Missing: One Errant Columnist cum Santa

Here we go again. We’re not sure where my lovely and patient older father went. First, he takes his Christmas nap, like he always does Christmas Day around 2 p.m. Then he gets up and starts going through all the Christmas cards we received, studying them close up, like he does his hairline in the mirror. The next thing we know he’s going out the door.

“Where you going, Dad?” someone asks.

“To the store,” he says.

And my mom asks him, what do we need so badly that he has to go out on Christmas Day, and he says lottery tickets and Bloody Mary mix, and she says why can’t he spend the whole day with his family like other fathers, and he says, “Because we’re out of Bloody Mary mix.”

And that’s when he left. Like that. Up the chimney he rose.

“Should I call the cops?” I asked Mom after about an hour.

“Let’s wait a little longer,” Mom says.

“How long?”

“About a month,” she says, then tells me to go ahead and finish his column, on account of it doesn’t look like he will and we need the cash.

Let’s see, where should I start? Did I tell you I’m his daughter? The oldest one. I told you, right?

You know, there’s lots of stuff that goes on around here he doesn’t even tell you about. Like how he has a Bloody Mary every Christmas, just one or two on account of he says the holidays and alcohol don’t mix, though him and Mom seem pretty giggly lately for no apparent reason.

They go a whole year without drinking hardly anything but beer and wine and an occasional margarita, then Christmas comes and he starts drinking Bloody Marys.

He says it’s because his knees and joints hurt from being down on the floor doing all the gift wrapping and stuff. Says the Bloody Marys ease the pain.

“It’s medicinal,” he keeps saying.

“Of course it is,” my mom says, like she’s some kind of pharmacist.

“Besides, I like celery,” he says.

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Mom says my Dad’s turning into Arthur Godfrey on account of he’s started wearing these baggy old sweaters and slippers, even in public, and that instead of a ukulele he carries a Bloody Mary.

She might be right. I never heard of Arthur Godfrey, let alone a ukulele, which I guess is some kind of a drink. Thank God for spellcheck, that’s all I can say.

Other than that, we’ve had a pretty good Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Dad made this giant pot of chili like he always does on Christmas Eve.

There was so much garlic that I swear the trees in the front yard died from all the garlic smell.

“Dad, close the front window!” I finally yelled at him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you’re killing nature,” I said.

Then we go to church, which is always an experience, us in church.

Once, when my little brother was way younger, we went to this Christmas Eve service in this pretty little church where we used to live, New Orleans or someplace.

And there we were, sitting in this nice church that we didn’t even belong to, admiring all the candles, and my baby brother looks at the candles and says, real loud, “Happy Birthday, Mommy!” like that, so that everyone in the church hears.

Fortunately, they all laughed. Now when we go to church, I usually sit in the back by myself.

So this year we go to church, then we come home and Dad won’t let us turn on the television or e-mail our friends or anything on account of he says it’s Christmas Eve and we need a little family time. Great. That’s just what I need at Christmas. More family time.

Whatever.

Then him and Mom sit on the couch and talk about what it was like when we were real little and how wonderful it was. Then they start getting all gooey on the couch, like two giant chocolate chip cookies mating.

“What do you want for Christmas, really?” my mom asks him.

“How’s about a sponge bath?” my dad says.

“That’s what I gave you last Christmas,” she says.

“I know,” my dad says.

Yew!!! How gross is that? Yew!!! Like, I’m supposed to ever want to get married or middle-aged after hearing stuff like that. Yew!!!

After that, we all went to bed, except for Mom and Dad, who stayed up and dragged stuff out of every nook and cranny of the house, “trying to get the house ready for Santa Claus,” they told my little sister, and she believed it.

Then they went to bed and seems like five minutes later it’s 7 a.m. already and the whole place is up and someone’s making coffee real loud and the phone is ringing from the East Coast.

I’m, like, can’t we do this later? I’m a teenager. I can’t get up at 7 a.m. I’m lucky to be up by noon.

It’s so disgusting how much stuff there is for Christmas at our house. They are like Christmas maniacs. Mom makes us keep lists of who we got stuff from, like, is that sweater from Grandma and is that CD from Uncle Jack? As if anybody even listens to No Doubt anymore. But we have to keep track of it all anyway.

By this time, my brother, he’s got pieces of Scotch tape all over his socks and in his hair, and my dad makes a fire in the fireplace with all the old boxes and wrapping paper, which isn’t exactly something you want to watch when he has his robe on.

Then we clean up and Dad takes his traditional Christmas nap, on account of he gets real tired seeing how much money Mom spent and he needs to go dream of when he was single and broke as opposed to married and broke, the way he is now. I guess his whole life, he’s been broke. Like that dude Bob Cratchit.

Anyway, I guess that’s why he’s off buying Bloody Mary mix right this minute and playing the lottery. I guess when you get to be his age, all you need is a little hope. A little hope and a little Bloody Mary mix.

Look at the bright side. At least he’s not making any more of that chili. Did I tell you about all the garlic he used? I swear, the paint was peeling.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.