Somebody help her, she is agog for Abba.
Sitting here in my office tapping out stories for the week, I’ve been distracted by an over-the-top and way off-key rendering of “Take a Chance on Me.”
On a scale of one to 10 – the latter being the utmost in hilarity – it ranks a solid eight. I give her a 10 for her massacre of “Mamma Mia,” complete with the phrase “talking to her sister,” where the rest of us would sing “how can I resist ya.”
The fault is only partially mine – her introduction to sugary sweet Swedish pop came at the hands of her grandparents with the first viewing of the Meryl Streep movie that’s got guaranteed DVD sales as long as there are 4-year-olds on this earth.
Devoid of danger, curse words or violence, it’s cleaner than your average kids cartoon today, and talk about a childhood obesity blaster. There’s nothing like a band their parents would be ashamed to adore (and still do) to make them get up and move around like, well, like Dancing Queens.
And, oy, there’s the rub. Because for Christmas the request was her own copy of the DVD, and her very own gateway drug came from the grandparents with a CD of the “band’s” (we must use that word lightly) greatest hits.
And as no one really listens to CDs anymore (or so the lists of the things made obsolete in the aughts tells me), onto my iPod they all have gone – from Chiquitita all the way to Waterloo.
Now I’m stuck.
Because giggling at a tot’s interpretation of “a rich man’s world,” is one thing. Setting your iPod to shuffle on the drive home from nursery school – having already dropped both 4-year-olds off and thus being alone – only to have “Money, Money, Money” pop up . . . and find yourself singing along, is another.
She has 20 years to develop some good taste.
For me it’s just too late.
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