Month: March 2005

  • Well, it took nearly a year and a half, but for the first time since we
    adopted Dmitry, I've had cause to wonder where he was and stand
    anxiously on the porch, peering into the darkness.

    Taylor had been over, along with some other boy, and when they left Dmitry went with them, saying "I'm going outside, Mom."

    Fine.  No problem.  Assumed they'd stand or sit on the porch
    and continue their in-depth, mostly ignorant discussion of the PSP.

    An hour later it's dark and I haven't a clue where
    he is.  I know Taylor lives in the apartments across the street,
    but don't know which one.  I could probably locate his phone
    number on one of the phones' Caller ID records, but rather disliked to
    do that.  Not unless it was necessary.

    Don shrugged it off, pointing out he's 14 1/2 years old, for crying out
    loud, and he's seen Taylor be over here until 8 p.m. or so, therefore
    Dmitry's doubtless just enjoying himself by visiting Taylor's home and
    playing his games for a change.

    And such turned out to be the case.  At 8:05 or so Dmitry strolled
    in, happily bearing three borrowed PS2 games, and in an excellent mood.

    Of course, I know it's nice he's finally visited a friend's home . . . such a normal thing
    for a boy to do!  But it was much less wearing on the nerves
    always knowing exactly where he was.  Don says, "Let go, Anne."

    Let GO? 

    But I just got him.  

  • Do you ever fixate on attempting to do something Highly Unlikely To Work Out?

    No, not kimonos.  Very funny. 

    This weekend is the open house at the Joint Navel Air Base here in Fort
    Worth, and part of the festivities is a visit by the Blue Angels. 
    Our house tends to be in their fly-over zone, and this afternoon
    they've zoomed overhead a couple of times.  Managed to get outside
    in time to see four planes in formation whooshing toward the south.

    Not in time to take a picture, though.

    So I've been essentially stalking them ever since.  First I waited
    out on the front porch for a good fifteen minutes, then gave up and
    came back inside, periodically rushing outside whenever the sound of
    jet engines can be heard.

    At least three times I have Officially Given Up, only to grab the camera and dash for the door the next time I'd hear jet noise.

    Talk about an exercise in futility!

  • [defensively]  Now, I never claimed to be a competent
    seamstress.  It's not much, unfortunately.  But it's almost
    done . . . only the snaps remain to be put on:

    Maybe the next one'll come out better. 

    BTW, Cindy, I took your advice about the neck.  ;^)

  • Oh yes.  Here's why I'm stalking rogue bits of infant flannel and attempting to turn it into something wearable:

    Do those cheeks give you a case of Baby Munchies or what? 

    A week and a half and I'll be holding her and squeezing her and kissing her and nibbling her toes and  . . . . 

  • There's nothing like a moderated email list to provide opportunities to
    exercise those all-important humility muscles, you know it?

    Sent a message to a particular list I'm on (did it at the list site
    itself, even), about the morality of the lottery, and it's been three
    hours but it hasn't been posted.  Others have been posted,
    mind.  Others on that very same topic.  But not mine.

    Nope.  Mine is nowhere to be seen.

    Well, that's okay.  Not like everyone in the world needs to hear from me
    on all topics, right?  Most likely sending in a message was an
    ego-rub on my part.  Though I was careful to ascertain no one had
    made the particular point I was making.  Didn't want to waste the
    list's time being redundant.

    Always thinking of others, that's me. 

  • Alright, someone remind me why I
    thought buying a sewing machine and patterns and material and
    dressmaking shears so as to try anew The Wonderful World Of Sewing was
    a wonderful idea?

    'Cause I've just unpacked the new sewing machine and am already lost.  

    For one thing, I wish to mercy the manufacturer would not feel it
    incumbent upon it to print the instruction manual in multiple
    languages.  Not being the sharpest needle in the pack, this
    confuses me more than a little.  Yeah, yeah, fine, English is
    first, but when there are several sets of instructions on a page, it's
    a trial trying to locate the English.

    And to be fair, I cannot begin to imagine what a pain it must be to be
    stuck wading through various languages in a search for your own, buried
    somewhere in the middle.

    Threading the bobbin!  What a nuisance.  Pull the thread
    through the hole in the bobbin from the inside.  Huh? 

    And another thing . . . !

    Alex and Beth better keep Hannah away from an open flame, that's all I
    can say, because if there's any flame-retardant layette material,
    intended for children's sleepwear, out there, I can't find it. 
    The woman at the fabric store stared at me in perplexity when I
    inquired as to where they're keeping the material that IS suitable for
    children's sleepwear.  Baffled, she led me to the area I'd already
    perused, filled to the brim with cute fabrics with bows and bunnies and
    kittens and baby pins, all obviously intended for babies.  I
    showed her (people love it when I do this) that each and every one of
    'em had "NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN'S SLEEPWEAR" on the board around
    which the bolt of fabric is wrapped.

    What's a Gran to do?  I already had the sewing machine and the vintage pattern ordered off eBay (thanks a LOT, Cindy!).

    So the clerk and I decided I'd just have to warn Hannah's parents to
    keep her away from fire.  Which is probably a good idea anyway.

  • Moosie finds the Kewlest Stuff!

    Go here, to see this blog with, um, breakfast. 

  • [with deep, heartfelt exasperation]  That Boy!!!  

    Yes, I mean Dmitry.

    It's amazing to me how spring brings out the worst in my children, at
    least as regards school. Always has, and apparently the tradition
    continues with Dmitry, who had detention this morning for an offense
    yesterday, and by golly if he isn't in trouble again

    Yesterday was him "refusing to sit by the seating chart in the
    cafeteria", which is rather odd as I've never heard of seating charts
    in school cafeterias.  He'd received a second admonishment
    yesterday because of his shirt not being tucked in.

    He absolutely hates having his shirt tucked in.  Loathes it.  This has been an ongoing problem. 

    Happened again today.  This time he'll receive detention plus have to write sentences to boot.

    I realize there are certainly worse behavior problems, but his dogged
    refusal to obey the dress code is getting on everyone's nerves, both at
    school and, subsequently, at home.  Grrrrr.........

  • Okay, this is not a new gripe, but it's one that raised its frustrating
    head today, and blog material's running low, so think of it as a spring

    Why on earth can't they put page numbers on ALL magazine pages? 
    There was a feature I wanted to look at in Time - a piece on the Sony
    PSP - and according to the table of contents I should turn to page 74.

    Well, that was a whole lot easier read than done.

    The last page was numbered 80.

    The last numbered page prior to that was page 60.

    Except there's a fourteen page advertising supplement (naturally sans
    pagination) between pages 60 and 80, so that by actual, physical count,
    the piece on Time's page 74 is in reality on page 88.

    Counted 'em off myself. 

    This is simply silly.  It's a headache if one is attempting to
    turn to a particular page in the magazine in any case without proper
    pagination, but if they're gonna put "hidden" pages in that throw off
    the count, I call that cheating. 

  • I hope everyone had a delightful Easter!  We certainly did . . .
    there was church this morning, then a family celebration at Mom's this

    Aren't they the cutest little things you ever saw? 

    They're big on mugging for the cameras, as you can see.  Aunt
    Jeanne was off to my left . . . that's who Benjamin was beaming at.

    Of course Bryson must have bunny ears, too, decrees his Uncle Dmitry.

    Eventually Bryson was tuckered out, and grabbed a snooze with Uncle Louis.

    It was a lovely day!