I remember little from age 5, but I can still see the basketball hoop waiting for me under the Christmas tree. It was a real basketball hoop, with a regulation rim, a shiny white net and a wooden backboard that my grandpa had made. Clearly, Santa had looked past the “X” marks in my column on our family’s Santa Claus Behavior Chart. Sure, I had some gold stars on that poster board, but there were a lot of black marks under “getting along with brother and sister.” I think that was the year I tried to flush my sister’s Winnie the Pooh shirt down the toilet. Accidentally, of course. Right, Santa? Anyway, the image of that basketball hoop stays with me. Strangely, it’s one of the few Christmas gifts I still remember from my Santa years. What I do remember, vividly, is how I felt on Christmas Eve. Lying in bed, my heart raced as I struggled to keep my legs still under the covers. My brother and I shared a room, and in a powerful display of Christmas spirit, we didn’t fight. Well, not

This column, like many others, first appeared in The Dallas Morning News and on DallasNews.com . I usually let some time pass before posting them here.  -------------- The holidays are here, and you can see the magic in the Christmas lights, the family reunions and the excitement on a child’s face.   You can also feel the magic with a simple act of goodwill, such as helping a stranger, making a charitable contribution or by turning off Madonna’s spirit-crushing rendition of “Santa Baby.” But some of the best examples of holiday magic, I mean really wondrous stuff, arrives in our mailboxes. It’s the magic that turns a 30-year-old living with his parents into a misunderstood genius who is preparing to launch his own company and is – putting your thumb next to your index finger – this close to finding a cure for cancer. That’s right, I’m talking about the holiday brag letter! If you guessed it by the time you read “misunderstood genius” above, then, like me, you probably g

This column, like many others, first appeared in The Dallas Morning News and on DallasNews.com . I usually let some time pass before posting them here. -------------- Every year, millions of Americans sit around the table at Thanksgiving and enjoy a delicious meal with family and friends. And every year, someone is cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. So much pressure. So much to do. So much to mess up, even if you’re not trying to create the Martha Stewart-suggested spread that includes chilled oysters with apple-ginger mignonette and dumpling squash served with cream, sage and a condescending attitude. But relax, first-time Thanksgiving cooks. While it’s true that my only experience preparing turkey dinner involves poking the plastic-wrap covering with a fork and heating it in a microwave, I know the biggest key to getting the Thanksgiving turkey right: One hundred and sixty-five. One hundred and sixty-five degrees, that is. The turkey’s internal tempe

This column, like many others, first appeared in The Dallas Morning News and on DallasNews.com . I let some time pass before posting them here. -------------- Even when the economy is sputtering, we can count on the Neiman Marcus Christmas Book to maintain its over-the-top, absurdly extravagant, “one percent and loving it!” mojo. Or at least I thought so. Then I heard that this year’s book, which was unveiled last week, features a new house for only $100,000. That sounds utterly practical to me. Oh wait, it’s actually a hen house. Never mind, Rich Uncle Pennybags, the Christmas Book is still worth your time. The Versailles-inspired Le Petit Trianon house, described as “the poshest hen house ever imagined,” is one of hundreds of items in this year’s Christmas Book. Quite a few of those items will produce more snickers than well-heeled buyers. After all, the hen house has a chandelier. That does add a touch of class for your upscale hens, who might appreciate y

At this point, I’m sure everyone has seen a poll that shows the presidential election will be tighter than spandex. Even a Facebook poll I saw predicts the race as a dead heat, while also reporting that nearly 100 percent of those surveyed are tired of people posting photos of what they’re having for lunch. Obama or Romney, Romney or Obama – it’s down to the wire. And it’s so close that the election could be decided by a single hot-button issue such as same-sex marriage, birth control or immigration regulation. It all depends on the swing voters, the political experts agree. But it might also depend on bumper stickers, according to one person who has zero expertise but was recently cut off by a car displaying an “I love my French Bulldog” sticker. It might seem weird, but at that moment, I didn’t care much for French Bulldogs. I might’ve even had some unpleasant thoughts about France. Now imagine if it was an Obama or Romney bumper sticker. Makes you think, doesn’t it

As another Halloween approaches, it's time to address a common question surrounding trick-or-treating: "Does anyone really eat candy corn, or is it like a Christmas fruitcake that gets re-gifted each year?" Actually, I don't have an answer for that. So let's move on to another common question, which is being asked this week by a large crop of potential trick-or-treaters who no longer fit into a Dora the Explorer costume. "Am I too old to trick-or-treat?" Relax, spooky mooches. You can never be too old. You just need to be a kid at heart, have the right Halloween spirit and find a costume that completely covers you as you crouch down and say "trick or treat!" in a high voice. And, oh yeah, remember to take off your wedding ring. That's a dead giveaway. Honestly, I don't know when a person is too old to trick-or-treat. And I would never turn away anyone willing to dress up and ring doorbells on the annual night of permi

I’ve always known that my technique at the soft-serve ice cream dispenser could use improvement. Sometimes the ice cream swirls into the cone just right, but other times I end up with a lopsided blob that looks more amateurish than my childhood creations with the Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine. Still, I never thought my sketchy soft-serve skills would get me fired. And, even worse, by my own kids. I was once a giant in their eyes, depicted in stick-figure drawings featuring stilt-like legs, arms protruding from my neck and a big head with one strand of hair on top. Sometimes they added a line like “I luv you bab,” showing their love and inability to differentiate the letters b and d. I might still be a giant to my three sons in some ways, but they’re now old enough to identify sizable problems with my work at the soft-serve machine. They rarely agree on anything, but when it’s time to get the free dessert at restaurants such as Jason’s Deli or Souper Salad or some buffet, they’re unanim

I don’t like to think about how my dad is getting old. He’s 76 now, or in his words, “getting up there,” and it reminds me that I’m also getting older. I prefer to picture us years ago, when I still had my hair and I still had hope that my dad would figure out e-mail. I’m still waiting for my first e-mail from him. My dad sends me lots of snail mail, often with articles clipped from the newspaper, but never an e-mail. I once e-mailed him photos of the grandkids, to the one e-mail address my parents share, and my dad’s head nearly exploded. “The photos are attached,” I told him. “Attached?” Fortunately, my mom is better at that high-tech stuff, although she probably won’t open any e-mail with an attachment. Viruses, you know. But she has now branched out into text messaging, which I discovered a couple months ago when she sent a message that said “test message, please let me know if you get this.” I responded that, yes, I did receive it. I haven’t heard from her since. At least

I’m sure that more than one person reading is having a roommate crisis. After all, just about everyone has to share a living space at some point, and it can be pretty difficult. Just ask the poor saps who had to live with me before I got married. They had a roommate who thought he knew everything about sports, was way too into ’80s music and liked to make sarcastic comments about commercials. What a nightmare. Living with a roommate can be tough, which is what a lot of college freshmen are learning right now. But having a roommate teaches you a lot about life. It starts with the importance of compromise and respecting different points of view. Having a roommate also helps you find creative ways to solve problems, such as how to convince your roommate that a burglar broke in and stole nothing but his “Exotic Rhythms of the Himalayas” CD. “And they also stole your beginner’s guide to playing the sitar. I can’t believe it!” One key to compatibility is getting to know your roomm