Saturday, January 5, 2013
Yesterday afternoon I took the twins to see Les Miserables, leaving the younger two with their dad for a moment of escape. It's been raining and chilly for days, topped off by the colds-that-never-end. (Praise God, they are finally letting up all around, however.) This means hyper, bored children who have not had sufficient release of energy in quite some time.
An unnamed little girl in the bus is bouncing off the walls, and since there isn't a playground at this park, she has taken to climbing me and her dad. Literally. She stands at the corner of a bench in the bus and sort of leaps on us when we walk by. We tell her to stop. She says she's sorry, bouncing away, then does it again 10 minutes later because she has lost all sense of self control and has the attention span of a goldfish these days.
An unnamed young male child is writing a book report, or I should say rewriting a failed book report, and I'm pretty sure he believes a massive root canal would be far less painful. His older sisters are in charge of his writing, both because they take a perverse pleasure in bossing him around, and because writing is their passion. It would be a win/win, except for the fact that us parents are still in charge of enforcing the actual sit-down-and-write part, between spasms of dramatic outburst over how much he HATES WRITING.
Really? We didn't know that! We would never have our poor little bunny do something he hates. I'm so glad he let us know so we would stop such unpleasantries. Yeahh...
So, off I escaped to Les Miserables to spend two hours and forty minutes enjoying fabulously composed music sung by mediocre singing big names. Except Anne Hathaway. She was simply amazing. I thought I wouldn't like to see Ella Enchanted in such a role, but that was a stunning performance.
Overall, I did love the movie, but I'm a singing snob when it comes to such productions. I have seen Les Mis on stage, owned the soundtrack, watched the live reunion, sang the karaoke songs... Russell Crowe simply did not deliver and had no business playing Javert. Hugh Jackman gets a pass as Jean Valjean because he's Wolverine and I'll never see him as anything else, so I'll let his occasional poor intonation go. (Russell Crowe may have been Maximus in Gladiator, but since it's rated R and I don't watch rated R movies, he doesn't get points for that.)
Side note: As one who doesn't watch rated R movies, the "Master of the House" scene could have been watered down a bit and the point still made, even though it is a trashy song representing trashy people, but I suppose it is Hollywood. Their job is the lowest common denominator. I admit, Fantine's made a bit more sense. It's pivotal.
We returned home to pizza and the hyper ones. Around that time I start getting text messages from someone whose phone number I didn't recognize, asking us whether or not we'd be playing at an event next weekend. I responded while Michael googled the phone number. The texter mentioned how we were amazing and how he saw us last year. Ding-ding. Ok, we found a hit on google, put two and two together and we think we figured out who it was. Our fuzzy memory had a slight recollection of a young man who loved our music, raved about us, and we think he may have had a thing for twin #1, certain one of her songs was going to make it really big someday. Ok, maybe he didn't have a thing for her, (Michael and I are pretty sure he did), but even if he didn't, never let go of a good opportunity to torture your teenager.
To confirm, I ask who this is in my next text, and the phone rings. Same number. I ignore it, but make a noise about said twin's "fan" is calling. She gets bug eyed tries to escape the bus to go hide in the van. Phone rings again and I give the phone to Michael and tell him he's the dad and he has to answer all young men calling. Michael refuses. I call him a wimp ('cause I'm pathetic at the respectful wife thing), and I tell the girls that I suppose I'll have to be the one cleaning the gun when young men come to call, because their dad won't even answer the phone. It goes to messages. Message left. Text returned. With Netflix blasting and getting ready to leave for Walmart, I wasn't going to talk on the phone anyway, but it was fun for a bit of teenage torture.
I still remember the guy at a homeschool event where we played who Alex said "really loved her guitar!" Uh... I don't think it was the guitar he liked. Their cluelessness stuns me. Naturally, I brought that up during the teenage torture session. Of course, he was initially fascinated by the banjo, but since the banjo player wouldn't talk to him (she's the twin who doesn't talk unless it's to boss her brother around), he found himself adoring that awesome blueridge guitar. Katie took that as a moment to gloat to her sister about her superior method for discouraging unwanted attention.
Neither have any interest in romance, though we have told them we would like them to grow up eventually and notice someone besides the guys in the novels they write. Grandchildren would be appreciated eventually. They look at us like we're the weird ones for thinking they should someday learn to speak to guys, let alone care about that icky thing called romance. Eh. At least we don't have to worry about them falling in love and leaving the band anytime soon. Perhaps in another time they would be old maids by now, but thankfully at this point in history they are looked at as young with plenty of time.
Mary is already having to be reigned in over dazzling dreams of looking pretty for this or that boy. Michael is rather horrified. She's never to have eyes for anyone but her daddy, I suppose. Or at least not until she's 72.
We decided we better practice before we left for Walmart, tired voices and all, but we have gospel music to refresh after all that Christmas music. Concentration stunk and the dramatic book report writer was plucking on the strings of his fiddle during a part of a song where he wasn't supposed to be playing. I took my mandolin pick and tapped him on the head. I got an "ow" in return, and a comment about how I was "picking" on him. He lamented that he doesn't have a pick to pick on me back, only a fiddle bow. I told him he could go all "Texas String-Saw Massacre" and started laughing when I was supposed to be singing, because I'm a really bad influence. Michael gave me a look, kept on singing and playing. I had to stop for a minute to get a drink and snicker at how very funny I was, even though no one got the joke except Michael, whom I had to scold for not backing up his wife by laughing at her really lame joke. He apologized and agreed it was his duty. Somehow we did manage to get through the practice session after a discussion about bad grade B horror movies from the 70s.
Yes, we're always like this.