to be a mild, rather quaint term. It comes from the Italian word for “baby” (bimbo), and in its sexiest sense is roughly analogous to masculine terms like “Romeo” and “gigolo,” which are also used in the example that bothers you.

Interestingly, the word was originally applied to men, not women, when it entered English in the early 20th century.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the word in its original sense this way: “A fellow, chap; usu. contemptuous.”

The earliest citation in the OED for this sense is from the November 1919 issue of the American Magazine: “Nothing but the most heroic measures will save the poor bimbo.”

Here’s a more recent masculine example, from Full Moon (1947), one of the few P. G. Wodehouse novels we haven’t read: “Bimbos who went about the place making passes at innocent girls after discarding their wives.”

Although the word “bimbo” has sometimes been used to mean a prostitute, the OED says it’s usually used now as a derogatory term for “a young woman considered to be sexually attractive but of limited intelligence.”

Here’s an example from The Whore of Mensa, a short story in Woody Allen’s 1976 collection Without Feathers: “Sure, a guy can meet all the bimbos he wants. But the really brainy women—they’re not so easy to find.”

By the way, the “whore” in that title is actually a grad student who charges to discuss Milton and Melville, not to have sex. If a client wants something kinkier, she’ll talk about Noam Chomsky and get him a picture of Dwight Macdonald.

Again, we’re sorry you found that example in Woe Is I offensive. As for your 10-year-old daughter, do you know that Pat has written a version of Woe Is I for children? It’s called Woe Is I Jr. No, it doesn’t mention Chomsky, but you can find a few boogers in it.

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Q: Years ago I was taught that it is not necessary to use “and/or” because “and” is implicit in “or.” Yet I find that very sophisticated professionals use it regularly. I appreciate any insight that you would lend.

A: Sorry, but you were taught wrong: “and” is not implicit in “or.”

Although both conjunctions are used in many different ways, “and” usually combines words, phrases, clauses, and sentences, while “or” usually sets them apart.

We don’t like the term “and/or” and generally don’t use it in our writing. We prefer less stilted ways of connecting terms when one or the other or both could do.

We’ve had several items on the blog about “and/or,” including a posting last year, but your question prompts us to give the subject another look.

Pat, in her grammar and usage book Woe Is I, describes the term as “an ugly wrinkle.” She suggests that a stuffy sentence such as “Tubby, would you like apple pie and/or ice cream?” would be better as “Tubby, would you like apple pie, ice cream, or both?”

But this is a matter of style, not grammar or usage. And stuffed shirts have a right to use stuffy language.

A usage note in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (5th ed.) puts it this way: “And/or is widely used in legal and business writing. Its use in general writing to mean ‘one or the other or both’ is acceptable but often sounds stilted.”

Despite our stylistic objections, the formula “and/or” has been used in English since the mid-19th century.

The earliest citation in the Oxford English Dictionary, from an 1855 report in a law journal, refers to a cargo of “sugar, molasses, and/or other lawful produce.”

Although some citations use “and/or” in a legal or business sense, there are several exceptions, including this one (minus the slash) from Nigella Lawson’s 1999 book How to Eat: “Grate in a cooking apple and or a quince.”

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Q: In a new book I’m reading, the word “lede” is used twice to indicate the main idea being hidden (as in, “burying the lede”). Is this newspaper jargon, or should the main story on a page or an important fact be referred to as the “lead”?

A: The word “lede” (it rhymes with “speed”) is newspaper shop talk for the beginning of an article.

Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) defines it as “the introductory section of a news story that is intended to entice the reader to read the full story.”

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (5th ed.) says “lede” is an “obsolete spelling of LEAD, revived in modern journalism to distinguish the word from LEAD, strip of metal separating lines of type.”

Merriam-Webster’s dates the usage to 1947, but doesn’t include a citation from that year. The earliest example in the Oxford English Dictionary appeared four years later:

“Lead (Lede)—Opening of a news story, ordinarily summarizing the rest of it” (Pampa [Texas] Daily News, June 21, 1951).

As for the expression “burying the lede,” it refers to the supposed journalistic sin of not mentioning the most important or interesting part of a story in the opening paragraph.

In journalistic jargon, the term “lead” (though not “lede”) can also refer to the main story or a tip to a story that needs to be developed.

The noun “lead” was originally spelled “lede” when it entered English some time before 1300 with the meaning of “leading, direction, guidance,” according to the OED. The “lead” spelling showed up in the 1600s.

An earlier noun “lede” was used in Anglo-Saxon days and referred to a people, a nation, or a race,  but Oxford says this sense is now obsolete. At around the same time, the use of “lead” (rhymes with “sped”) for the base metal showed up in Old English.

Getting back to journalism, here’s an excerpt from A Field Guide for Science Writers (1998), by Deborah Blum and Mary Knudson:

“The lead (or lede if you were born before 1950) performs several important tasks. It sets the stage and tone, identifies the general nature of the topic, attempts to convey the message that something interesting will follow, and welcomes the reader to read on in a nonthreatening way.”

As two old newspaper hands who were born before 1950 (Pat barely), we’ve buried that definition of “lede.”

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Q: My father-in-law is from West Virginia and uses language in a way I hadn’t heard before. He switches around the parts of compound words, so “whoever,” “whatever,” “whichever,” and “wherever” become “everwho,” “everwhat,” “everwhich,” and “everwhere.” He also says “Ain’t this a rotter?” to show surprise or displeasure.

A: The Dictionary of American Regional English describes those four reversed compounds as characteristic of speech in southern Appalachia or the Ozarks.

In DARE’s entry for reversed compounds, it lists two other examples, “everhow” and “everwhen,” but doesn’t link them to specific regions.

The linguist Michael Montgomery has also described this usage as characteristic of southern Appalachian speech.

In a paper, “The Scotch-Irish Element in Appalachian English,” he notes the use of “everwhat,” “everwhich,” and “everwho,” and gives this example: “Everwho was here sure left in a hurry.”

However, Montgomery, a distinguished professor emeritus at the University of South Carolina, says the origin of the usage is unknown. (Some other regional usages cited in his paper are described as Scotch Irish, Southern British, or General British.)

Dialect Notes, Volume IV,  a 1917 publication of the American Dialect Society, includes a report from a contributor, L. R. Dingus, on the usage in southwestern Virginia.

“Compound words sometimes exchange places,” Dingus writes, citing “everwho,”  “everwhat,” “everwhich,” and “everwhere.”

You also mentioned your father-in-law’s use of the expression “Ain’t this a rotter?” to express surprise or displeasure.

The word “rotter” has been around for hundreds of years, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

When it first showed up in the 1500s, the OED says, it meant “something which causes rot, decay, or an otherwise impaired condition in another thing.”

By the 1600s, it was being used figuratively. Here’s an example from Richard Fanshawe’s 1647 translation of Il Pastor Fido, an Italian play by Giambattista Guarini: “Rotter of soul and body, enemie of reason.”

In the 19th century, the OED says, the word came to be used colloquially in this sense: “A person who is morally corrupt; a dishonest, nasty, or worthless person; a scoundrel. Now freq. humorous or somewhat arch.”

The dictionary describes this usage as chiefly British and Australian, but perhaps it made its way to Appalachia on the tongues of British immigrants.

However, the OED doesn’t have any example of “rotter” used to express surprise or displeasure. And we can’t find an example in DARE of the word used in this sense. So perhaps it’s just a quirk of your father-in-law.

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Q: Whence comes the ubiquitous redundancy “the reason why”? Isn’t “reason” itself sufficient to the task?

A: Yes, “reason” is sufficient to the task, but we see nothing wrong with “reason why.” In fact, we sometimes use the phrase on our blog. And we’re not alone in this.

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage uses it as well, as when the editors reach this conclusion on an unrelated matter: “There is no reason why you need to avoid this usage.”

We’ve written about this before on our blog. As the earlier post points out, the words “reason” and “why” here aren’t redundant.

In this expression, “why” is a conjunction and means “for which” or “on account of which,” according to Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.).

The noun “reason” in this usage means “cause” or “the thing that makes some fact intelligible,” Merriam-Webster’s says.

“Reason” in this sense, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is commonly used with “why,” “that,” “for,” or an infinitive. So all of these uses are correct:

(1) “The reason we left early …”

(2) “The reason why we left early …”

(3) “The reason that we left early …”

(4) “Our reason for leaving early …”

(5) “The reason to leave early …”

In obsolete usages, Oxford says, “reason” was also accompanied by “wherefore” and “of.”

The OED has examples of “reason why” dating back hundreds of years.

Here, for instance, is a line from William Caxton’s 1484 translation of a fable from Aesop: “The wulf on a daye came to the dogge and demaunded of hym the rayson why he was soo lene.”

And here’s one from John Bellenden’s 1533 translation of Livy’s History of Rome: “He couth fynd na resson quhy he aucht nocht to helpe the romane pepill to recovir the land.” (“He could find no reason why he ought not to help the Roman people to recover the land.”)

And you’ve probably heard the expression “to know the reason why” (as in “I’ll have her or know the reason why!”). The OED dates that usage from 1719.

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Q: I must protest the use of the word “legitimize.” I know, I’m a few decades too late, but I mourn the loss of the verb “legitimate.” If we must have an “-ize” verb (and I would rather not), I have mustered the temerity to offer my own substitute: “legitimatize.”

A: The verb “legitimate” (to make legitimate) is indeed becoming scarce in common usage, but there’s a good reason.

The verb and the adjective “legitimate” are easy to tell apart in speech because the last syllable is pronounced differently (MATE for the verb, MUT for the adjective). But in writing, the two are identical and can be told apart only from the context.

In our opinion, the development of “legitimize” was inevitable, and we see no reason to avoid it. While many people complain about new words ending with “ize,” there’s nothing unusual about this verb-forming suffix.

We agree that some “-ize” verbs are annoying and deserve to die a natural death (“credibilize” and “respectabilize” spring to mind).

But this way of forming new verbs, which was handed down from the Greeks, has given us valuable words too, words that will last, like “baptize,” “jeopardize,” “mesmerize,” “organize,” “civilize,” and scores of others.

Our vocabulary would shrink considerably if we tried to avoid all verbs with the “-ize” ending or its chiefly British sibling
“-ise.”

By the way, the “-ize” ending is the more traditional, as we pointed out in a posting in 2011. We also wrote about these suffixes in 2012.

Now, let’s take a closer look at “legitimize” and “legitimatize.”

The verb you protest, “legitimize,” and the substitute you suggest, “legitimatize,” came into the language in the 18th and 19th centuries, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

“Legitimatize,” formed from the adjective “legitimate” plus the suffix, was first recorded in 1791, the OED says. The shorter (and, we think, the preferable) “legitimize” followed in 1848.

As for the two words written as “legitimate,” the adjective came first. Its source is the medieval Latin word legitimatus, past participle of legitimare (to make lawful).

An early form of the adjective, “legitime,” was recorded in 1393, but is now obsolete, the OED says.

The modern form of the word, according to the Chambers Dictionary of Etymology, showed up sometime before 1464 (as “legitimat”). It originally meant “lawfully begotten” and later “lawful,” Chambers says.

The verb “legitimate” was first recorded in 1530, according to the OED, and was modeled after the adjective. Its meaning, the OED says, is “to render lawful or legal,” or “to authorize by legal enactment.”

You didn’t ask, but in case you’re interested in “legit,” a 19th-century coinage, we had a posting on the subject a couple of years ago.

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Q: I recently asked a friend to give me the benefit of his thoughts about something. He responded thusly: “Asking for the benefit of my thoughts is a bit presumptuous—my wife can confirm that using the word ‘benefit’ in connection with my thoughts is an abuse of the English language!” I believe his response was meant to be humorous, but perhaps there is an abuse of the language here. What think ye?

A: We think your friend was joking. He meant that in asking for the benefit of his thoughts, you were presuming they’d be of value—that is, beneficial. And according to his wife, that might be presuming too much!

But asking for the “benefit” of someone’s thoughts is a little more subtle than baldly asking for something of value. It’s a polite way to ask for something the speaker thinks may be to his advantage—almost like asking him a favor.

Here’s a little history.

When “benefit” entered English in the late 14th century, it meant a good deed or a kindness.

Its journey into the language began with Latin (benefactum, a good deed or, literally, a thing well done), then led into Old French (bienfait) and Anglo-Norman (benfet).

When it entered English in the late 1300s, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, “benefit” had two meanings: (1) a good deed or something well done; (2) a kindness, favor, or gift.

The earliest examples of these senses of the word—both considered obsolete or archaic today—are from a single work, William Langland’s Piers Plowman (1377).

The “good deed” sense of the word survived into the 19th century. The OED’s final entry for the word used in this sense is from Walter Savage Landor, who wrote in 1811, “Man’s only relics are his benefits.”

The other early meaning—the “kindness” or “favor” sense of the word—survived into the 17th century.

Shakespeare uses “benefit” this way in As You Like It (circa 1600), where Rosalind says of Fortune that “her benefits are mightily misplaced.”

Today, people use “benefit” to mean advantage, profit, or good, a sense that came along in the early 1500s, though English writers sometimes used the Old French word in that sense in the 1300s and 1400s.

This is the meaning of the word “benefit” that’s used in certain stock expressions, including the one you wrote us about.

When people ask you for “the benefit of your thoughts (or expertise, etc.),” they’re asking to take advantage of your knowledge, or to avail themselves of it.

As the OED explains it, “for the benefit of” in this case means “for the advantage of.”

But we can’t help thinking that something of the old “kindness” meaning clings to the expression. People who ask for “the benefit of your thoughts” are saying in effect that you would be doing them a kindness by sharing those thoughts.

Another such stock expression is “the benefit of the doubt.” This originally meant giving a verdict of “not guilty” when the evidence against an accused person was uncertain.

Today, the expression is used in a wider sense. To give someone “the benefit of the doubt” means “to incline to the more favourable or kindly decision, estimate, or the like,” the OED says.

The sense of “benefit” meaning some kind of perk or financial assistance—like medical or pension benefits—came along in the late 19th century. And the phrases “fringe benefit” and “benefit package” were coined in the mid-20th century.

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Q: I’ve been seeing a lot of people use “wow” to preface a critical or sarcastic comment: “Wow, yet another moronic statement,” or “Wow, you must think the world is flat.” What is “wow” supposed to be? An expression of disbelief? Surprise? Awe? I can’t imagine that people in the 19th century used it (wrong I could be, though).

A: Yes, wrong you could be. The interjection “wow” first showed up in the early 1500s, though it was primarily used then in Scottish English.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the usage in its early sense this way: “An exclamation, variously expressing aversion, surprise or admiration, sorrow or commiseration, or mere asseveration.” Touches all the bases, doesn’t it?

The first published reference in the OED is from Gavin Douglas’s 1513 translation of Virgil’s Aeneid: “Out on thir wanderand spiritis, wow! thow cryis.”

By the late 1800s, according to Oxford, the interjection was in “general use” among English speakers. Now, it’s chiefly used for “expressing astonishment or admiration.”

The dictionary’s first citation for this newer usage is from Nada the Lily, an 1892 historical novel by H. Rider Haggard: “Wow! my father, of those two regiments not one escaped.”

Here’s a more recent citation, from R. B. Dominic’s novel The Attending Physician (1980): “ ‘Wow!’ Mike Isham whistled reverently. ‘No wonder she was willing to murder.’ ” (R. B. Dominic is a pen name used by the economists Mary Jane Latsis and Martha Henissart. Emma Lathen is another of their pen names.)

The noun “wow” (a sensational success), the adjective “wow” (exciting, delightful), and the exclamation “wowey!” (later “wowee!”) all showed up in the early 1920s, according to OED citations.

Why “wow”? The OED doesn’t exactly say, but it notes the similarity with the interjection “vow” (used in Scottish English to emphasize a statement). Oxford says this use of  “vow” is probably a clipped version of “I vow.”

You ask about the use of “wow” in critical or sarcastic statements online. We’ve noticed it too, but we haven’t seen this sense of the word in standard dictionaries.

We’ll end with a hyphenated version of “wowee” from a 1963 issue of Mad Magazine: “Boy! Wow-wee! That’s quite an exciting evening line-up!”

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Q: Any comments on “quash” vs. “squash”? I rarely hear anyone use the former. The latter sounds gauche to me, even absurd, in a sentence like “My boss squashed the rumor.” I would, however, accept “The landlady squashed the roomer.”

A: You’ve got good timing. When your question landed in our inbox, Pat was reading The Old Bank House, a 1947 novel by Angela Thirkell, and had just come across this sentence about a clergyman’s desire to quash a rumor:

“Though why quashed, he said to his wife, and not squashed, he did not know.”

Well, we would use the verb “quash” for the crushing of something in a nonphysical sense (say, a rebellion or a rumor) and “squash” for when the object is physically crushed (like a beer can or a bug).

However, both of these verbs were used for hundreds of years to refer to physical and nonphysical crushing, though “quash” seems to have lost its physical sense in contemporary usage.

We’ve checked a half-dozen standard dictionaries and most of them say “squash” can be used for crushing a box, a rebellion, a rumor, or a heckler.

But most of them say “quash” can be used in only two senses: (1) to set aside a legal ruling, and (2) to suppress or silence something, like an uprising or a rumor.

As we’ve said, we prefer to use “squash” for crushing boxes, not rebellions, but we could find only one usage guide that backs us.

Garner’s Modern American Usage (3rd ed.) says “squash” means just one thing: to flatten something by crushing or squeezing.

We had a brief posting a few years ago on “quash” and “squash,” but your question gives us a chance to update and expand on what we said then about these squishy words.

Both “quash” and “squash” are quite old and share the same Latin ancestor, though “quash” is far the older, according to published references in the Oxford English Dictionary.

The OED’s earliest citation for “quash,” a reference to quashing a woman’s lust, comes from The Owl and the Nightingale (circa 1275), one of the first long comic poems in English.

At that time, Oxford says, the verb meant “To bring to nothing; to crush; to destroy; to put down or suppress completely; to stifle (esp. a feeling, idea, scheme, undertaking, proceeding, etc.).”

English adapted “quash” from Anglo-Norman, according to John Ayto’s Dictionary of Word Origins, but the verb ultimately comes from the Latin quatere (to shake) and quassare (to shake to pieces, to break).

In the 1300s, the OED says, “quash” took on a physical sense: “To break in pieces; to smash. Also: to crush, squeeze, squash.”

Here’s an example from a 1770 ecclesiastical history by John Foxe: “A mighty stone … hable to haue quashed him in peeces.”

As for the verb “squash,” according to OED citations, it first showed up in a 1565 English translation of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People: “Ye must, I saye, teare them, rent them, and squashe them to peeces.”

Ayto’s etymological dictionary says “squash” ultimately comes from exquassare, a popular Latin derivative of quassare, one of the ancestors of “quash.”

When “squash” entered English in the 16th century, according to the OED, it meant to “squeeze, press, or crush into a flat mass or pulp; to beat to, or dash in, pieces, etc.”

But by the 1700s, Oxford says, it had taken on its nonphysical senses: “To quash; to suppress or put down; to undo or destroy in a complete or summary manner.”

Here’s an example from The Orators, a comedy by Samuel Foote written sometime before 1777: “I therefore, humbly move to squash this indictment.”

And here’s one from The Water-Babies, an 1863 children’s story by Charles Kingsley: “Between crinolines and theories, some of us would get squashed.”

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Q: Is “swoft” a word? I’ve been told it’s an old word for a liar, but I can’t find it in my dictionary.

A: “Swoft” is a very rare word, but it isn’t about lying. It’s about dirt and dust bunnies. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “swoft” as “sweepings.”

This isn’t a word you should expect to run into every day. The OED has only a single example of its use in writing, one that appeared in Middle English around the year 1250.

But the writers of the TV series House MD may have unwittingly spread the impression that “swoft” means “liar.” Here’s how the word was swoft-boated.

In an episode that first aired in March 2010, Dr. Gregory House (played by Hugh Laurie) and two other doctors go speed-dating.

House is intrigued when he meets a woman who’s holding a newspaper that’s folded to reveal a partly finished crossword puzzle.

But in glancing at the paper, he realizes it’s only a prop, because the puzzle has been filled in with fake words like “swoft.”

When he calls the woman’s bluff, he offers a very pointed, impromptu definition of the made-up “swoft”—a manipulative liar.

So much for invention. Getting back to the real “swoft,” this rare noun apparently came from a now obsolete verb, “swope,” meaning sweep.

The verb was first recorded in Old English sometime before the year 1000 and has relatives in other old Germanic languages, the OED says.

A related adjective, “swopen,” meant “swept,” as in this example from the 1300s: “Vppon the swpen grounde eche nygt he lay.” (“Upon the swopen ground each night he lay.”)

As you probably suspect, the old verb “swope” was eventually replaced by “sweep,” a word that began appearing sometime before 1300 and has been around ever since, despite the invention of the vacuum cleaner.

The people (often small boys) who made a living by cleaning soot from chimneys were first referred to in the 1500s as “chimney sweepers” (later “chimney sweeps” or just “sweeps”).

In the mid-19th century, “sweep” became a term of contempt for a disreputable person, as in “a drunken sweep” or “you dirty sweep.”

A disreputable person might be a liar, of course. But at least in common usage, a liar hasn’t yet become a “swoft.”

But stay tuned. Perhaps House’s invention will catch on. Stranger things have happened.

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Q: I often hear people (including me) use “anxious” in a sentence like “I’m anxious to get started.” My dad wishes they would say, “I’m eager to get started,” as there is no apparent anxiety present. Is he right?

A: Language mavens are divided over whether “anxious” should be used for “eager” in a sentence like that one.

For example, the Usage Panel that advises The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language has been divided almost evenly over whether this sentence is legit: “We are anxious to see the new show of British sculpture at the museum.” (Fifty-two percent reject the usage.)

In fact, we’re divided too. Stewart thinks it’s OK to use the adjective “anxious” to mean very eager in that American Heritage example, but Pat gives the sentence a thumbs down.

The naysayers believe “anxious” should be used for “eager” only when the subject is clearly worried or uneasy about what follows, as in this American Heritage example: “We are anxious to see the strike settled soon.”

The editors of the American Heritage fifth edition note that “anxious” has a long history as a synonym for “eager,” but add that resistance to the usage “remains strong” despite the fact that “many people are willing to accept it.”

Interestingly, the prohibition against using “anxious” to mean “eager” is relatively new.

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage says the first language guide to mention it was Ambrose Bierce’s Write it Right (1909).

Bierce was especially bugged by what he considered the unidiomatic use of “anxious” followed by an infinitive phrase, as in your example as well as the two in American Heritage.  

Another language writer, Alfred Ayres, had criticized the usage earlier in “A Plea for Cultivating the English Language,” a 1901 article in Harper’s Weekly. Ayres was commenting on an anecdote cited in the Chattanooga (Tenn.) Times.

“From its modest beginnings in the Ayres anecdote and Bierce’s prescription,” the Merriam-Webster’s usage guide says, “the anxious-eager question rapidly became a shibboleth in American usage.”

The M-W editors note that “anxious/eager is not a shibboleth in British English,” perhaps because Henry Fowler, the language maven’s language maven, “pooh-poohed the whole matter” in A Dictionary of Modern English Usage (1926).

R. W. Burchfield, writing in the revised third edition of Fowler’s usage guide, suggests that the taboo against using “anxious” to mean “eager” may reflect the widespread use of psychiatric language in the 20th century.

He notes that “anxiety” originally meant merely “uneasiness of mind” when it entered English around 1525 in the works of Thomas More.

“In the 20c.,” Burchfield writes, “psychiatric terms like anxiety neurosis have strengthened the belief that a morbid state of mind lies behind the words anxiety and anxious.”

Although “anxious” did have its roots in “anxiety,” he says, “in the 18c., the adjective began to turn on its axis and came also to mean ‘full of desire and endeavour; earnestly desirous (to bring about some purpose).’ ”

The Oxford English Dictionary’s earliest published reference for this sense of “anxious” is from “The Grave,” a 1743 poem by Robert Blair: “The gentle Heart Anxious to please.”

The OED’s next citation is from a 1794 letter by Lord Nelson: “The General seems as anxious as any of us to expedite the fall of the place.”

The Merriam-Webster’s usage manual points out that respected writers have been using “anxious” in the sense of “eager” ever since, sometimes suggesting a sense of worry and sometimes not.

Here are just a few of the usage guide’s many examples of the phrases “anxious to,” “anxious about,” “anxious for,” and “anxious that” used in this sense:

“I feel no hesitation in saying, I was more anxious to hear your critique, however severe, than the praises of the million” (Lord Byron, in a March 6, 1807, letter).

“Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe” (Jane Austen, in Mansfield Park, 1814).

“Constance insisted, anxious that he should live up to his reputation for Sophia’s benefit” (Arnold Bennett, in The Old Wives’ Tale, 1908).

“All seemed pleased with the performance and anxious for another of the same sort” (Kingsley Amis, in Lucky Jim, 1954).

After two pages of examples, Merriam-Webster’s concludes: “Anyone who says that careful writers do not use anxious in its ‘eager’ sense has simply not examined the available evidence.”

So is it OK for you to use “anxious” in the sense of “eager”?

Well, the etymological evidence supports this usage, but a lot of language types disagree. Go ahead and use it if you want, but be aware that you’ll bug some sticklers—including your dad!

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Q: I was taught that “Aborigine” is a noun and “Aboriginal” is an adjective. I’d refer to one of the indigenous people of Australia as “an Aborigine” or “an Aboriginal person.” It irks me when people refer to “an Aboriginal” or “an Australian Aboriginal.” Where do you stand on these terms?

A: We’re a house divided. Pat uses “Aborigines” as a noun for the indigenous people of Australia and “aboriginals” as a noun for other indigenous people. Stewart uses “Aborigines” and “aborigines” in those contexts.

However, this is a matter of personal taste. There’s no right or wrong here.

We checked seven standard dictionaries in the US and the UK, and all but one say indigenous people can be referred to as either “aborigines” or “aboriginals.”  In reference to Australia, the terms are usually capitalized.

“Aborigines,” the older English noun, comes directly from the Latin aborigines, a plural noun for the pre-Roman inhabitants of Italy, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. In Latin, ab origine means from the beginning.

When the word entered English in the early 1500s, it was only plural and referred only to the original inhabitants of Latium, the Italian region that includes Rome.

But by the early 1600s, according to the OED, the term was being used more loosely to refer to “the earliest known inhabitants of a particular country.”

The word “aboriginal,” which entered English as an adjective in the mid-1600s, initially referred to the earliest people, plants, or animals in an area.

When the term was first used as a noun in the mid-1700s, the OED says, it referred to “an original or earliest inhabitant of a land, esp. as distinguished from a later settler.”

In the early 1800s, according to Oxford citations, the two nouns were first used to describe the indigenous people of Australia.

Here’s an 1803 citation for “Aborigines” from the Australian National Dictionary: “Nature not having furnished it with food sufficient to maintain any other race of men than the Aborigines.”

And here’s an 1828 citation for “Aboriginal” from the Hobart Town Courier: “Nothing herein contained shall authorize … any Settler … to make use of force (except for necessary self-defence) against any Aboriginal.”

It wasn’t until the 19th century, according to the OED, that “the singular form aborigine was formed from the English plural.”

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(An updated and expanded post about “cousin,” “niece,” and “nephew” appeared on Nov. 9, 2018.)

Q: I teach English at a university in New Jersey. A student of mine insists that the son of a cousin is a cousin too. To me, the son of a cousin is a nephew, since he’s one generation down in the family tree. Could you please shed some light on this word?

A: In modern English, a cousin’s child is referred to as a first cousin once removed or a second cousin. Today such a child wouldn’t be called a niece or nephew.

Although many people refer loosely to a second cousin as simply a “cousin,” the principal meaning of “cousin” is a son or daughter of an aunt or uncle.

Cousinhood in all its ramifications is an interesting subject, though for many of us it doesn’t come up much in conversation except around Thanksgiving.

In medieval times, “cousin” didn’t have the narrow meaning it has now. In olden days, it could mean almost any relative other than a sibling or parent.

The word came into English sometime during the 1200s from the Old French cosin. But its ultimate source is the Latin word consobrinus, which the Chambers Dictionary of Etymology defines as “mother’s sister’s child.”

When “cousin” first showed up in English, the Oxford English Dictionary explains, it was “a collateral relative more distant than a brother or sister.” It could also mean simply “a kinsman or kinswoman, a relative.”

Consequently, the OED adds, in those days “cousin” was “very frequently applied to a nephew or niece.”

Shakespeare, for example, used “cousin” to mean a nephew in Much Ado About Nothing (1600), as when Leonato says to his brother Antonio: “How now brother, where is my cosen your sonne.”

But those uses of “cousin” are now considered obsolete, the OED says. So today, you wouldn’t refer to a niece or nephew as a “cousin.”

We can’t tell you when that old sense of “cousin” died out, but the last citation given in the OED is dated 1747.

Another sense of the word that’s obsolete today was used in legal writing from the 1400s into the 1600s, according to published references in the OED.

In this legal usage, a “cousin” was one’s next of kin, “including direct ancestors and descendants more remote than parents and children,” Oxford says.

Here’s an example the OED gives from an Act of Parliament dated 1503: ““Robert Brews Squyer Cosyn and heire unto Sir Gilbert Debenham … that is to say, sone of Elizabeth Brews Sister to the seid Sir Gilbert.” (So this “cousin” was Sir Gilbert’s next of kin, who happened in this case to be his nephew.)

The principal meaning of “cousin” today—“the son or daughter of (one’s) uncle or aunt”—showed up around 1290, not much later than the obsolete broader meaning, according to the OED.

In this example from a sermon delivered around 1380, the relationship is pretty clear: “Joon Evangelist … Crist was his cosyn, and Cristis modir was his aunte.” (“John the Evangelist … Christ was his cousin, and Christ’s mother was his aunt.”)

Later that kind of cousin was sometimes called a “first cousin.” In the mid-1600s, as the OED explains, people began adding “first,” “second,” and so on to express various degrees of cousinhood.

“Thus,” the dictionary says, “the children of brothers or sisters are first cousins to each other; the children of first cousins are second cousins to each other; and so on. The term second cousin is also loosely applied to the son or daughter of a first cousin, more exactly called a (first) cousin once removed.”

There’s yet another use of “cousin” that has nothing to do with families. As the OED says, “cousin” is sometimes used “as a term of intimacy, friendship, or familiarity.”

For example, it’s not uncommon for young children to fondly call an old friend of the family “Aunt Gracie” or “Uncle Chuck,” even though they’re not related.

The OED gives another example. In the British county of Cornwall, the dictionary says, Cornishmen call one another “cousin Jan” or “cousin Jacky.” The BBC’s website once offered a possible explanation for this Cornish tradition:

“Some say that Cornish miners became known as ‘Cousin Jacks’ because they were always asking for a job for their cousin Jack back at home. Others think it was because the miners used to address each other by the old greeting of ‘cousin,’ and Jack was the most popular Christian name in Cornwall.”

Before ending this, we should note that “nephew” and “niece” have had other meanings in the past, too.

Nowadays, as we’ve written on our blog, “nephews” and “nieces” refer to the sons and daughters of siblings.

But they once were also used for grandsons and granddaughters, male and female descendants, and, euphemistically, illegitimate sons and daughters (especially those of popes and other churchmen who were supposed to be chaste).

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Q: Why does everyone say “excited for” instead of “excited about”? I started hearing this from my girls and now everybody—adults included—does it! Did I miss something? I am not excited for correct grammar but I am excited about it.

A: We’ve also noticed a jump in the use of “excited for” in contexts that would normally call for “excited about” or “excited by.” This has made us wonder what’s happened to the prepositions that usually follow “excited” in idiomatic usage.

The tendency to choose “excited for” seems especially common in sportswriting, or that’s our impression. Here’s a sampling of August headlines:

“Howard … excited for ‘fresh start’ in L.A.” (CBSSports.com) … “Kobe ‘excited’ for new-look Lakers” (New York Daily News) … “Medlen excited for first start in two years” (Atlanta Journal-Constitution) … “Michael Phelps is excited for football season” (NBCSports.com) … “Fans excited for Olympics ‘Super Saturday’ ” (the Telegraph, London).

Sports editors aren’t the only perpetrators, though. This headline appeared in August on CNN’s Political Ticker: “Ryan: ‘Excited’ for a campaign about budget.”

But as the story itself showed, what Rep. Paul Ryan actually said was “Yes I’m excited about that.” So while Ryan himself used “excited about,” the CNN headline used “for.”

In all those cases, we would have advised the headline writers to choose “about” or “by” instead of “for.”

That’s because in idiomatic English, “excited for” means excited on someone’s behalf, as in “You’re engaged? We’re so excited for you!”

But to be “excited about” something means to look forward to it, whether eagerly or anxiously. Examples: “You must be so excited about the wedding” … “Don’t get all excited about the price tag.”

“Excited” also commonly appears with “by,” as in “The dog snapped because it was excited by the cat,” and “Foot fetishists are excited by shoes.”

And “excited” can be accompanied by “at,” as in “Mom got excited at the thought of becoming a grandmother,” and “Mom and Dad were excited at the prospect of grandchildren.”

So in summary, when we’re talking about what excites us—the object of our excitement—we generally use “excited about” or “excited by” or “excited at.” But when we’re excited on someone’s else’s behalf, we use “excited for.”

Of course, “excited” isn’t always followed by an object. Other prepositions enter the picture when we describe where, when, or how the excitement happens.

Examples: “The kids got excited at the playground” … “We were excited after hearing the news” … “Little Jimmy was excited to the point of exhaustion” … “He was excited beyond belief” … “Woofie gets too excited around children.”

Sometimes “for” is used in this sense: “The press was excited for about three days” … “She got excited for no good reason.”

“Excited” in all these cases is a participial adjective—that is, a past participle of the verb “excite,” functioning as an adjective—accompanied by a prepositional phrase.

But as is often the case with prepositions, there’s no particular set of grammatical rules about what goes or doesn’t go with “excited.”

What we’ve described are traditional uses that have become idiomatic. And as we all know, idiomatic usages can change if new ones become widespread enough.

By the way, the adjectival use of “excited” has been around since the 17th century, but it was initially used to describe the agitation of a seismographic instrument, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

It wasn’t used in the emotional sense until the mid-19th century and in the sexual sense until the late 19th century, according to published references in the OED.

The only adjectival example with a preposition, from a 1919 issue of the Biological Journal, describes a male guinea pig who emerges from long isolation and “becomes sexually excited by the presence of any female.”

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Q: A friend often sends me tidbits from your website, so I decided to visit the site. I was surprised to see you say on your Authors page that Stewart “was experiencing journalism in the trenches—literally.” I’ve always understood “literally” to mean just that, but unless Stewart was a foreign correspondent in the trenches in World War I (or somewhere comparable), shouldn’t you have said “figuratively”?

A: As we say on the Authors page, Stewart reported on wars in Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East. And as a war correspondent in Vietnam, he did indeed experience journalism in the trenches.

In fact, he spent time in foxholes, tunnels, bunkers, and trenches.  On a web page of Vietnam War photos, we found a picture of a  trench at Khe Sanh, the site of some of the fighting Stewart covered.

As for “literally,” we agree with you that it should be used to mean word for word or to the letter. But a lot of people use it loosely for emphasis.

In fact, so many people have used “literally” this way that the looser meaning is showing up in dictionaries. Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.), for example, says it can legitimately be used as “pure hyperbole intended to gain emphasis.”  

We don’t endorse that usage, but we acknowledge that there’s a case to be made for the looser meaning. If you’d like a second opinion, check out the lexicographer Jesse Sheidlower’s article on “literally” in Slate.

By the way, the noun “trench” didn’t always mean a ditch dug as a defense against enemy fire or assault—or, for that matter, a ditch dug in peacetime.

When it entered English in the 14th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, it referred to “a path or track cut through a wood or forest; an alley; a hollow walk.” It was adapted from the Old French trenche (a cut, a gash, etc.).

The English word came to mean a ditch in the 15th century and a defensive military excavation in the early 16th century.

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