His Santa-Scrooge complex

IT WAS A Christmas miracle.

Mom was standing in the kitchen, stirring something, and my dad (that Man of the House guy) came up behind, wrapped his scary-hairy arms around her and gave her this big bear hug. Oh-my-God.

It’s intimate little moments like this that restore your faith in the holidays. In the power of forgiveness. In the triumph of the human spirit.

Then he groped her a little.

OK, so much for the triumph of the human spirit.

Anyway, it was a good Christmas overall at our house, how about yours? Dad says Christmas took so much out of him that he needs a few days to recover, which is why I’m writing his column for him again.

“Rampant generosity really wears me out,” he said as he flopped down on the couch.

“Your father’s a very generous man,” Mom explained, and you can never tell if she’s kidding or what.

Because two days before Christmas, my dad was standing on a chair, frantically waving his arms and yelling, “Stop the spending! Stop the spending!”

See, Mom had just come into the house with her arms loaded with Macy’s bags. In the car were several wooden pallets of food from Trader Joe’s. “I’ve only got a few more things to buy,” she explained, “just a few more things -- a scarf, a gift card, a holiday goose.”

“STOP THE SPENDING!!!” my dad yelled again, then he got this odd facial tic in his left eye.

Predictably, no one paid any attention to him and everyone pretty much kept doing what they were already doing, wrapping presents and fiddling with their cellphones. Noticing this, my dad hopped off the chair, grabbed a Christmas cookie and started talking about the old days, which is sort of like a hobby with him.

Dad says that he’s tired of 80-degree L.A. Christmases and next year we’re going somewhere “where you can see your breath outside and everyone wears ear muffs and looks like a dork from the ‘50s -- that’s Christmas.”

“Sounds charming, Dad,” my little sister told him.

“Yeah, I’m counting the minutes,” my brother said.

“Yep, I think you’d like it,” Dad explained.

Seriously though, it was a terrific Christmas, despite little psychotic episodes like that. There were poignant moments and lots of love and sharing. You know us.

Like at one point -- I’ll never forget it -- my dad pressed a Heineken bottle cap discreetly into my hand and whispered, “Here, this is for you.”

“Gee, thanks Dad,” I said.

“Listen, there’s more where that came from,” he said.

Can I be honest here? I mean, I don’t want to get all Barbara Walters on you, but if you’ll grant me just one personal moment of your time I’ll tell you what really goes on around our house during the holidays.

My dad, he’s seriously conflicted because he’s nuts for Christmas, but he’s really big on saving money too. It’s like half of him is Scrooge and the other half is Santa. Mom says he’s “just a little cheap,” and my dad argues that he’s merely being sensible, given the continuing decline in the American standard of living.

“I don’t need the latest gizmo from Brookstone,” he said.

“What do you need, Dad?”

“To be able to fill my heart medication when I’m 80,” he said.

That’s so sensible. That’s so him. He’s always living 30 years into the future. I think you need to live in the moment. He says all his good moments are behind him.

“I’m more of a visionary now,” he explained.

“Like Trump?”

“Like Nostradamus,” he said.

“Who, Dad?”

“I hate Notre Dame,” my brother said.

“Nevermind,” my dad replied.

In a way, I’m glad Christmas is over since it heightens family experiences in ways we’re not emotionally programmed to handle.

My Mom, she’s Italian. My Dad, he’s from Mars. I think that makes us Italian Martian, which is a pretty unusual set of bloodlines, even for Los Angeles. In our house, there’s lots of yelling and confusion. Who knew Martians drank so much?

Anyway, despite everything, I still like being around my dad at Christmas. He’s sort of a suburban Charles Dickens. I like the way he clunks through the cupboards looking for the chili powder. Or the way he grunts when he kneels down to check the Christmas tree water. Or the way he washes a frying pan, always leaving a little bit of egg.

That’s just the kind of person he is -- well-meaning but a little clueless. I swear, he’s a natural for elected office.

Hey, there’s an idea. Dad for President!

Koo koo ka-choo, Mr. Robinson. A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected]. His MySpace address is myspace.com/chriserskine.