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Wow. Eight years ago today Cheburashka was born. I'm slightly shocked. Last night she dictated the plans for her birthday party (to be held at her summer camp); I was not included at all in the planning. I was just told how much cash to hand over.
Eight. Today we measured her height: she's 4 feet, 4 inches tall. I'm 5'6. She's gaining on me, people. I better start wearing platform shoes. Or stilts.
8. She's still my widgie-woo. I don't care how old she is.
Not that hard to maintain when you don't have a computer.
I'm off to Harrypotterland for the weekend, where I'll ignore the needs of my child while reading the book. So far I've managed to ignore possible spoilers (though, usually I ask people the endings of movies I haven't seen yet). I kinda wanna know, but then again I don't. I'm signing off after this post, so... don't even try it.
Have a great weekend.
Who knows why, but I was thinking today of all the different dances I just had to learn when I was young. Hey, everyone was doing them. But now, I can remember the names but I'll be danged if I can remember the actual dance. Like the Webo. How did that go, again? Must look it up on YouTube.
What else? The Pee Wee. The Rock/Freak. The Wopp (okay, I still do that one). And of course, the Snake. Any NY-ers remember a commercial for some nightclub where every-damn-one on the dance floor was doing the Snake? God, I'm old.
I can still do a respectable Butterfly, but I can't for the life of me do the Running Man. Little kids run circles around me with that, but I just can't. I look like I'm having a grand mal seizure while trying to guide a landing plane. What dance do you remember?
Tomorrow I'm going to see the new Harry Potter movie. And yes, I'm freaking out in my pants over the release of the last book. Say what you will (I'm looking at you, Cari), but I'm as psyched as any 12 year old.
I hate you. That is all.
No wait- that is not all. You suck. And if I ever catch the bus driver that left a dozen of us (including my kid and an elderly woman) standing in a full-on thunderstorm while he (or she) whisked away in a nearly empty bus... well. I won't say what I'll do, but it won't be pretty. Don't get me started on how sometimes I have to wait 20 minutes for a local train to come (so I can go two stops) while four locals-masquerading as express trains- whizz by.
I'd get a car, but then there's that whole congestion pricing thing to look forward to. Bah.
In other news: after weeks of dithering, I've finally found something to knit. Bomb (Bomber? Something like that) from Denim People in ecru Elann Den-m-it. Or, as I call it, Dammit. Because it's hard knitting, that cotton.
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