Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (My Way)

Let the Christmas battles begin.

To maintain familial harmony, one must choose their battles wisely. This doesn't change just because Santa is watching.

Trust me.

Being The Queen Mom, Supreme Ruler of All Things Domestic Which Require Cleaning, Feeding, Mending, Signing, Cooking or Washing/Drying/Folding (and part-time Taxi Driver), I usually get to set the rules for general holiday decorating and celebrating at our house. I'm also the only one who knows where the decorations are stored (because I'm the one who puts them away every year), and the only one brave enough to venture to the dark recesses of the storage room where they are stored (which made it a great place to hide Christmas gifts), so I have a leg up.

With the house in disarray due to The Great Remodeling Project, I was really, really, NOT looking forward to putting up the Christmas tree this year. It's a hassle most years trying to find a home for all the crap that needs to be put away to make room for the tree. This year all that “other” storage space is already in use... as well as any flat surface I can find.

But over the weekend I decided that we didn't need a 24-inch wide path through the family room when a 18-inch wide path would do. And besides, it's not gonna get any better before Christmas, so what the heck?

Up went the tree.

Well, it wasn't quite that easy.

Despite the fact that I am a horrible housekeeper, I have a fairly involved cleaning process (some might call it anal retentive) when it comes to Putting Up The Tree. The pre-tree steps include, but are not limited to: putting away the crap that is already out (cramming everything in storage boxes and stacking those boxes on top of the boxes already in the storage area/family room), dusting (for the first time since last Christmas), vacuuming (for the second time since last Christmas), moving all the stuff that has been piled on top of the Christmas tree box since last Christmas (and cussing), hauling the box upstairs (cussing), trying to remember how to put the tree together (less cussing since I wrote myself notes on the box), carrying in the box back downstairs, piling the crap back on top of the box, and vacuuming again (cussing all the way).

Usually the rest of the family members and the cat try to “help”. This year they all made themselves scarce. I think they've finally learned.

There was a lot less cussing this year, too. Coincidence?

Once the tree is up, the real battles begin. The children would leave the lights on 24-7 if they could. The Husband would turn the lights on in the morning when he gets up and as soon as he gets home if he could and the children hadn't already beaten him to it.

I have a strict dusk to bedtime schedule for lights. This means I spend most of my daylight hours turning the Christmas lights off.

Despite my very militant enforcement of lighting hours, I would go full-on Griswold (as in Clark Griswold of “Christmas Vacation”) when it comes to exterior illumination, if I weren't so lazy and cheap, that is. (Nope, not gonna pay someone else to do it for me.)

The Husband, on the other hand, requires any exterior lights to be tasteful (Ya' lost me right there. Can you say Flamingo Santa?) and in keeping with the theme of the season. The children both now have strings of lights hung in their rooms – All. Year. Long. – so it could be three to one if we put it to a vote. But since the husband is the one we make climb the ladder, his vote counts for like, four.

As zealous as I am about appropriate lighting times, I am even more fanatical about Christmas music. Look it up in the Bible, the Constitution (both US and Russian), the Laws of Robotics, and the Prime Directive: “No Christmas Music Shall Be Played Prior to the Evening of Thanksgiving.”

Trust me. It's there.

Right after: “Thou Shalt Listen to Arlo Guthrie's “Alice's Restaurant” Prior to Noon on Thanksgiving Day.”

Unfortunately, The Husband has, due to weighted voting, ratified the “Snoopy's Christmas” Amendment, meaning that The Royal Guardsmen's “Snoopy Vs. The Red Baron” can be played immediately following Arlo Guthrie's “Motorcycle Song” (which must be played immediately following “Alice's Restaurant,” because, well, I only dust off the CD once a year), and must be played ad nauseam until February (or until The Wife hides the CD). Personally, I would listen to my Harry Connick Jr. Christmas CDs all season (and longer), if I could only find them. Hmmm....

The Little Prince and Princess have no input on the Christmas Music Debate, as they typically roll their eyes, retreat to their rooms, and put on their head phones whenever the topic is brought up for discussion.

Although, the Princess switched the radio in my car to the XM station “Holly” November first, thus losing her driving privileges for at least... until she needed my car again.

And the Little Prince routinely takes the ukulele out of my hands mid-performance (?) of Mele Kalikimaka and proceeds to play it much, much better than I can. Despite my many, many sessions of ukulele lessons and his total lack of ukulele lessons.

It's a good thing I still have a hot line to Santa.

And I'm not afraid to use it.

Billy on the Brain

I returned from the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop renewed, refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready to write.

And infected with the mother of all earworms.

Oh, I've had songs stuck in my head before – goofy little musical snippets that come and go within a an hour (or so). But this is the entire Billy Joel catalog. All the time.

For more than a week now.

As earworms go, it's not that bad. Joel's richly layered instrumentals, his melt-your-panties voice and multi-genre mastery mean something different is always playing – in my brain. Rock, pop, do-wop, ballads, instrumentals, gospel, a Latin beat, classical....

But after a while? (Say... a week?) The novelty wears off.

I think that variety (and seductive voice) is what exposed me to the earworm in the first place. I listened to the Billy Joel channel on XM radio for the entire eight-hour drive from Eastern Iowa to Dayton, Ohio. I don't remember any repeats until half-way through Indiana, and by then I was a goner, hypnotized by that voice. Mmmmm, that voice....

Still, the soundtrack in my brain didn't start playing until after I listened to the same channel for the entire return trip as well. That's 16 hours of Billy Joel in 4 days, not including driving around while (getting lost) in Dayton. Technically I think you could say at that point the music merely provided a background for my eight-hour Billy Joel fantasy (in which we run away together and live happily ever after).

When I finally pulled in to the driveway at home, I felt kind of guilty about dreaming of running away. Then I realized the family had piled their dirty dishes on the counter right next to the empty dishwasher, and the baskets of clean laundry had still not been put away. I decided Billy Joel was right:

Sometimes a fantasy is all you need... to keep you from killing your family.

After a couple days of “All Billy Joel, All the Time” playing in my head, I had had enough. I tried to force him out by listening to other types of music. But XM radio was in cahoots with the earworm. Both the 80's  and Deep Tracks channels (my stand-bys) teamed up to promote the heck out of the Billy Joel channel by playing – what else? – Billy Joel songs.

When I finally did find something else to listen to, it triggered a sonic smackdown in my brain. It was bad enough when one Billy Joel tune tried to forced out another (Rootbeer Rag is particularly tenacious), but when I introduced a new artist things really got ugly. The reverb from “Billy vs. The Bangles” gave me a headache that left me whimpering in the driver's seat.

Then I switched to the “if you can't beat 'em, join 'em” method. It may seem counter-intuitive, but I've resorted to playing Billy Joel music on my iPod while I try to work. Having his music in the background seems to pacify some auditory gate keeper while freeing up functional brain space for other things. Things like writing, reading, carrying on a conversation... breathing.

My Darling Daughter, the Princess, decided this was a sign of weakness and instituted a cold-turkey, “No Joel Anytime” intervention. Her “cure” caused a variety of withdrawl symptoms, including a physical craving so severe I tried to sneak out on a totally unnecessary errand just so I drive the XM-equipped car. She caught me and commandeered the keys, because in our family the driver gets to choose the radio station.

Unless Mom's driving.

And that may be the real cause of my current Billy Joel obsession. On my fateful Iowa/Ohio/Iowa roadtrip I had complete control of the radio. And I chose to listen to Billy Joel. For 16-plus hours.

And that may be why my family doesn't let me control the radio when they're with me.

The influence of this earworm has gone way beyond normal. It was bad enough when I started unconsciously changing lyrics (Midwest girl, She's been living in her corn-fed world...), but then I realized the earworm was getting involved in my internal monolog:

Me: “Gosh, I've had these Billy Joel tunes running through my head for a long time. I wonder if this is normal, or if ...”

Earworm: I may be crazy.

You may be thinking I need to lighten up, or at least sit back and enjoy the free mental downloads. Sooner or later this earworm is bound to pack up and infect someone else. Someday I'll wake up all bleary-eyed and fuzzy-eared with a nasty musical hangover. I'll shake my head at my iPod filled with Billy Joel tunes and wonder what came over me.

You may be wrong, for all I know. But you may be right.