Street Level

I’ve got a new theme song. Well, it’s not really new — in fact, it’s marking its 40th anniversary today.

But it’s new to me. Never really had a theme song before.

The words are still relevant and will be sung to my family both here and in Ontario until they start to show me the respect I’m due.

Yes, much to the dismay of my tribe of children, Aretha’s going to be glued into the CD player, the remote will be in my hand, the power will always be on and the minute they start in, well, can’t you hear her now?

“All I’m askin’ is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit) . . “

There are oh, so many reasons.

Let’s start with a simple one that happened in October.

My daughter called. She and two of her brothers live in Ontario.

She asked what I was up to, the kind of casual conversation mothers have with their adult children.

I told her I was getting ready to go to a fashion show.

‘You’re what?”

A fashion show. You know, where women sit around and look at clothes.

“A. Fashion. Show. Right.

“You know, mom, that’s where people go who actually get fashion. And I mean from this century, not the ‘60s. I mean, really, mom, you haven’t been in fashion since grandma dressed you.”

She then started this uncontrollable laughter, broken only by gasped words that she had to go call her brothers. They needed a good laugh too, apparently.

I love that girl. I really do. I remind myself of that often.

Moms bake at Christmas.

It’s written somewhere, probably in snow, but it’s a truism.

My mother baked at Christmas.

Heck, she made her own fruitcake, shortbreads, some sort of fruit bread twisted into a truly fascinating knot, as well as another 20 dozen squares, all featuring red, green or white somethings somewhere.

My grandmother baked at Christmas. I think she may have started the fruitcake obsession and she had the neatest metal cookie cutters.

I remember shaking those green and red sprinkly things on cookie after cookie after cookie.

You get the picture.

So, I don’t bake at Christmas.

But this year, for reasons that escape me, I signed up for the office cookie exchange.

And, the night before the cookies were due, naturally, it was time to bake. But first things first. Does anyone know where the mixer is?

“With the iron?” my beloved suggested.

“What’s a mixer?” the teenager asked. “Have you ever used one before?”

One simple glare cleared the room quickly, with the three of them heading off “before you burn the kitchen down.”

I’m not sure which one of them said it. But I love them. I really do.

I remind myself of that often.

Apparently, the entire world knows how to play poker as well, including my teenager.

I don’t. Let’s just say that the next time we play Rummoli, Aretha’s gonna be the soundtrack.

But the ultimate — the one that continually galls me because one can only be humiliated so much before one starts to wonder — happens every single Thursday night at 9 p.m.

And, even though it is exposing me to communitywide ridicule, I’m including it because perhaps saying the words out loud will make them go away — or, at the very least, remove that one truth my beloved holds over me from his own control and share it with others.

You see, several years ago, when the original CSI first aired, my sweetie was singing along with the theme song. He’s a major Who fan and, well, I think we were watching it just for the song.

These days, I know we are.

Because, in a rare moment of complete, total and utter trust of my one true love, I expressed amazement at the words to that song.

Apparently the lyrics are: “Who are you? Who, who? Who, who?”

From the time Roger Daltrey first sang those words, I thought he was singing “Blue water, blue blue, blue blue.”

Yes, I know, that meant the song didn’t make much sense. But then few of you out there probably also thought Paul Brandt was singing “My heart has a disco beat,” did you?

So, every Thursday night, after the crime is committed, my hubby gets that look, the one that says, “Of course I’m gonna sing it. I’m gonna sing about the blue water.”

And then he laughs. Every week.

So that’s why I’ve got a new theme song. And I know what the words are. I downloaded them.

And I’ll be singing them a lot for a while.

dale@kamloopsthisweek.com

Posted by Dale at 10:23 a.m. Comments