To follow up on my last post regarding when to use “fewer” and when to use “less,” let’s briefly discuss when to use “much” and when to use “many.” Although the latter two seem to be confused far less frequently than the former two (largely because we seem to have an inherent sense of which one simply “sounds right”), people still sometimes mix them up.
Use “much” with singular nouns and “many” with plural nouns. For example, you didn’t eat much cereal, but you did eat many muffins. “Cereal” is a singular, mass noun, whereas “muffins” is a plural noun. There is one box or one bowl of cereal, but there are several muffins.
You would ask, “How much chicken did he eat?”, but “How many eggs did he eat?” (This would be different, of course, if you were dealing with an extremely hungry person, in which case, you might actually need to ask, “How many chickens did he eat?”)
You can talk about how much milk you drank, but how many cookies you dipped into it. You might describe how many sundaes you ate, but how much ice cream.
(Side note: Apparently, I am the aforementioned extremely hungry person. I started this post with breakfast examples, moved on to dinner, and followed with dessert–not deliberately! For more examples of how to correctly use “much” and “many,” click through the slideshow of (food!) photos below.)
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For further explanation of the relationship between “less”/”fewer” and “much”/”many,” click here.
Above, my friend and I show off our paintings after a recent paint night. If we had used fewer colors, we would have used less paint. Use “fewer” for countable items, and “less” for one, mass item.
It’s research paper season in my world right now, and as I read page after page of student work, one mistake keeps surfacing: confusion regarding when to use “fewer” and when to use “less.”
Most of the time, people probably aren’t even aware that they are getting it wrong. After all, saying something like, “I should have eaten less cookies” really doesn’t soundthatbad (unless you know better, which you are about to). But it is wrong. What the regretful victim of the sweet tooth should have said was: “I should have eaten fewer cookies.” Now, if she had been talking about cake, she would have been correct in her use of “less.” “I should have eaten less cake” is correct.
So why is “I should have eaten less cake” correct where “I should have eaten less cookies” is incorrect? Well, whereas “cookies” are several, countable items, “cake” is one, mass item. If you eat less cake or less pie, you eat fewer slices of cake or pie. The cake and the pie are singular, mass items, but the slices are individual, countable pieces.
Basically, you use “fewer” when discussing a number of individual items that you can count–crackers, cookies, hours, vegetables. You use “less” when discussing one item that can be larger or smaller in size.
In addition to our paint night, we enjoyed a walk in a nearby park. If we had walked fewer miles, we would have seen less scenery.
In addition to our paint night, we enjoyed a walk in a nearby park. If we had walked fewer miles, we would have seen less scenery.
For example, when you have fewer minutes, you have less time. Time is one thing made up of a bunch of minutes.
Similarly, when you eat fewer pieces of cake, you eat less cake. The cake is one baked good made up of several pieces.
For one final example: If you eat fewer meals, you might eat less food. Food is not a countable item, but the number of meals you eat in a day is.
Hopefully, you now have fewer questions and less confusion about the English language! 😉
For some reason, the confusion between “apart” and “a part” has been surfacing in my professional and personal life with increased frequency over the course of the last week or so. I noticed it in at least a third of the essay tests I finished grading just before winter break began, and it has appeared on my Facebook feed more often than I’d like to remember. Due to its recent, rampant presence, I thought the error merited some attention. Let’s get the difference between “a part” and “apart” all sorted out.
When “apart” appears as one word, it is an adverb that means “separate,” as in, “Take the toy apart” or “His feet were spread far apart from each other” or “He lives apart from his parents.”
When “a part” appears as two words, you have an article (“a”) and a noun (“part”), as in “one piece,” or one involved party.
The most common error I see is the use of the adverb “apart” where what is actually needed is the article “a” and the noun “part.” For example, one might write, “I am so glad to be apart of your special day,” when what one really means to say is, “I am so glad to be a part of your special day.”
If you think of it in this context, “He stood apart from the crowd” means something very different than “He stood, a part of the crowd.” In the former, he stands out. In the latter, he blends in.
One of the reasons English is often cited as one of the most difficult languages to learn is its many homophones, one of the most infamous pairs being “than” and “then.” What follows is an extremely simplified explanation of their proper use.
“Than” with an “a” expresses comparisons. One way to remember this might be to associate the “a” in “than” with the “a” in “comparison.” An example of the proper use of “than” would be:
Ian is taller than Sally is.
The above sentence compares Ian’s height to Sally’s.
“Then” with an “e” relates to time. One way to remember this might be to associate the “e” in “then” with the “e” in “time.” An example of the proper use of “then” would be:
Ian was the taller of the two children, but then Sally grew.
The above sentence helps express when in time Ian was no longer taller than Sally–after she grew.
A sentence that uses both “than” and “then” properly would be:
Ian was taller than Sally, but then Sally grew.
While I admit to loving the message in this Instagram post I came across a few weeks ago, I also admit I had a difficult time seeing beyond the “then” that should have been a “than.”
One of the most common errors I see in my students’ writing is the combining of “a lot” into one word (that doesn’t actually exist): “alot.”
The main difference between “alot” and “a lot” is that one is a word, and one is not.
Many of us are so accustomed to seeing “alot” that we ascribe to the misconception that it’s a word, but–surprise!–it’s not. The proper way to employ “alot” is actually to separate it into two words, a noun and its article: “a lot.” One helpful way to remember this is to think of a plot (or a lot) of land. If you own one lot of land, you own a lot of land, but not onelot of land, or alot of land. Just as you would not write “onelot,” you would not write “alot.” The proper structure is, instead “one lot” and “a lot.” Another way to think of it is this: You wouldn’t write “alittle,” so you also wouldn’t write “alot.”
I don’t love my dogs alot–but only because “alot” isn’t a word. I do, however, love them a lot!
Basically, “less” works with singular nouns and “fewer” works with plural nouns. For example, you might drink less milk than your friend, but you ate fewer cookies.
You eat LESS salad, but FEWER vegetables.
You drink less water, but fewer glasses of water. This is because “water” is singular, whereas “glasses” is plural.
You eat less soup, but fewer bowls of soup.
You purchase less perfume, but fewer bottles of perfume.
You packed less clothing, but fewer clothes.
If you understand when to use “much” as opposed to when to use “many,” then another way to think about it is this: If you would use “many,” use “fewer.” Think: I didn’t eat as many cookies as he did = I ate fewer cookies than he did.
If you would use “much,” use “less.” Think: I didn’t drink as much milk as he did = I drank less milk than he did.
One of the most common mistakes I see in my students’ (and many other people’s) writing, is confusion as to the use of “every day” and “everyday.”
This sign exemplifies the common (or everyday…!) confusion surrounding the use of “every day” and “everyday.” The sign is meant to express how often people should pay for parking in this particular lot. They should pay each day, not eachday. The sign would be correct if its “everyday” were changed to “every day.”
As one word, “everyday” is an adjective, as in “He was your everyday Joe, just trying to get by,” or “He drove an everyday sedan, indistinguishable from the other beige cars in the lot.” It refers to something that is commonplace, normal, usual. “Everyday” is synonymous with words like “typical” or “average.”
As two words, “every” and “day,” the word “every” functions as a modifier for the word “day.” “Every day” as two words expresses the frequency with which something occurs, as in, “I eat breakfast every day.” In this case, “every day” is synonymous with “daily” or “each day.”
An example that uses both, albeit a bit redundant, would be: “I enjoy a simple, everyday cereal–Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Corn Flakes–for breakfast every day.”
As a rule of thumb, if you could correctly use “each day” or “daily” where you are thinking of employing “every day” or “everyday,” use “every day.” If you could correctly substitute “typical” or “common” where you plan to use “every day” or “everyday,” use “everyday.”
In case you’ve ever underestimated the importance of proofreading, don’t.
I recently found myself in the center seat on a full flight that couldn’t take off because of a typo.
It went something like this:
Pilot’s fuzzy voice announces over the cockpit speakers, “Ladies and gentleman, we have a full flight today. There are no empty seats, and it appears we will need to delay our takeoff just a bit because we are running over the weight limit.”
General rumble of dismayed passengers worried about missing connections (I include myself in the group of worriers) rises and falls in the cabin.
We wait.
And we wait some more.
About twenty-five minutes pass.
Pilot’s voice over the cockpit speakers crackles, “Ladies and gentleman, we are investigating what appears to be a typo. We recently got new handbooks, and we believe this latest version contains a typo. We are looking into it to make sure we are following procedure before takeoff.”
Exclamations of amusement and disbelief rise and fall in the cabin.
We wait.
And we wait some more.
Ten or fifteen minutes pass.
Pilot’s voice over the cockpit speakers relates the welcomed news, “Ladies and gentleman, it appears the issue was indeed only a typo. We will be taking off shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
Sighs of relief rise and fall in the cabin.
But I am still a little concerned.
You see, my 50-minute layover was a tight one before the typo-induced delay, and by the time the typo was identified and the confusion cleared up, our flight was taking off an hour later than scheduled.
I’ll spare you the details of the three-hour flight, which was uneventful, and skip to what was left of the layover:
Every day on my way to and from work, I see this sign. Today, I glanced up and noticed a glaring mistake. If you see it, comment here or find me on Instagram to prove your proofreading prowess!
We are running through the airport with carry-ons clunking against our thighs and backs. We are panting on the tram. We are racing up to our gate as the woman manning it says, “You’re lucky you got here. They’re closing the door now,” and picks up a phone to tell the operator on the other end of the bridge that we are here and not to close the door yet. We are jostling our way down the aisle of already-settled passengers, eyeballing us as if we are the reason they have not yet taken flight.
We make our flight, but our checked bags aren’t as fortunate.
And our car keys are tucked safely away in them.
We land in Richmond, where the car we cannot unlock, let alone start and drive home, is waiting in the south parking garage. We call my mother-in-law to make the 25-minute drive from our home, where she has been taking care of our dogs, to the airport–with our extra set of car keys in her purse. We drive two separate cars home, and have an excellent excuse to relax for the evening: We cannot unpack luggage that did not arrive, nor can we begin to wash and dry and fold the clothes packed in said luggage.
We wake up the next morning to find our bags kindly delivered, waiting in the shade on our back deck–and the typo-induced ordeal has finally come to close. At least for us. I don’t know what became of the passengers whose connecting flights had already taken off when we finally landed at our connecting airport.
The moral of the story? The next time you consider sending an e-mail, publishing a blog post (goodness help my hypocritical soul if you’ve found a typo in this one!), or turning in a paper before you’ve proofread it (multiple times), consider the chaos one little mistake could cause on the other end (not to mention your own, personal humiliation).
I don’t consider myself a particularly irritable person, but I do have a few pet peeves. I can’t stand when the covers on my bed get rumpled and disheveled, rendering me tangled and immobilized. It drives me bonkers when those high-tech toilets with the automatic-flush feature flush at the most inconvenient and inappropriate times (which they always do). And I find it extremely inconsiderate when the driver in front of me slows down and turns without ever having used his blinker. But perhaps one of my greatest pet peeves is the widespread mispronunciation of the phrase “couldn’t care less.”
The phrase is meant to express an utter indifference.
“I hate to disappoint, but I am not going to make it to dinner tonight, my dear,” he said apologetically.
“Quite frankly, Daniel, I couldn’t care less,” she sniffed.
Providing the “she” in this example really does not at all care whether or not she sees Daniel at dinner tonight, this is the proper use of “couldn’t care less.” She cares so incredibly little about his attendance to the meal, that she actually could not care any less.
The common mistake people often make is to proclaim they “could care less,” when really, what they mean to express is that they don’t care at all.
“I hate to disappoint, but I am not going to make it to dinner tonight, my dear,” he said apologetically.
“Quite frankly, Daniel, I could care less,” she sniffed.
She could care less? She could? Quite literally then, she does care–at least a little–because she could care at least a little bit less.
Regarding some of my own pet peeves, then:
The blankets on the bed are in a disarray–twisted and tangled and balled up.
Oh, I could care less. I could care a lot less. In fact, we are going to have to fix that before we can go to sleep.
I walk into the bathroom stall and am greeted by the whooshing and whirring of a flushing toilet. I haven’t even locked the door yet, for crying out loud.
Again, I could care less. A lot less. How many gallons of water did we just waste? And how many more times is that thing going to flush before I’m through?
There are many things, though, that I really couldn’t care less about. What’s for dinner tonight? I couldn’t care less, just so long as I get to eat dinner. Should we make a reservation for 6:15 or 6:30? Couldn’t care less. What’s fifteen minutes? You get the idea.
The next time someone tells you she could care less about something, the proper response might be, “Really? How much less?”
