I am going over to Mom's house for dinner.
I walk in. The house smells wonderful. There is music playing and Mom is in the kitchen, cooking and singing. "Hi Mom," I say.
"There's mud all over the door," sings Mom. She turns to me, "Hi Hon!" then back to her skillet and singing. "There's mud all over the door."
"Uh, Mom?" I say.
"What?" says Mom. "There's MUD all OVER the door!"
I turn down the radio. "It's 'Let my love open the door,'" I say pronouncing each word. "That's what Pete Townshend is singing in the song. He's not singing, 'There's mud all over the door.' He's saying, 'Let my love open the door.'"
"Oh," she says, deflating. Her eyes shift left then right as she considers this.
"Let my love open the door," I sing, a demonstration. I nod, bob my eyebrows up and down. "No mud," I say. "Love."
Mom blinks at me.
"Love not mud," I say. "No mud."
"Oh yeah?" says Mom. "Well, I like the mud version." She cranks up the radio and belts out, "There's mud all over the door!"
Sorry, Pete, but Mom is clearly the winner on this one.