Ragamuffins

I took The Hooligans to The Nutcracker.  I called The Man Who Lives in my House to see whether he wanted a ticket.

His response:"Why are you taking them to the Nutcracker?  Let's take them to Avatar."

Isn't the Nutcracker a cornerstone of western xmas civ.?  You've got to go once so you'll understand why you hear that "doo-doo/doo-doo DOOT-doo DOOO!!!dodooleeleedddooo"  music around the holidays.  And it's the only holiday music I can stand.  And Erika's daughter is an unrecognizable angel in the second act.

"You go for it," he said,  "I'm going to be a little busy."

So we did, but first we had to get dressed.  In real clothes--as in shirts with buttons and collars.  And socks that matched.  And a belt.  And not those pants, they have a hole. All the pants have a hole, or are about to.  Even the "nice" ones.  Much exasperation and eye rolling ensued from all parties.
Finally, they seemed presentable enough. Off we went to the Hult Center, where packs of exquisitely turned out children in shiny shoes and bow ties and matching sibling outfits were scampering about.

My children were ragamuffins.  Especially after intermission, when the smaller one's chocolate cookie ended up smeared all over his shirt.

As for The Nutcracker, there were questions and comments:  Why is she so crazy about a nutcracker?  Why don't they use the nutcracker to crack nuts?  How do they stand up on their toes like that?  Why do the boys always carry the girls around? Why aren't the boys wearing pants? Why don't they talk?  Why do they just dance?  Are they getting married?  Why do people in shows always get married.  I hope they don't kiss, I hate that.

I don't think we're ready for opera.