Hey, Santa, there’s room at the ranch

Dear SANTA,

Each year, I hear, your blood alcohol level gets a little higher. Who could blame you? Not me, that’s for sure. It’s not an easy life, being generous to a fault. So I thought there were a few things you should know before you reenter our humble, heavily mortgaged home.

First, we’re more crowded here than ever. We live in a three-bedroom ranch with four kids, two dogs, one cat, one bunny and who knows how many errant viruses. You do the math. At Christmas, we bring a tree into the house just for the additional oxygen it may offer in its last gasps before dying.

“Open a window!” I’m always yelling.

“Why?”

“We’re running out of air,” I explain.

“Dad, you can’t run out of air,” the little girl says.

“Seriously?” I ask.

We could. Other, quieter families, maybe not. But we could. We’ve already run out of space. In fact, three dimensions are no longer enough for us. We need a fourth (time?) and maybe even a fifth (odor?). In our home, that would almost surely be the fifth dimension. Odor. The happy scent of puppies, peppermint sticks and dirty diapers.

Also, we should warn you that we’re having guests over on Christmas Eve. Not many, just a few. So you can expect one or two strange faces passed out on the couch when you arrive. Don’t feel obligated to leave them anything, except some Alka-Seltzer and a warm blanket, if you can spare it.

Because blessed are the people who will enter this house who don’t absolutely have to. Blessed are the people who can make us laugh in a season that gets more frenetic with every passing year.

“I’m just inviting the people who make me laugh,” I tell my wife.

“Everyone makes you laugh,” she says.

And thank God for that. The more the merrier, I say. So, Santa, if you arrive to find dirty glasses on every available surface, I apologize in advance. And if there’s a dog atop the dining table finishing off the crab dip, just let him be. Like you and me, he’s angry only when he’s not fed. If he bothers you, I keep a Taser in the hallway closet (we have teenagers). Feel free to borrow it.

Other than that, things here should be just as they’ve always been. As you know, we have the sort of children who will sit in church on Christmas Eve and pray for iPods. Forgive them. They are just American children seduced by the latest developments in high-end electronics. They mean no harm. They pray for other, more worthy things as well. Designer clothes, for instance. Or J. Lo’s cheekbones.

Santa, when you see the job they did decorating the tree -- a shrine to your generosity and everlasting spirit -- I think you’ll be very impressed. You’ll be flattered to find that your visage is on almost every branch. Some, including my older daughter, find you a bit of a cliche and wonder aloud whether your time has passed. What room is there, she asks, for someone who gives without expecting anything in return? What about the tax consequences? Good points. Don’t mind her. She’s in college.

Oh, and try to be a little quiet, because we now have that baby boy, who awakens at the slightest sound. A nail rusting in the attic. A leaf landing upon the lawn.

If he should wander out, just give him a cookie and a kiss. When he smells the alcohol on your breath, he will just assume you are a relative and feel safe and secure.

Outside the house, well ... that’s another story. I have to warn you that society seems to be collapsing a little more each day, and sometimes in great, cleaved clumps.

You wouldn’t believe what has happened to two of our most prominent local families, the Lakers and Dodgers. They seem to have gone completely bonkers, like distant relatives who win the lottery and invest in bowling alleys.

Santa, be forewarned that you are about to take off into an increasingly odd and inexplicable world. Leonardo DiCaprio plays Howard Hughes. Val Kilmer plays Moses. Kirstie Alley plays Massachusetts. Does that give you any idea?

And it’s not just the celebrities who are crazy anymore. Everybody’s crazy. In America, you’re dealing with a heavily armed and jumpy populace. If I were you, I’d consider a flak jacket.

Other than that, things are wonderful out here in our little city by the sea. Here’s hoping you have a terrific flight. As always, watch out for that Hollywood sign, and beware especially of the Santa Anas around LAX. This time of year, they can flip you like a cheap canoe. How would that be for irony, Santa undone by his namesake winds?

So be safe, pal. We’ll leave a light on for you.

Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected].