The words reached my ears with the prickling of unfortunate recognition and my body tensed instinctively. The heat of a once-in-a-lifetime El Niño had infiltrated every inch Southern California, including my tolerance factory settings. Even though the air conditioning kept our home cool, the sticky weather managed to make itself known regardless.
Typically a chaotic household, my roommate has a hubby and three and a half children. The half pint is a few months old and adorable with the lungs of a future Olympian. None of this, however, is what grated against my ears like one grates cheese over pasta. No, it was not the Florida simulation weather, during what should be the beginning of a crisp Fall. Nor was it the tiny rabid humans that share this humble abode. Twas’ the song, sung by my roommate, hanging clumsily in the air; pulled from nowhere and loved by none.
“Where are you Christmas? Why can’t I find youuuuu-”
The physical reaction is instinctual, primal, but it was too late. The earworm has already made itself at home. There is only one course of action. Fight fire with fire. Could I ask her to stop? Maybe in one universe…but this is the darkest timeline and we are currently residing in Satan’s armpit. If I have humidititties, Christmas songs are unacceptable. I breathe deep and summon every ounce of air conditioned strength before I sing at the top of my lungs.
“I’VE GOT A LOVELY BUNCH OF COCONUTS- DEEDLE-DEE-DEE-”
The war has begun. She sings louder. The rattle of her carol ringing my head more than I want to admit. I change tactics and switch songs. If she wants an earworm, I’ll give her an earworm.
“Where ARE you CHRIS-”
“HI-HO HI-HO IT’S OFF TO WORK WE GO. YOU BURNED THE RICE BUT IT’S ALRIGHT HI-HO, HI-HO HI-HO HI-HO”
The air conditioner snapped on as if it had waited for me to finish and we both broke out into laughter. One of the tiny humans opened the front door, allowing the wet heat to invade the house once more. My roommate smiled at me with crooked eyes, as if testing the waters. Whatever look my face returned put the final nail in the coffin of our war. As she sauntered back into the kitchen, I could hear her singing to herself, “Hi-ho, Hi-ho-” As for the rice that night, it burned.
About the Creator
Logan Stanislaw
Writer, Artist, Singer, Ordained in all 50 states, Jewelry maker, Designer, Painter, Lover of the Arts and Life. AuDHD
Everyone is an artist, don't be afraid to explore your passions.
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