Finally got the package for Sveta sent off.  She'll only have missed two months of the personalized calendar included in it.   

I think she'll really enjoy the photo books of Dmitry's adoption and his first year here.  And the letter from him.  ;^)

Today, as everyone is surely aware, is Valentine's Day, which Dmitry castigates as a "sissy" day.  Except he pronounces it as "sussy" which takes some of the oomph away.  Temple Christian had some fundraiser going on, where for a nominal sum one student could have a message delivered to another.  Dmitry's friend, Cody, received a sung message from a girl, which appalled Dmitry right down to his toes.  To be made the object of everyone's attention like that?  Horrors!

He assured me had he been on the receiving end of one of those, he'd have been "embarrassed for all my life."

Can't decide if he honestly means that, or if he'd have loved to have been so singled out.  Hard to tell with him.

Here's a picture, taken surreptitiuosly but for no particular reason, of him leaving school for the day:

On the way home he took a couple of pictures of downtown Fort Worth as we drove past it on I-30:

This is what you'd call a Lite News Day. 

The letter is written.  The letter to Svetlana, that is to say. 

Whoosh!  Talk about a chore.  Dmitry moaned, groaned, and whined throughout the ordeal.  "What do I say now?" 

"There's nothing amazing," he complained.

It has made me curious as to precisely what amazing stuff used to happen in Shumerly.  When pressed, he told of running down a stream (it wasn't very deep), building fires with twigs and roasting potatoes on sticks, and making little houses with matchsticks then setting 'em alight.

He said Elena was very good at that last. 

Still, it brought home how different life is now.  Yes, there's an abundance of good, but there's also the downside....school that lasts for EIGHT hours (he crabs about that often), and Nothing To Do. 

According to him, Americans mainly work, go to school, and watch TV.

Hard to argue with that, actually.

He also reminisced about favorite Russian TV shows, and wished he could talk to his friend in Alatyr, Dmitry.

I decided to make red salad for supper, which he was delighted to see.  In fact, he told me that when it's his birthday, he wants three things: 

1.  red salad

2.  whipped cream in a can (he thinks it is delicious)

3.  a PSP (the much-anticipated personal Playstation)

Not necessarily in that order, of course....the PSP takes pride of place.  Of course, his birthday is SIX MONTHS off!  Shades of Alex, who was our other birthday hound.

It's not that I (necessarily) grudge anyone else their good fortune
. . . I'm married to Don and have the most delightful children and
adorable grandkids in the whole world, after all, so I've already made
out like a bandit in the "good fortune" stakes . . . but still, this
really hacks me off, me being a taxpayer and all:

Remember last fall I wrote about the Osteopathic hospital closing?

Well, it did, and was auctioned off on the courthouse steps week before last.

A local attorney snagged it for $6.5 million.

Then immediately (within a few days) sold it to the University of North Texas Health Science Center for $17 million.

That's a nice profit for no work at all.

Okay, to be fair, he did do some work.  He was on the
negotiating team with the NBIA, the organization which held the lien on
the facility.  The plan, apparently, was for the MBIA to send a
representative to bid on the property, then resell it to the UNT Health
Science Center.  For some reason, the night prior to the auction
the MBIA changed its mind, and refused to send the promised rep.

So a member of the team saw and opportunity an grabbed it, making a cool $10 million in profit.

I can't imagine why UNT didn't bid on the property directly.  That was a stupid waste of taxpayer money, ISTM. 

The whole thing just makes me mad.

Amazing how things have changed in the workplace, at least as compared with the goings-on in the Hepburn/Tracy movie, Desk Set.

Drinking champagne on the job to the point of being inebriated? 

And that Christmas office party! 

Drinking, dancing, and canoodling to a shocking degree. 

Actually, do you suppose those office parties ever existed outside of the imaginations of writers? 

Spencer Tracy plays the part of a man who is evaluating the reference department of a company to see if the job can be performed by what was called "an electronic brain"....IOW, a computer.  Katherine Hepburn, the head of said department, reassured one of the employees (Joan Blondell) there's no way any electronic brain could possibly do their job, as there's too many cross-references.

Quaint.  That's what it was.  Positively quaint. 

What IS it with guys and colors? 

Specifically, the names of colors.

I've just returned from picking up Dmitry at school, and while driving home found myself behind an attractive Honda Civic.  Gesturing toward it, I observed that I love the color it's painted.  Lavender, I opined. 

No, maybe it's more of a violet, I mused.

Hmmm...then again, perhaps plum?

Whereupon Dmitry removed the lollipop from his mouth (I'd been to the bank's drive-thru) and flatly stated, "It's purple."

I wouldn't want to hurt my male readers' feelings for the world, but so far's I can see, guys have absolutely no appreciation for color. 

BTW, apparently my musings on the appropriate name of the color of the Honda ahead of us were interrupting Dmitry's own train of thought.

Several seconds after he flattened me with "purple!", he said, "I tell you what I t'ink about, Mom.  I'm t'inking about somet'ing."

Always eager to listen to confidances from this new(ish) son of mine, I made sounds indicative of deep interest.

"The new PSP....I wonder how long the battery will last in it?"

Be still, my maternal heart.   

AHA!!! 

I knew it . . . I just knew it. 

It was obvious, really.  Why this has only hit the news a couple of weeks ago beats me. 

Prepare yourselves.

Oh, sure, you'll be a mite surprised at first but the more you think about it, the more true you'll agree it is.

THE EIFFEL TOWER IS A PORTAL TO HELL

For generations, Parisians have known that the Eiffel Tower is a portal to hell, and have left unsuspecting tourists prey to Satan's sinister minions who enter our world through a secret trap door under the tower.

"People frequently say they leave the tower changed, and they do. The demons sometimes take people back down with them, but more often they suck their souls and leave the bodies to climb back down in a daze and carry out their evil missions," says Jacques Boudreau, visibly shuddering.

"Parisians have known about the portal for years. Why do you think you don't see Frenchmen up there? We'd just as soon leave the tourists to the demons, especially the Americans."

Witnesses report horrid smells and sordid noises coming from under the tower, but officials have been told to attribute it to traffic noises and poor plumbing in the tower's restaurants. Locals, however, have learned to spot afflicted tourists and avoid them at all costs. "I see a glassy-eyed American come into my bakery, first thing I ask him is if he's been to the Eiffel Tower," says Richard Mouton, a local. "He says yes, I throw him out."

Now honestly, doesn't that make scads of sense?

Mais attendez!   ("But wait," for les Français-deficient among us.)

If there's a portal going straight down into the bowels of Hell in Europe, what odds there's one in North America as well?

Oh. My. Goodness. 

It's all so clear.  So much is laid bare.  Surely this explains the existance of . . .

DALLAS! 

Today is Dmitry's six weeks history test.

We've been studying.  He was told what to review and I created simple study sheets for him (eg. William Becknell - "father of the Santa Fe Trail"). 

We'll see. 

What's fascinating is the trouble he has with names.  To my mind, remembering the "heroes of the Alamo" (William Travis, Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett) is no problem, but those names drive Dmitry nuts.  "Jim" particularly fritzes him out, for some reason.  I guess it just depends upon what you're used to.  He'd consider his own birth name, Dmitry Vasilevitch Davidov, quite ordinary.  Something like Vladimir Filonov? Oksana Yablokova? Galina Kurlyandskaya? Anatoly Medetsky?

Those are nice, normal names, apparently.  (Snagged 'em off the Moscow Times web site.)

Whereas John Fremont?

"Impossible!" he mutters in frustration.
 

I am giving consideration to investing in companies that manufacture wallets.

Surely, with the proliferation of frequent shopper cards, discount cards, et al today's current wallet styles are far too small!

Tom Thumb.  Kroger.  Albertson's.  CVS (that's a new one from yesterday).  The S-T Press Pass.  Sam's Club.  Blockbuster.  SuperCuts.

It's nuts.

Dmitry received an email from Svetlana (his 24 year old cousin, presently residing in Samara as she attends university) this morning, and in January she'd visited Cheboksary, which is definitely "home" to her.  While there she found the opportunity to go to Dmitry's and her old stomping grounds, Alatyr (ah-LAH-tier), where she happened upon three of Dmitry's friends from that period, who sent their regards to him.

His best friend from Alatyr, a boy also named Dmitry (that's a very popular name in Russia), has a computer and cell phone (well, his father has the cell phone) now.  Goin' uptown in Alatyr, apparently!  No internet access in that town yet, regrettably.  Isn't that a pity?  Otherwise the two Dmitrys could correspond.

Of course, the Texas Dmitry is a perfectly wretched correspondent, judging by the plaintive requests from Sveta and Elena and Julia for him to WRITE, for crying out loud. 

How on earth does one compel a 14 year old boy to write letters? 

I've not been able to find a way.