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“Sing.” -Mary Schmich

Today I am singing the praises of small cheats.

Nothing serious of course.

A shortcut when doing chores, a quick cheats recipe when cooking dinner, time saving measures when you are short on… time.

And that brings me to my post today. Which is a cheat…because I officially did not write it today.

But from the first day I saw Mary’s word “sing” I could not get this post out of my head. It’s tune ran over and over in my mind, like a popular song that you just can’t shake off.

It was the fourth blog I’d ever written, before I learnt  how to add links or even how to socially let people know I was writing a blog.  I think it was read by three people.

But the reason I have chosen to repost it is because it really means something to me. And I think it is relevant to today’s topic of : “sing”.

So flame me if you like for cheating.

But otherwise, sit back and I hope you enjoy…

ps… I don’t think Miley Cyrus tweets anymore… social media… it’s damn hard to keep up with….

 

abba

Abba and Kiss and Maths and Mercurochrome

Miss 8 just told me that my way of doing subtraction was ‘old fashioned.” On a piece of paper she jots down a two figure sum and proceeds to demonstrate the modern way of doing math.

 “See Mummy’ she said, ‘makes more sense.” I need a cup of tea.

  “Now can we practice my song for choir?”

  “Sure.” I say with confidence. Singing. I can do that.

She pulls out the lyrics. It’s an ABBA medley. She starts singing Money, Money, Money.

 

When I was a kid you were either a Kiss fan or an Abba chick. Abba was the wholesome choice for a teacher’s pet such as my self. I sat at the front of the classroom and my arm went up lolly-pop-stick straight when I knew the answer. I couldn’t fathom all that heavy rock, men in makeup and skin tight, ball breaking stretchy fabrics. They were all sexed-up, jagged black and white and blood red tongues.

My sister and I, along with a gazillion other little girls, pretended to be the Abba lead singers whenever we could. My Dad bought us the album where they were all sitting in the bubble helicopter. That black vinyl swirled more times on our record player than any other disc we owned. With each song play I grew more mad for the blonde, with her smooth straight, yellow hair and whispy centre part. I dreamt of owning a white jumpsuit that zippered up the front- with sequined flare pants and maybe a braided white and gold belt hung low on the hips. I wrote in my diary that I wanted to marry a man who plays the piano.

When Kiss played at V.F.L park in Melbourne’s south eastern suburbs I climbed onto the top rung of our back yard fence and listened to the low thrum of their rocked-out bass-beat float over my neighborhood. As night filtered through the dusk I slipped down off the fence and ended up with a wood splinter in my finger. Mum picked it out with a burnt needle (oh the agony) and then painted a smiley Mercurochrome face on it. In bed I pulled my pillow over my ears and hummed Abba songs until I fell asleep.

My daughter has an ipod that she likes to fall asleep with.  Her teenage cousin loaded it with songs from High School Musical and Pink and Demi Lovato. She doesn’t  know what the sleeve of the artist’s albums look like, but she knows how to Twitter with Miley Cyrus. I wonder what I would have said to Agnetha if Twitter had been around when I was a little girl?

Miss 8 has started singing the Waterloo segment of the medley. I stop to correct her melody and then look closely at the words,

…..The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself…

She’s singing with her sweet high pitchy voice, swaying in time to the beat.

I go get us two hairbrushes (after all- it’s the only honest way to sing Abba) and join in.

Wa, wa, wa, wa,

Waterloo

Finally facing my Waterloo

Ohhh Oh Oh Oh

Waterloo

Finally facing my Waterloo

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