The boys did some good work for me yesterday, and I rewarded them with a trip to the local dollar movie.
(By the way, our dollar movie has raised its prices to $1.50, but somehow "the dollar-fifty movie" doesn’t quite flow off the tongue as nicely, does it?)
My kids had been begging to see Alvin and the Chipmunks. And I was just as excited as I could possibly be, because an hour and a half of listening to chipmunk voices sounds like the very stuff that dreams are made of!
In a moment of cleverness on our way out the door, I grabbed the book I’m reading and my little book light. We sat at the back of the theater, and I got some good reading done while Alvin, Simon and Theodore did their stuff. I had one tiny moment of guilt, wondering if my book light would disturb anyone around me. But hey, I thought, it’s the dollar-fifty movie, folks. You get what you pay for.
Nobody was disturbed (I even turned the booklight sideways just to be sure, giving myself an arm cramp and a headache in the process), and I finished my book. (It was so stunningly excellent I may have to break my own no-book-review policy in a future blog post.)
But that kind of productivity comes at a price, my friends. While my mind was riveted to the words on the page, the words of the Chipmunks were evidently funneled straight into my subconscious. I have been ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-banging myself into near madness all day.
Somebody make it stop.