It was a lazy Sunday morning in our house. Even the dust particles dancing in the sunlight seemed to float more slowly through the air. The teenagers were silent in their slumber. These are my favourite kind of mornings, when the day unfolds slowly without the push of schedules and chores, as it should.
It’s also the only morning of the week the Carpenter and I are home together. We get time to catch up on the week that was and plan the one to come. Quality time.
Together we were making our classic brunch: bacon, eggs, home fries and toast. The coffee was brewing. The Carpenter supervised the bacon sizzling on the grill and stirred the home fries in the pan while I buttered the toast, and got the eggs prepped. The radio was turned on and tuned into an all 80s hits weekend (naturally). Dancing in the kitchen is mandatory in our house and because it was nearing 10am, we decided to crank the volume to encourage our teens to get moving.
The classic AC/DC song You Shook Me All Night Long, came on. The Carpenter went straight to playing air guitar with the spatula, singing off key. I rolled my eyes.
I realize this is an unpopular opinion but, I am not a fan of AC/DC. Hold your judgement. I get why everyone likes their rough sound and the guitarist in the school uniform. Bad boys. Hard rock. I get it. But like, I don’t get it. The Carpenter knows my feelings on this band. We respectfully agree to disagree. He will never appreciate Depeche Mode or The Cure. Fair enough.
When it got to the line about “knocking me out with those American thighs,” I grimaced, as I always do. Such a cheap line, really. I mean, thighs? I guess in the ‘80s that was a safe body part. I want to argue the patriotic value of Canadian thighs, but as we’re not discussing chickens here, I’m already unhappy to even have evoked this debate.
“You know what gets me about this song?” I said as if he was listening. “This singer, who was by no means sexy, surely lived this experience and had female companionship that most guys only dream about. And guys sing along as if they actually relate, because that fantasy never goes away. Somewhere inside, you’re all still 12 years old.” The Carpenter, still bobbing his head to the song, nodded in agreement.
“Because let’s face it, very few men ever enter the arena of their dream goddess. Like really, truly, have that encounter in reality. This isn’t to say they don’t love their spouses or girlfriends, but I mean, you guys love this song because you haven’t let the fantasy of hot-girl-in-the-rock-video go.”
The Carpenter was only half listening to me, which is half more than usual, so I threw in a curveball.
“Not all guys ever met their fantasy girl.” Brief pause. “Except you, of course.”
And as quickly as cracking an egg, the Carpenter clapped back, “So true. I just wish I could remember her name.”
Point for the Carpenter. Well played. Bravo. I couldn’t help but laugh, both at him and with him.
Love, laughter and bacon makes for a good Sunday when you dance together in the kitchen. And you should always make time for that.
