Tell The Kids I Loved Them, II

We're going to Prokofiev's War & Peace and may never be seen again.

(Though we did get home eventually last time.)
Let no one say I don't adore my husband, his preference for tub-thumping over melody notwithstanding, nor that I don't take on impressive Lenten penances.

Update: Well, the opera ended before we dehydrated, which is all I really ask of any 12-tone composition. Verdict: Russians can sure sing, but Prokofiev is a tease. You keep thinking you're about to hear a nice melody, but never do.

When liner-note translation goes bad:
Disgusted with his wife, his brother-in-law, and the others, Pierre wishes he could live according to his humanitarian instincts.
Hilarious. I told Mr. W. the next time the house is a mess, dinner's not ready, the kids are bickering and I have a column due, I am going to pound my hand on the table and shout, "I wish I could live according to my humanitarian instincts!"