Stuck In My Head

Get out of my head, Johnny!

I am at the point right now where I am ready to make an appointment to go to the hospital to have the lyrics of "The Most Wonderful Day of the Year" surgically removed from my brain.

In fact, forget the hospital.

 

I don't need sterile fields and sanitary practices--I am ready to be voluntarily strapped to a table and have a man in a goulash stained lab coat and his assistant, Igor, enter my brain and scoop out the portion labeled "Christmas Song Retention Zone" with an iced tea spoon.

I'm ready, boys.

 A packful of toys means a sackful of joys
For millions of girls and for millions of boys

Please make it stop.

In late November, these songs were welcome in my head, even invited in when I first nodded my assent to Seth who, day and night in his pre-holiday vigil, stood eagerly by the CD player from October on, waiting for my permission to press play for his favorite holiday CDs.

I cheerfully sang along to "Silver Bells" for a week or two and, in the car, allowed the radio stations that switch formats to all Christmas early in the season try and convince me that "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas," while I merrily cut people off and gave the finger to old ladies driving Buicks.

Eartha.

Soon after, however, initiated by Earth Kitt's purring rendition of "Santa Baby," I realized that something had gone awry.

A jack in the box waits for children to shout,
"Wake up, don't you know that it's time to come out!"

Christmas music had gotten stuck in my head.

Like the time, one of the boys (very recently) stuck an uncooked lasagne noodle into the VCR, this music wasn't going anywhere without a screwdriver and a prayer.

Toys galore

Scattered on the floor
There's no room for more
And it's all because of Santa Claus!

Every Christmas, it tends to be a different song. This year the honor goes to "The Most Wonderful Day of the Year," reedily delivered by the inimitable Johnny Mathis.

It plays over world news in the evening, the voice of the checkout girl admonishing that I can only have four cans of tuna for a buck apiece and drowns out Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" in the car when I finally find a station not playing holiday music.

Ka-pow.

It got really bad last night. As I lay in bed, the lyrics ricocheted off every available surface of my frontal lobe until I staggered into the kitchen to search for the meat tenderizer/brain liberator that I used on the flank steak the other night. Thankfully it hadn't yet made it out of the dishwasher and into its drawer and the music in my head was so loud that I was unable to deduce this simple fact.

A scooter for Jimmy, a dolly for Sue
The kind that will even say "How do you do."

Those kids better watch out. 

I want to mangle that little bitch Sue and her friggin' dolly as well as wrap that deviant Jimmy's scooter around his head but I cannot think beyond the chorus, repeated by the delirious Mr. Mathis again and again and again and...

When Christmas Day is here
The most wonderful day of the year.

I fear there is no hope. At least not until spring when the strains of "In my Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it," enter my brain, finally evicting Christmas.

I'm leaving the meat tenderizer out on the counter.