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.
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!
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?”
