Mama Mia and the Art of Bedroom Wars

mama miaB. comes home with a box. He says it’s a new boombox, by Bose. It’s wireless and ubercool and magical in ways I can’t comprehend.

It’s not like we don’t have any in our house.  When asked why we need a new one in addition to the brand’s entire model row represented in our household he says, “Because you turned the one we have upstairs off.”

Sounds like a logical explanation, considering that it’s true, and for the past decade we have this ongoing debate about the music in our home. In scope, it’s similar to the “who’s holding the remote” debate, and we have made progress with the introduction of the satellite radio stations, Pandora make-your-own radio and Google music.

B. took the new toy to the bedroom and plugged it in. I took a deep breath.

And then our bedroom irrupted with “You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life…!” All my favorite songs from Abba’s Mama Mia musical. Years ago, B. bought us tickets to its US premier in Los Angeles. T. got us a CD, and we sang along for the four-hour drive there. We also spent a night in hotel in Japantown where they had fluffy slippers and a noodle shop on the ground floor, but that’s beside the point.

So what did we do at 1 am in our bedroom? We danced.  We forgot all about our remote wars and just danced.  Mr. Highness the cat thought we were insane and left. We didn’t care. Oh, and the boombox gets to stay. As long as we get to jive.

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