Counting down to the big one.

He hadn't set the alarm; he knew that the following day would probably be a long one. After forcing himself to sleep for a few additional hours, he hopped out of bed around 10:30. As usual, he pulled the scale out from under the couch and weighed himself: 277. "Whatever," he mumbled dismissively. "I've weighed more."

His volatile stomach usually prevented him from consuming much caffeine, and because of this, he had forgotten to change the auto-brew on the coffee maker. A thick, brown liquid which had already been sitting in the pot for three hours poured into his "World's Greatest Coach" mug. "Oh, well," he thought, "I'm used to cocoa, anyway. I'll just choke it down."

All season, he'd grown accustomed to sleeping on the office couch; there was just so much to prepare for. His wife had barely seen him, but he had warned her about this time of year and she'd been a trooper. He plodded into the conference room, towering over his six of his most trusted protegés, who sat reviewing the game plan. Laptops littered the conference table.

"Hey, what's up, guys? How's everyone feeling?"

Silence filled the room. His lead coordinator spoke first. "Coach, we're tired, we're a little stressed...but let me tell you something: We are ready. The world will never forget the performance they're about to see."

"And that's why you're sitting here right now" Tears welled in the boss's eyes. "I don't need to tell you this, but even though you're the best in the business, every darn one of you is family. We've had our disagreements, our little crises, but in my opinion, we're truly on the verge of greatness. Lombardi, Wooden, Rockne—they had nothing on us. Now let's get out there and show some pride in the red and green."

"Coach," if you don't mind, "I'd like the honor of feeding Rudolph his pre-game meal." The number one elf looked up yearningly at Santa.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," Herbie. "Ho, ho, ho!"

His thunderous guffaw rattled the conference room.

Christmas and our Pavlovian traditions

Most of us love traditions. These comforting rituals affirm some predictability in our sometimes chaotic, always unpredictable, lives. Some are so old, no one is really sure what they mean.

For instance, before the arrival of the Queen in the State Coach, the Yeomen of the Guard, now usually seen at the Tower of London, search the cellars beneath the Palace of Westminster as a precautionary measure. This is as a consequence of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605 when Guy Fawkes and a number of other conspirators tried to blow up King James I and his parliament.

Guy Fawkes—dirty name and tradition starter.

On a far lesser scale, traditions and rituals can be more provincial. Back in my high school days, whenever our team won a football game, some of us went out to the country (a three minute drive) and tipped over a cow. For those who are offended by such behavior, take solace in the knowledge that we only tipped three cows in three years due to an abysmal football squad.

Breaking things down even further, each family possesses its own traditions. In fact, my kids manufacture new traditions every time one of the acts involves a treat at the end. My older daughter once accompanied me for a haircut, and afterward I bought her a chocolate cupcake, a really, really good cupcake with bits of cherry in the frosting. Boom—new tradition. Now, my little Pavlovian salivates instantly whenever we pass Rudy's Barbershop.

Summer acting camp = root beer floats after the Friday-night performance. Dinner at Elliott Bay Pub = ice cream afterwards at Husky Deli. Thanksgiving at Grandma's = shrimp with cocktail sauce. A trip to Safeway = a slightly illegal two-pack of saltines from the soup area.

During the holiday season, traditions thrive, and ours shift into overdrive. This morning, we visited Santa Claus at the Downtown Seattle Nordstrom store. We've done this with friends for twelve straight years, and it's gotten to the point where Santa's lap loses feeling if my daughters plant on his jolly thighs for too long. And now, when one of us says, "Looks like someone needs a nap," my wife and I aren't referring to our kids.

Afterwards, we ride the holiday carousel and have lunch at the Nordstrom Café (If you've noticed a particular corporation mentioned twice, it's possible that I work there and now is the time to stock up on cushy UGG® Australia boots for her before sheep go on the endangered species list.).

Christmas Eve is all about visiting Pike Place Market, buying fresh crab, going home and preparing crab cakes and "Oprahtatoes" for dinner, opening one present each and watching "The Polar Express." This stuff runs like such clockwork, I'm expecting one of my kids to say, "Dad, the train's sliding on the ice. It's time for you to go to the bathroom and blow your nose."

Christmas Day is spent with the kids' grandparents, where we eat dinner around 2:00, recline in, well, recliners, and watch "A Christmas Story" and a more abstract holiday movie called "A Matter of Principle." My kids can quote each movie like Rocky Horror groupies.

With all of these traditions already firmly established, I'd still be willing to begin a few new ones with the kids, like the daily remembering-to-flush-the-toilet observance or the sacrifice of the empty popsicle box still sitting in the freezer.

Please reply in the comments section with your strange or cool traditions.

Artificial Christmas trees: What would Santa do?

Christmas season is upon us, but you don't need this old scribe to tell you something so obvious. Between Halloween and Thanksgiving, it's like a lawn mower that takes a couple of cranks, sputters two or three times and then, usually on Thanksgiving night, roars to life with more decibel fury than the 1977 Motörhead arena tour.

I witness it every Thanksgiving evening on the ride home from Grandma’s house in our sapphire blue 2003 Kia minivan. Before the take-home turkey has even cooled inside the washed out Cool Whip container, my family’s thoughts and comments have shifted to Christmas.

Naturally, mine do as well. I can't help but ponder the new set of ads I'll see, and how long it'll take to become disillusioned with the rampant consumerism in our media. I envision the following holiday campaigns:

“Cialis for the holidays. Isn't it time you got that tree up?”

“From our children in China to your children in the developed world, Merry Christmas from your friends at Wal-Mart.”

“America, you ate 46 million birds on Thanksgiving. What's the big deal about a few more who died a slightly different way? Come back to us...please. Happy holidays from B.P.”

This weekend, we solidified our seasonal plans. It's almost like a little board of directors meeting, deciding for whom we'll bake or buy something, when we'll we get the girls’ pictures with Santa (Sure, they're fifteen and ten years old, but traditions die hard.), and most importantly, when we'll get the tree.

Naturally, the Christmas tree is the central focus in any Yuletide setting. Your house can ooze with Christmasness, but if there's no tree in the corner, it's like...I don't know...Rush Limbaugh without a bra, or a McRib sandwich sans ground up cloven hoof. 

We've always come home with a real tree; that's all I've ever known. One of my earliest memories is venturing out with my dad into rural western Washington to legally chop down a tree along county power lines. Hopefully, yearly exposure to high tension wires isn't the reason my elbow sprouted a couple of molars and a goatee, but I grew really fond of the hunt for the perfect tree out there with my old man. That woodsy living room smell is synonymous with Christmas.

That's why today's board meeting left me reeling a little bit. The family decided to finally get a fake tree, but to pick up some seasonal greens to garnish our house and soften the blow of no more wood pitch on the carpet. We asked ourselves, what's the point of driving forty miles to a tree farm, sawing down a nicely manicured, conical evergreen, paying sixty bucks and driving back? 

None, really. We resolved to channel the time and expense toward hosting friends for a Christmas open house. Sure, there are some upfront costs, like the artificial tree and a new red reindeer sweater and pipe for the man of the house. 

And I should probably go to the dentist about my elbow.

Falling for Christmas

As of today, the holiday season takes up a greater portion of everyday living than that huge chunk of Heath bar in a single spoon-full of Ben and Jerry's; it's Christmas full-speed-ahead.

My family and I shifted into Yuletide fifth gear yesterday. We trekked out to a tree farm east of Issaquah, Washington, along with every sixth vehicle on the freeway. Only on the second Saturday before Christmas can someone get caught in a traffic jam to a rural, King County two-lane arterial, stuck behind other urban families hoping to grasp a country Christmas somewhere other than the Waltons special on the Hallmark Channel. It's a strange tradition we have: driving 45 minutes, walking through a field, sawing off a well-manicured, adolescent fir tree, and paying $60 for the privilege.

I think the best part, however, is the conversation we had on the way out to Trinity Tree Farm. For some reason, my younger, nine-year-old daughter was locked in on Judy Garland.
She recently watched The Wizard of Oz, and was interested in the starlett's subsequent life.
"Dad, is Judy Garland still alive?"
"No, she died a long time ago."
"How did she die?"
"She overdosed on pills and alcohol."
"Why?"
"I don't know. She just had a troubled life."
"Did the men in her life take advantage of her?"
This was my chance to drive a moral home run over the fence, by saying something like, "Yes, so don't ever get involved with men. They're a bunch of selfish monkeys and they're nothing but trouble."
But I didn't. I think I just said, "I'm not really sure."
So at the end of the day, with the tree set up and the house festively trimmed, day one of our holiday boot camp was complete.

Enter, stage left, day two—a visit with Santa Claus. It's another tradition we've had for the past ten years. We join our friends in downtown Seattle for a visit with Saint Nick, who just so happens to reside in one of America's premier fashion retailers, also based in Seattle, whom I won't mention by name since they've employed me and provided my babies with shoes for the past eighteen years.

As we scrambled to get out of the house this morning, I hurriedly pulled our portable dishwasher into the kitchen. I was wearing some shoes that I got a screaming deal on at the previously unmentioned retailer, but they're about a half-size too big. Hence, the clown-shoe effect forced the tip of one of them under the dishwasher as it moved along the floor. I illogically kept pulling, thinking I could yank out my foot without missing a step. Wrong again.

Have you ever tripped on something, and experienced a moment where you realized that you're actually going to hit the ground, so you positioned your body to cushion the fall? That happened to me this morning. I remember thinking, "Whoa, okay, I'm okay. Nope, nope. I'm going down." Since my toe was trapped beneath the dishwasher, my only option was to land on my shoulder to avoid slamming my head. It made a huge thud, and one daughter came to see if I was okay, while the other laughed hysterically. I won't say which was which, but I know which one is going to visit me in thirty years after I break a hip.

That's how my day began, so by the time we got in to see Santa, I was ready to move on to Valentine's or Saint Patrick's Day. It didn't help that Claus was a little cranky himself, saying, "Okay, that's enough pictures, folks. We've got a four-hour wait outside. Ho, ho, ho!"

I think Santa might have closed down the casino last night.

One kid's Christmas

Santa: Ho, ho! Hello, little boy. What's your name?

Kid: Walter

Santa: Well, Walter, how old are you?

Kid: Eight.

Santa: Walter, have you been a good boy this year?

Kid: Most of the time. I hit my sister with her Hannah Montana bobblehead back in March, and last month, I made a sock monkey out of my mom's nylons.

Santa: Anything else you want to tell me?

Kid: Umm, oh, I also learned the seven words you can't say on TV. They're sh...

Santa: Ho, ho! That's okay Walter. I'm sure you must know them. And Santa's familiar with those words himself. I've used a few of them when a reindeer or two hit me in the beard with a special present as we're speeding through the evening sky. Ho, ho!

Kid: Santa, I feel like I've been telling you all of my sins for the year. What's the difference between you and a priest?

Santa: Well, Walter, there's one major difference. If I were a priest, you wouldn't be allowed to sit on my lap like this. Ho, ho! Anyway, what would you like for Christmas this year, Walter?

Kid: Uh...nothing, really.

Santa: Nothing?

Kid: Not really. My parents give me an allowance, and I already own a Wii, a Wii Fit, an XBox, a Game Boy, a Game Cube, a Sony PlayStation, an iMac, an iPod, an iPhone, and for my last birthday, they bought me an IHOP.

Santa: Well, Walter, why did you come to see me then?

Kid: Because I love Christmas. I love the songs, I love the tree, I love the cookies...and I love you, Santa.

Santa: Walter, you're quite a young man. Why don't you stick around a little while and maybe pass on your philosophy to some of these other kids?

Kid: Okay, as long as I can just pass you notes. I don't want to play the heavy here.

Santa: You've got yourself a deal, Walter.