("Treyf" is, basically, the opposite of "kosher": ritually forbidden. Usually applied to food, sometimes to other objects or practices.)
Also, the group's website has stigmata of kookiness. I've chosen those words very carefully.
"That word... I do not think it means what you think it means."
It is possible that a weekend in Montreal sensitized me to badly-mangled Franglais.
In 7 days, your child could ride a bike... because he learned.
In 4 hours, your child could tie her shoes... because she learned.
In 20 minutes, your child could say his ABCs... because he learned.
In 30 seconds, your child could drown...
The logical structure, and its conclusion, make me itch, metaphorically.
On the other hand, right at the moment, I'm feeling somewhat overwhelmed.
I had a follow-up appointment with the neurosurgeon a week and a half ago. The MRI shows distinct improvement in my spinal cord; the syrinx is much smaller. However, I'm having increasing discomfort in my left shin and foot — very likely due to compressed nerves getting back into proper shape after all these months, and yelling at me about the state of things. The surgeon recommended that I back off on my exercise somewhat for a couple of weeks, and also suggested that massage and acupuncture may help.
My stamina for sitting up, including in front of the computer, is still poor.
I'm still having a lot of trouble getting to sleep at night. Part of this is due to that pain, part to gastric reflux, part to simple fretting about things. On the other hand, I'm tending to drop off to sleep rather abruptly in the late afternoon, lying on my sofa reading or watching a DVD. It's very odd for me to suddenly wake up, lying down, with a mouthful of food, and realize that I must have dozed off while eating supper.
My friend Phil Whiteside passed away early Tuesday morning. I feel... odd. Distant, emotionally flat. It hasn't really hit me yet. I didn't get to see him in the last few weeks, because of my own difficulties in travel and because I guess I kept hoping that he'd rally one more time. About a week ago, I woke up in the early morning, utterly overwhelmed with grief, but without any clear focus for the emotion that I could identify.
Many of my friends are dealing with a lot of their own problems. There's too much crap going on around here.
I dare say that the brook would prefer to be flowing smoothly and quickly and silently, without interruption or blockage, if in fact it had any preference in the matter. The message of the sign appears to be in support of enjoying the spectacle of someone else's trouble.
Magazine cover -- Cosmo or one of its ilk -- "100% HOTTER SEX!"
And my back-brain's instant response was to quote Cyrano Jones from "The Trouble With Tribbles": "Twice nothing is still nothing."
I need to get a life.
(How would you quantify that, anyway? How do you distinguish it from, say, sex that's only 90% hott— Did I mention that I need to get a life?)