Let me explain. A couple of months ago, Mrs. Magill (a woman whom I love and adore) asked me whether I’d like to see Mama Mia.
“Isn’t that the ABBA musical?” I replied. I knew exactly what it was, and had dreaded its release. You see, it took until the mid eighties for me to rid my brane of ABBA songs. They’re so fucking catchy.
“Yeah - did you want to see it?”
“Uh…” Crap - she was going to call in her chit for my making her sit through Daredevil. That’s not fair. I had to sit through Daredevil, too.
“The girls wanted to see it, and I didn’t want to go with them if you were wanting to see it.”
An escape route! “Oh, no. You go with them, and have fun. You haven’t had a night out without me, Fang, and Spike in a while. Go have a grown-up evening.”
So they go and have a fun time. I wrangle a five year old and a one year old, but at least there was no ABBA involved. Win-win.
Last month, she bought the sound track. She only plays it in her car. Unfortunately, this means that Fang get regular exposure, and he’s loving it. I’ve tried to reason with him. “Look son,” I tell him, “it’s like pure sugar.”
“I like sugar.”
“I know that, but you know how sugar is bad for you and will rot your teeth? ABBA will rot your brain. Listen to your Police and BOC songs when you’re not in Mama’s car. Trust me, you’ll thanks me in ten years when you’re not humming Dancing Queen.”
“Mama says you’re silly, Da.” And he walks off singing, “Money, money, money…” Poor kid.
Last weekend we went to Raleigh for my High School reunion. Both Fang and Spike were clamoring for Mama Mia, so Mrs. Magill put it on. I’m not complaining. We took her car, she gets to pick the music.
Today, I caught myself humming Dancing Queen, Mama Mia, and Honey Honey. I love my wife more than you could imagine, but I afraid she’s going to have to die.
