Category: English language

[Note: An updated post about “butt naked” and “buck naked” appeared on July 13, 2020.]

Q: Why do so many people mistakenly say “butt naked” when it should be “buck naked”? This common mistake really annoys me.

A: You’ll be surprised to learn that the language world has debated the issue quite a bit. Some language types believe that “butt naked” is a mispronunciation of an earlier “buck naked.” Others think that “buck naked” is a euphemism for an earlier “butt naked.”

So which came first? The “butt” or the “buck”? We may never know for sure, but I think the available evidence indicates that “buck naked” came first and “butt naked” was the result of phonic confusion.

The first published reference to “buck naked” in the Dictionary of American Regional English is from 1928, while the first citation for “butt naked” comes from a 1966-70 DARE survey.

On the other hand, both DARE and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language speculate that “buck naked” may be an alteration of “butt naked,” indicating that “butt” may have come first.

Meanwhile, why a “buck”? Michael Quinion, in an entry for the word “buff” on his website World Wide Words, suggests that “buck” may refer to “buckskin,” which is supposedly the color of naked skin exposed to the sun.

At this point, I’ll butt out.

Q: Why are pictures hung and people hanged?

A: Both past tenses have been around for hundreds of years, but it’s been customary since the 16th century to use “hanged” for executions and “hung” for other meanings. Why? It’s an impossibly complicated history and takes up about a zillion (give or take) pages in the Oxford English Dictionary. I’ll summarize.

The story begins with several different verbs that were imported into different parts of England by different invaders who brought with them different forms of old Germanic tongues. In these different regions, different dialects evolved. Over the centuries, the English present tense (variously “hing,” “hang,” “heng,” “hong”) stabilized as “hang.”

Meanwhile, the past tense and past participle eventually stabilized as “hung,” a form popular in northern England that by the 16th century had spread to the south and superseded the many older forms for those tenses.

However, one old past tense and past participle, “hanged,” survived in a single sense: to put to death by hanging. The OED suggests that this archaic form was preserved in legal language, since it was used by judges to pronounce sentences in capital crimes.

Q: Most people pronounce “flaccid” to rhyme with “acid,” but it looks like it should be pronounced to rhyme with the first two syllables of “accident.” What are your thoughts?

A: Traditionally, dictionaries have listed FLAK-sid as the first, or more common, pronunciation, with FLASS-id given as second choice (if listed at all; very old dictionaries list only FLAK-sid).

In more recent editions of many dictionaries, though, the editors have reversed themselves and listed FLASS-id first and FLAK-sid second, as in these entries from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language and Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.

It may be that the newer (mis-)pronunciation arose by association with the word “placid.” At any rate, FLASS-id has become not only acceptable but finally the more common.

Q: I wonder if you’d comment on the misuse of “reticent” when the speaker means “reluctant.” Don’t you think we should preserve the distinction between these two words?

A: I share your concern about “reluctant” and “reticent,” and I think it’s important to preserve the distinction. In fact, I added them to the second edition of my grammar book Woe Is I. I hate to see two such valuable words ride off into the sunset!

“Reluctant” means unwilling while “reticent” means silent. “Reluctant” comes from a Latin word that means to struggle. “Reticent” comes from a Latin word meaning to keep silent; the same Latin word gives us “taciturn” (uncommunicative) and “tacit” (unspoken).

Q: Do you know the origin of the phrase “one fell swoop”? I’ll bet there’s an interesting story behind it.

A: Interesting, indeed! The expression once brought to mind a terrible, even blood-curdling image, but it’s now used with nary a thought to mean all at once or suddenly.

The phrase has been around since Elizabethan times. In fact, the first recorded use is by Shakespeare in Macbeth, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. On hearing that his whole family has been slain, Macduff asks:

Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?

Michael Quinion, on his website World Wide Words, notes that an audience in Shakespeare’s day would have immediately pictured “a falcon plummeting out of the sky to snatch its prey.”

But the key word, the adjective “fell,” which is rarely used now, has nothing to do with falling. It means cruel, evil, fierce, deadly, or sinister. “Fell” comes from Old French and gives us the modern English word “felon.” The noun “swoop” comes from Old English and gives us the modern verbs “sweep” and “swoop.”

Q: I wonder what your feelings are on the use of “that” instead of “who” to refer to people. It seems to me that even well-educated speakers now use sentences like “He’s the doctor THAT diagnosed my Lyme disease” instead of “He’s the doctor WHO diagnosed my Lyme disease.” Am I the only one who’s disturbed by this?

A: Despite what many people believe, a person can be either a “that” or a “who.” There’s no foundation for the widespread belief that the word “that” should refer only to things and “who” only to people.

There may be a politeness issue here, though. Some may think using “that” in place of “who” or “whom” demeans or objectifies a human being. Still, there’s no grammatical or usage reason for such a rule, even though many style books persist in spreading the misconception.

A Dictionary of Contemporary American Usage, by Bergen and Cornelia Evans, has a good entry on the history of the relative pronouns “that,” “who,” and “which.” Here’s an excerpt:

“That has been the standard relative pronoun for about eight hundred years and can be used in speaking of persons, animals, or things. Four hundred years ago, which became popular as a substitute for the relative that and was used for persons, animals, and things. Three hundred years ago, who also became popular as a relative. It was used in speaking of persons and animals but not of things. This left English with more relative pronouns than it has any use for. … Who may in time drive out that as a relative referring to persons, but it has not yet done so.”

You can undoubtedly find writers on grammar and usage who disagree with this conclusion, but I think it’s sound.

Q: I was listening to you on the radio and tried to call but couldn’t get through. I wanted to hear your view on the word “media.” I think that radio is a medium, TV is a medium, and together they are media. In other words, “medium” is singular and “media” is plural. I just heard on the TV news a few minutes ago that “the media was all over this story” and I cringed. Is “media” now accepted as singular as well as plural or am I right in my feelings about the word?

A: You’re right, at least for now. The word “media” is still considered a plural noun and should take a plural verb (as in “the media were all over this story”). Use of “media” in the singular is widely considered a misuse.

But stay tuned. Many usage experts have predicted that in a generation or two “media” will be considered acceptable as a singular noun. Why? Because plurals with Latinate endings take a beating in English, and tend to become Anglicized over time. They either become singular (like the formerly plural “agenda,” “opera,” and “insignia”) or adopt different plural endings (like “syllabuses,” “curriculums,” “gymnasiums”).

For example, “data” is now considered singular by a great many usage experts. “Media” will undoubtedly get there someday. The fact that journalists are already using “mediums” as the plural seems to point the way to the eventual acceptance of “media” as a singular noun. And to be honest the fight about “media” is easier for me to concede than some others (for example, losing the meanings of words like “comprised” and “bemused” and “nonplussed”).

[An updated posting about “media” appeared on the blog on Sept. 25, 2010.]

[Note: A more complete discussion of this subject, updated in 2021, can be found in a later post.]

Q: One of the most annoying of misused phases is “I COULD care less” when the meaning is really “I COULDN’T care less.” If I could, I’d outlaw it. Comment please?

A: The idiomatic expression “I couldn’t care less” means “I’m completely uninterested” or “I’m utterly indifferent.” It first appeared in print in 1946 as the title of a book by Anthony Phelps about his experiences ferrying British aircraft during World War II, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. The expression has been used on both sides of the Atlantic since then.

A shortened version, “I could care less,” has been gaining popularity in the since the 1960s. It has the same meaning as the original expression but without the negative. The OED’s first published reference comes from an article in the Seattle-Post Intelligencer in 1966.

Although many people are disturbed by the abbreviated idiom, it doesn’t bother us. It may be intended ironically. The message, perhaps, is  “I don’t even distinguish this by identifying it as the thing I care least about.”

You might be interested in reading what the M.I.T. linguist Steven Pinker says on the subject of “I could care less,” which he calls “an alleged atrocity” and a favorite target of language mavens.

As he points out in his book The Language Instinct (p. 377), the melodies and stresses in “I couldn’t care less” and “I could care less” are very different, and the positive version indicates youthful sarcasm: “By making an assertion that is manifestly false or accompanied by ostentatiously mannered intonation, one deliberately implies its opposite. A good paraphrase is, ‘Oh yeah, as if there was something in the world that I care less about.’ ”

All things considered, we see nothing wrong with using “I could care less” as long as the user is aware that many sticklers still view it as an atrocity.

Q: Without giving it much thought, I’d often assumed an “undertaker” was called that because he took someone under the ground. But on reflection, I wonder if it comes from the fact that he undertakes something we don’t want to talk about. Am I right?

A: Yes, you’re right. The word “undertaker” (someone who undertakes a task) has been a euphemism for “funeral director” since the late 17th century. The word has had a long history and many other meanings.

The earliest published reference for “undertaker,” dating from 1382, refers to a helper or an assistant, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. Over the years, the word has been used to mean a businessman, a writer, a lobbyist, a contractor, a tax collector, a scholar, and an impresario, among others.

Q: I’ve always thought that the terms “malaprop” and “malapropism” come from a character in a Sheridan play. But I recently heard that they predate the play and come from a French expression. Which is right?

A: The terms “malaprop” and “malapropism” refer to the unintentionally comic misuse of a word, especially by confusing it with a similar-sounding one. An example might be President Bush’s remark at a bill-signing in 2002 about “weapons of mass production.”

The nouns “malaprop” and “malapropism” were indeed inspired by Mrs. Malaprop, a character in “The Rivals,” a 1775 play by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. And they did not predate Sheridan’s play.

In fact, the earliest OED citation for “malaprop” is from 1823, 48 years after the play appeared. The earliest citation for “malapropism” (in Charlotte Bronte’s novel Shirley) is from 1849, 74 years after the play.

Of course Sheridan’s name for the character was obviously suggested by the adverb “malapropos,” which has been part of the English lexicon since at least 1668. But “malapropos” merely means in an inappropriate or inopportune manner, and doesn’t suggest a misuse of words. It comes from the French phrase “mal á propos,” which means much the same as the English version.

I can’t conclude this without mentioning what many people consider the pinnacle of Mrs. Malaprop’s malapropisms: “He is the very pineapple of politeness.”

Q: I heard you discussing the phrase “charley horse” on the air and you said the origin was unknown. I looked it up on the Internet and found that the original Charley was a lame horse that used to pull a roller across the infield in the 1890s at the old Chicago White Sox ballpark. I hope this helps.

A: Several listeners messaged me with various explanations from the Internet, some more interesting than others. Yours is among the more interesting, but unfortunately the term “charley horse” was in use before the 1890s.

The Oxford English Dictionary has published references from the 1880s, all of them related to baseball. Both the OED and The Random House Dictionary of the English Language say the origin of the phrase is unknown.

Another explanation, which comes to us via H. L. Mencken, traces the expression to Charley Esper, a Baltimore Orioles pitcher who was said to walk like a lame horse. Unfortunately, the term “charley horse” was in use before Esper joined the Orioles, according to the The Mavens’ Word of the Day, which cites The New Dickson Baseball Dictionary.

One more interesting explanation, from the American Dialect Society’s archives (via Michael Quinion’s World Wide Words), traces the term to the pitcher Charley (Old Hoss) Radbourne, who reportedly had a muscle cramp during a game in the 1880s.

The chronology is right, but I still think this is one of the many cases where we may never be certain about the origin of an expression. Or, as Quinion puts it, “We’re not sure where it comes from, but there are lots of theories.”

Q: I heard an NPR newscaster say that the U.S. is “offering Iran a package of carrots and sticks.” Does the phrase come from the idea of a carrot on a stick (an image burned into my brain by Warner Brothers cartoons) or is it a metaphor for reward and punishment (i.e., you get a carrot when you’re good and you get whacked when you’re bad)? If the latter, shouldn’t the newscaster have said the U.S. is “offering Iran a choice of carrots or sticks”?

A: This question came up some time ago during one of my monthly appearances on the Leonard Lopate Show, and the callers fell into two camps, both apparently correct!

“The carrot AND the stick” version usually refers to a temptation (carrot dangling from stick, as in the Warner Brothers cartoons). “The carrot OR the stick” version refers to the contrast between reward (carrot) and punishment (stick).

The Oxford English Dictionary cites both but says the oldest is the “allusion to the proverbial method of tempting a donkey to move by dangling a carrot before it.” The OED gives published references going back to 1895 for the dangling-carrot image and to 1948 for the reward-vs.-punishment image.

Personally, I’m in the kinder and gentler carrot-dangling-from-stick camp. But when I expressed my opinion on the show, I was surprised to find that most listeners disagreed. Although the temptation metaphor came first, the reward-punishment image seems to be the more common one these days.

PS: One listener later e-mailed me that Winston Churchill combined both images at a wartime press conference in 1943 when he said that “we shall continue to operate on the Italian donkey at both ends, with a carrot and with a stick.”

Q: I heard you mention on the air that you didn’t like the word “paradigm.” What’s wrong with it? I first learned of the word through reading The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas S. Kuhn. He uses “paradigm” to describe a conceptual framework that informs the way things are perceived and understood. Would you please clarify your objections?

A: My complaint is about the casual, mushy way that “paradigm” is used these days. It can mean an example, a model, a pattern, a standard, a framework, a prevailing viewpoint, a set of assumptions, and so on. And that doesn’t count all the times it’s mistakenly used for two entirely different words, “paragon” and “parameter.”

When the word “paradigm” first appeared in the 15th century, according to a Usage Note in The Random House Dictionary of the English Language, it referred to an example or a pattern. For nearly 400 years, it has also referred to patterns of inflections in grammar. It wasn’t until the 1960s, Random House says, that scientists began using “paradigm” to mean a theoretical framework, as Kuhn apparently does in his book.

Again, I find the word “paradigm” too fuzzy. If you mean “model” or “pattern” or “framework,” why not say “model” or “pattern” or “framework”? Unfortunately, a lot of people like to dress up ordinary ideas with scientific-sounding words. They think of “paradigm” as a two-dollar word, but it’s only worth about twenty cents.

Q: Please help me win a bet. I’ve always believed that it’s wrong to end a sentence with a preposition. My boyfriend strongly disagrees. Which one of us is right?

A: I hope this isn’t something that you’ve bet a lot of money on. As I say in my grammar book Woe Is I, there’s no legitimate rule against ending a sentence with a preposition.

This isn’t a newfangled idea of mine, either. Eighty years ago, H.W. Fowler, in A Dictionary of Modern English Usage, included the preposition taboo among his Superstitions and Fetishes.

The 17th-century poet John Dryden concocted this so-called rule, apparently to make English act more like Latin, according to a Usage Note in The Random House Dictionary of the English Language. But we can blame Robert Lowth, an 18th-century clergyman and Latin scholar, for popularizing it.

The prohibition caught on, perhaps because of its simple-mindedness, even though great literature from Chaucer to Shakespeare to Milton is full of sentences ending in prepositions (positioning words like “at,” “on,” “over,” “up,” and so on).

For more misconceptions about English, check out the Grammar Myths page of Grammarphobia.com.

Buy our books at a local store, Amazon.com, or Barnes&Noble.com.

Q: I’ve been seeing the word “boonswoggle” a lot lately, especially online, but I can’t find it in my dictionary. Is it legitimate?

A: I hadn’t heard the word before and couldn’t find it when I went to my traditional language references, including the Oxford English Dictionary. I had almost 200 hits, however, when I Googled “boonswoggle” and “boonswaggle.”

Many of the “boonswoggle” hits referred to one of the Boos, characters in the Nintendo video game Luigi’s Mansion. Many other hits, for both the “woggle” and “waggle” spellings, appeared to be the result of inadvertently mushing together “boondoggle” and “hornswoggle.” The rest strike me as humorous attempts at wordplay, which is interesting because “hornswoggle” came into being (along with “absquatulate,” “bloviate,” “discombobulate,” and “skedaddle”) during an especially inventive period in American English.

Michael Quinion, on his World Wide Words website, writes: “The 1830s—a period of great vigour and expansiveness in the US—was also a decade of inventiveness in language, featuring a fashion for word play, obscure abbreviations, fanciful coinages, and puns.” Among the inventions that didn’t survive, he says, were “blustrification (the action of celebrating boisterously), goshbustified (excessively pleased and gratified), and dumfungled (used up).”

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language says the earliest appearance of “hornswoggle” was actually in 1829, a year short of the 30s. The dictionary says it belongs to “a group of ‘fancified’ words that were particularly popular in the American West in the 19th century” and it might have been “invented to poke fun at the more ‘sophisticated’ East.”

As for whether “boonswoggle” is legit, it’s not standard English now, but only time will tell.

Q: Have you ever noticed that the adjective for “triangle” is “triangular” and for “rectangle is “rectangular”? Or that the adjective for “pentagon” is “pentagonal” and for “hexagon” is “hexagonal”? Or that the adjective for “square” is simply “square,” not “squarular” or “squaral”? What accounts for these differences?

A: The words “triangle” (three-angled) and “rectangle” (right-angled) are based on Latin roots, while “pentagon” (five-angled) and “hexagon” (six-angled) are based on Greek roots. The corresponding adjectival endings for “angled” are “angularis” in Latin and “gonos” in Greek. This probably explains the difference between the “angular” and “agonal” adjectives.

As for “square,” it’s been both a noun and an adjective since the 14th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, so no additional ending is necessary. It came into English from Old French.

Q: You mentioned in passing on WNYC that the prohibition against splitting an infinitive is not a legitimate rule. Can you explain? I’ve always heard otherwise.

A: The belief that it’s wrong to split an infinitive is a notorious myth. Grammarians have been trying to debunk it for generations. This never was a rule. It was merely a misconception based on the wrong-headed notion that English (a Germanic language) should conform to the rules of Latin (a Romance language).

An infinitive is a verb in its simplest form and usually has the word “to” in front of it: “Darcy helped to find Lydia and Wickham.” But the “to” isn’t actually part of the infinitive and it isn’t always necessary: “Darcy helped find Lydia and Wickham.”

The myth against “splitting” an infinitive, which I discuss in my book Woe Is I, was born in the 19th century when Latin scholars misguidedly called it a crime to put a descriptive word between the prepositional marker “to” and the infinitive: “Darcy helped to quickly find Lydia and Wickham.”

Since “to” isn’t part of the infinitive, however, there’s nothing to split and the whole idea of “splitting” an infinitive is nonsense. (In Latin, the infinitive is a single word without a prepositional marker, and obviously can’t be split.)

A sentence often sounds better when the “to” is close to the infinitive, but there’s no harm in separating them by putting an adverb or two in between. Writers of English have been happily “splitting” infinitives since the 1300s. So, if you want to happily join them, feel free. For more about the so-called split infinitive and other misconceptions, go to the Grammar Myths page of Grammarphobia.com.

Q: Would you mind clarifying the difference between “clothes” and “clothing”? My friend and I disagree. I frequently use “clothing” in a sentence like “Don’t forget to pack some clothing for the trip.” He finds that “clothing” is inappropriate in this sense and should be “clothes.” I almost never use “clothes” – probably because I’m from New Jersey and I find it hard to pronounce.

A: My husband uses “clothing” as you do, while I normally say “clothes.” I think they’re pretty much interchangeable these days, and you’re not necessarily incorrect whichever you choose. But typically “clothes” is used to refer to specific items while “clothing” refers to garments in general.

I’d say “I packed my clothes,” or “She’s wearing her new clothes,” but “Your clothing should always be appropriate.” My husband, on the other hand, would say “clothing” for all three. That’s just his habit.

As far as how to say “clothes,” it may be easier than you think. The pronunciation listed first in most dictionaries sounds something like “close.” I don’t know many people who actually pronounce the “th” sound. Here’s the “clothes” entry from the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, with an audio pronouncing guide.

Q: I’ve heard that “Yankee” comes from an old Indian word. Is that true?

A: The origin of “Yankee” is uncertain, but it’s believed to be derived from the Dutch word “Janke,” which is a diminutive of the name Jan. It originated in the 1680s, and was a derisive term used (among other things) to describe pirates.

The English started using the word to refer contemptuously to the Dutch who had settled along the Hudson River, and later to refer to American settlers in general. It wasn’t until the Revolutionary War that anti-British forces adopted “Yankee” as a term of pride.

In fact, the British initially used the song “Yankee Doodle” to insult the Colonials, according to Wikipedia, but the Americans adopted it with pride after the Battle of Lexington and Concord. It’s now the state song in Connecticut.

The Oxford English Dictionary says the “Janke” explanation is “perhaps the most plausible,” but it also cites less likely theories that “Yankee” comes from American Indian words for slave or coward or English.

Q: It’s probably apocryphal, but I heard that the word “rehearsal” originated as a sort of contraction that combined the terms “re” and “hears” and “all,” as in the director “re-hears all” the play, etc. Any help?

A: The verb “rehearse” originally meant something like rake over, according to The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology and the Ayto Dictionary of Word Origins. It comes from Old French, “re” (repeat) plus “hercier” (“to rake or harrow”). The Old French noun for a harrow, a plowing implement, was “herce.”

“Rehearse” was adopted into English in the 13th century and meant repeat or recite or say over again. By the 16th century, it was being used in the sense of practicing a play. Oddly, the English word “hearse” comes from the same source. In the 13th century the English borrowed from Old French to create the word “hers” to describe a framework, something like a harrow, used to hold candles and decorations in place over a coffin. By the 17th century, a “hearse” was a vehicle for carrying a coffin.

Q: I’m a Knicks fan and I know their name is short for Knickerbockers. But can you tell me how a basketball team got a name like that?

A: The word “knickerbockers” has been used over the years to refer to the early Dutch settlers of New York, the breeches that they wore, and New Yorkers, especially those of Dutch origin. The short form, knickers, has come to mean knee-length trousers for boys or men, and, primarily in Britain, women’s underpants (as in “Don’t get your knickers in a twist”).

The term originated with Diedrich Knickerbocker, the fictitious pen name used by Washington Irving for his 1809 book, A History of New York. The name wasn’t entirely an invention, since Irving actually had a friend named Herman Knickerbocker, who lived near Albany.

In the late 19th century, newspaper cartoon representations of Father Knickerbocker came to symbolize New York much as Uncle Sam now represents the United States, according to the word sleuth Barry Popik.

As for the Knicks, the team’s website says the “original Knicks logo, used from the inaugural 1946-47 season through 1963-4, was that of a Father Knickerbocker figure dribbling a basketball.” What better name for a New York ball team than a symbol of New York!

Q: I cringe when I hear people say “I’ve got to do this” or “I have got to do that.” What’s wrong with simply saying “I have to do this” or “I must do that”?

A: I’m sorry that I have to disagree with you about “have got to” in place of “have to” or “must.” The “have got to” construction, conveying an obligation or a duty, has been an accepted idiom since the 1860s.

Published examples can be found in the writings of Lewis Carroll, Mark Twain, John Ruskin, and others. The Oxford English Dictionary’s earliest reference is in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865): “The first thing I’ve got to do is to grow to my right size again.”

Q: I listen to you whenever you’re on WNYC, but I can’t call in because I’m driving a bus during the broadcast. My question is this: Why do we refer to Bronx, New York, as the Bronx? We don’t use “the” with Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island, the other New York City boroughs. Why do we use it with the Bronx?

A: Dr. Peter Derrick of the Bronx Historical Society says the Bronx has a “the” because it’s named after the Bronx River, which runs through the borough. The Bronx River, in turn, was named after Jonas Bronck, the first European settler in the area, according to Dr. Derrick. One common misconception, he says, is that the borough got its ‘the’ from people who said they were going up to visit the Broncks on their farm.

There’s a capital “T” in the official name of the borough, according to Dr. Derrick, so it should be The Bronx, not the Bronx. But most newspapers (and this blog) prefer a lower-case “t.”

Q: A contributor to a publication I edit has complained that I wrongly changed the sentence “All is returned to a simmer” to “All are returned to a simmer.” Is she right? If so, oops!

A: “All” is a two-faced word. It can be either singular (“is”) or plural (“are”). If a writer means “all of it,” she should use “is.” If she means “all of them,” she should go with “are.” So it depends on whether your contributor was thinking of the whole dish or the various things in it: “All [the soup] is returned to a simmer” or “All [the ingredients] are returned to a simmer.”

Q: Where does the phrase “pet peeve” come from?

A: “Pet peeve,” an alliterative expression referring to something that bugs you, is relatively recent in origin and dates to about 1919. Here’s the entry from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language.

The noun “peeve” isn’t much older, going back to only 1908, according to The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology. It comes from the much older word “peevish,” an adjective from the 1300s. The derivation of “peevish” is unknown, but the Barnhart dictionary suggests that it might be linked to perversus, the Latin word for perverse.

Interestingly, one of the oldest meanings of the noun “pet” is a fit of peevishness. (The Oxford English Dictionary has published references going back to the late 16th century.) As an adjective, “pet” can mean “favorite,” as in “pet project” or “pet topic” or, getting back to the subject at hand, “pet peeve.”

Q: Why do Republicans refer to the Democratic Party as the Democrat Party? The first time I remember hearing this was out of the mouth of Newt Gingrich.

A: I too have noticed that Republicans often use the noun “Democrat” as an adjective in phrases like “Democrat Party” or “Democrat platform” or “Democrat politician.” The correct adjective is “Democratic,” as we all know and as dictionaries will confirm. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, for example, defines “Democratic Party” this way: “One of the two major political parties in the United States, owing its origin to a split in the Democratic-Republican Party under Andrew Jackson in 1828.”

But deliberately messing up someone’s name—mispronouncing it or otherwise misusing it—is an age-old form of disrespect. The misuse says, in effect, “You’re not worth the effort of getting your name right.”

Also, some Republicans are reluctant to use a favorable adjective like “democratic” to describe the opposition party or a politician belonging to it. And those Republicans say they want to be able to refer to one of their own as a “democratic” politician with a small “d” and not have him be confused with a big “d” politician.

William F. Buckley Jr., writing in the National Review in 2000, acknowledged the possible confusion between big “d” and small “d” politicians, but he nevertheless had “an aversion to using ‘Democrat’ as an adjective.”

“It has the effect of injecting politics into language, and that should be avoided,” he wrote, adding that “it’s our job to get the correct meaning transmitted without contorting the language.”

Yes, Newt Gingrich did a lot to encourage the use of “Democrat Party” as a not-so-subtle form of denigration, but the practice began well before he arrived on the scene. During the Truman-Dewey presidential election campaign in 1946, for example, B. Carroll Reece, who was then chairman of the Republican National Committee, used the adjective “Democrat” as a weapon. (Truman, in turn, suggested calling the GOP the Publican Party, a reference to the tax collectors of the New Testament.)

So the use of the term “Democrat Party” is quite an old trick. In fact, researchers have found references from as far back as 1855, though at that time the term may have been inoffensive and not intended to show disrespect. The linguist Geoffrey Nunberg has cited negative references from the early 20th century, but he says the practice didn’t become “a Republican tic” until mid-century.

Q: I’m reading a Patrick O’Brian novel and I find myself wondering about the origin of the words “port” and “starboard.” I guess “port” must come from the side of a ship that faces the port, but what’s the etymology of “starboard”?

A: The term “starboard” refers to the right side of a ship when facing the bow or front. It’s a very old word (dating way back to the 9th century) for the side from which a ship is steered. (“Steor” was the old word for rudder or paddle; “bord” was the word for side.) Boats used by the early Germanic tribes were steered from a paddle on the right side of the boat. “Stern,” the term for the rear of a boat, comes from the same source.

The term for the left side of a ship used to be “larboard,” which came from the Middle English “ladde-borde” or loading side of a ship, according to The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology. In the 16th century, sailors began using the word “port” to refer to the loading (or port) side. In recent times, the word “port” has generally replaced “larboard” to avoid confusion with the similar-sounding “starboard,” according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

Q: I was reading the other day about the death of the singer Georgia Gibbs. The obituary in the New York Times reminded me that she was referred to as “Her Nibs, Miss Georgia Gibbs.” Where did the term “his nibs” or “her nibs” come from?

A: “His nibs” or “her nibs” is an informal expression used to refer to a “person in authority, especially one who is self-important,” according to The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language. The dictionary speculates that the word “nibs” may be an alteration of the word “nob,” chiefly British slang for a “person of wealth or social standing.” The word “nob,” which American Heritage suggests might be a variant of “knob,” is also slang for the human head.

In cribbage, a jack is known as either “His Nibs” or “His Nobs.” In fact, the first citation for “his nibs,” from 1846, in the Oxford English Dictionary may be a reference to cribbage, though the second citation, from 1877, clearly refers to a person in authority.

The OED says the origin of “his nibs” is obscure, but it might have come from the slang term “my nabs,” meaning “my gentleman” or “myself.” The word “nab,” according to the OED, refers to a head or a coxcomb (a fop or a dandy).

The word “nib,” of course, refers to a bird’s beak or the business end of a pen. But the Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang has a citation from 1812 in which “nib” was used to mean “a gentleman or person of the higher order.”

By the way, I didn’t find any references that link “his nibs” to the word “nabob,” which comes from Arabic and Hindi, and also refers to an important person.

As for Miss Gibbs, the TV host Garry Moore dubbed the singer “Her Nibs,” probably because the phrase rhymed with her name and reflected her prominence in the world of popular musical.

Q: I don’t get the expression “the proof is in the pudding.” It doesn’t make sense to me. Could it have anything to do with the rum or brandy in a Christmas pudding?

A: You deserve a toast for that idea! As for the actual origin of the pudding business, it’s a shortened version of an old proverb popularized by Cervantes in Don Quixote: “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” The Mavens’ Word of the Day, a Random House website, says the proverb has been around in various guises since about 1300.

Q: My name is Randy, which may explain my interest in the adjective “randy.” Do you know the origin of the word?

A: The adjective “randy” originally meant rude, disorderly, or aggressive, and dates back to the late 17th century in Scotland.

It was first used to describe beggars, according to The Oxford English Dictionary, most likely “implying vagrant habits as well as rude behavior.” It probably originated with an old Dutch word, “randten,” meaning to rave or talk foolishly, which also gave us the English word “rant.”

It wasn’t until the 1840s that “randy” came to mean wanton, lustful, or sexually aroused.

We don’t know why it took on that meaning, though it already had an element of coarseness and that quality may have been exaggerated to include the sense of lewdness. (In Scotland, according to the Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, “randy” can still mean “having a coarse manner.”)

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Q: Which is correct? “Patricia is a guest of Leonard.” Or: “Patricia is a guest of Leonard’s.” Is there a name for the second example?

A: Either of them is correct. Both are standard English. Some language mavens have called the “Patricia is a guest of Leonard’s” construction a double possessive. No matter what you call it, though, it’s OK to use.

Q: A book review in the New York Times referred to the characters as one-dimensional. If my memory of high school physics serves me correctly, all physical objects have three dimensions: length, width, and depth. If a book reviewer wants to suggest a lack of depth, shouldn’t he refer to a character as two-dimensional? Please answer before I worry myself into the fourth dimension.

A: When I was an editor at the New York Times Book Review, there were certain clichés that we tried to keep out of reviews: “rite of passage,” “richly woven tapestry,” “stunning debut,” “shock of recognition,” “keen ear for dialogue,” “keen eye for detail,” “sense of place,” and so on.

We should have also forbidden “one-dimensional character,” which deserves a place right alongside the other clichés above. Interestingly, The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language and the Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary consider “one-dimensional” a legitimate term meaning superficial or lacking depth. And the dictionaries say the word “dimension” can be used in a non-scientific sense to mean aspect or quality or trait. Nevertheless, I don’t think a cliché like “one-dimensional” belongs in a book review—unless perhaps the subject is Herbert Marcuse’s One-Dimensional Man.