His wish list: More of the same

FORGET Christmas. Just give me another Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was great. We had all the chaos of the holidays without the hassle and headaches of gift-giving.

“I’m going to go power-blow the frontyard,” I tell my wife Thanksgiving morning.

“Go for it,” she says, then laughs.

“I just want to get the leaves up,” I explain.

“Whatever,” she says, laughing some more.

I don’t know what she finds so funny. But after 25 years of marriage, I’m not about to interrupt a rare emotional outpouring.

Like I said, it was a great Thanksgiving. After the chores, the toddler and I watched that big pretentious parade they put on in New York every year. I have my limitations, sure, but watching a big pretentious parade with me is possibly the most fun you could ever have.

“The great thing about marching band uniforms,” I tell the toddler, “is that they haven’t really evolved since about 1812.”

“They haven’t?”

“Who wears spats anymore?” I ask him.

“Look, a balloon!” he says excitedly.

“No one, that’s who wears spats,” I say.

So we sit and watch the parade, freckle to freckle, check to cheek. The turkey’s in the oven. My wife is serving scones for breakfast. Is there anything better than Thanksgiving morning when the kitchen windows fog up and ... wait a second, she’s serving scones?

I find it odd that she’d serve a British pastry on such an American morning. After all, everybody knows the pilgrims were fleeing British food. Couldn’t get on that Mayflower fast enough. One guy twisted an ankle.

“Look, there’s Julie Andrews,” I say.

“Where?” says the toddler, looking out into the garden.

“On TV,” I say.

Sure enough, Julie Andrews is lip-syncing in that big pretentious New York parade. Another British dish. Another Thanksgiving mystery.

“You find that strange?” I ask the toddler.

“Yeah.”

“Do you find it strange ... “ I call out to my wife and she says, “yes, I do,” before I can even finish the sentence.

Speaking of strange, the older kids have begun waking up. Don’t you love ‘em the first five minutes they come out of the bedroom, in their tattered Napster T-shirts, scratching-scratching their double-decker hair?

My first impression: They have way too much hair. My second impression: Lice!!!

“What are you watching?” the older daughter asks.

“The British, they’re invading,” I say.

“Spats!” says the toddler.

It’s raining in New York, and I mention to the lovely and patient older daughter that I like inclement weather during major fall and winter holidays, for it drives families indoors where they are forced to interact and discover the little qualities about one another that they wouldn’t otherwise know. Kindness. Humor. Warmth. Try getting that from your PlayStation 3.

“Isn’t it better,” my daughter asks, “if people interact because they actually want to?”

“No,” I say. “Forced interaction is far more interesting.”

“Why?”

“It adds a touch of tension.”

“Look, Snoopy!” says the toddler, pointing at the TV.

Anyway, Thanksgiving was great, like I said, though it seemed to go on for 100 hours, didn’t it? In the morning, after blowing the yard and scrubbing the skylight, I suggested that we move everything off the kitchen counter that we didn’t absolutely need -- the goldfish, garden books, the decorative tea set, the scones, the baby avocado plant ...

My wife resisted, and sure enough a few hours later, I’m looking for an open spot to place the sizzling 25-pound turkey on a counter cluttered with pies, potatoes, Jell-O molds, bread, a goldfish, garden books, a decorative tea set....

“Help!” I yelled.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just about to spill a gallon of turkey magma on my chest.

But that’s OK. Holidays are not for wimps. And from all indications, this season is going to be one of the biggest ever. The Sunday paper is so juicy fat with ads that I can barely find my precious Parade magazine (“Do Animals Date or Just Mate?”).

They’re stringing more lights than ever along the boulevard. The older daughter already has her Christmas list together, God bless her. Makes me nuts when they’re not prepared.

* Clinique Happy Heart perfume

* 27-inch TV (flat screen not necessary)

* All Jack Johnson’s CDs (except “Curious George”)

There’s more if you’re interested. For example, she wants a Coach purse but without the Coach logo. That make sense? Maybe to you. Maybe to her.

Soon, my wife and I will be spending freely on electronic gadgets we only half understand. On pajamas they’ll wear maybe once. On gift cards and scarves, flat screens and train sets.

Santa, just give me Thanksgiving in our cozy little home. No refunds, no returns.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com, or at myspace.com/chris erskine.