LOS ANGELES — Good news on the holiday front: The tree hasn’t burned down yet. The Rite Aid rum is holding out — for now. That’s it for the good news.

The bad news is that I’m in my fifth straight day in my PJs. My captors, a woman and her four sleepless children, grow more agitated by the hour. They have the skin tone of newsprint and little splotches on their tongues from too much peppermint.

The kids show no signs of ever going back to school. The youngest one, an elf, has been drinking Bloody Marys since Monday morning. He stumbles around the house singing, “Lady in red, lady in red ...”

Of all the captors, I like him best, though he did steal my favorite Bloody Mary container, a heavy cocktail glass with Air New Zealand on the side.

“Lady in red, lady in red ...”

As with almost all seasonal gatherings, it’s a volatile situation. I pray these TV football games never end. There’s no telling what my captors might do for fun. I hope they don’t want to play board games.

All was going pretty well till just before Christmas when their leader — the woman — got bent out of shape during an afternoon gingerbread house session, after I decided to build a replica of Wrigley Field rather than a gingerbread village, which was the original plan. As Jerry Seinfeld once noted, there is no such thing as fun for the entire family.

You should’ve seen the bleachers. I used Jujubes for seats and fashioned frothy glasses of Budweiser out of frosting.

But the best part is the figurine of Harry Caray falling out of the press box after too much happy juice.

“The Cubs win the Series! The Cubs win the Series!” I yell as my gingerbread Wrigley Field explodes in celebration.

Then there’s the showdown over gift wrapping. My captors’ leader — they refer to her as “Mrs. Claus” or “Mother Christmas” — insists on spending two nights wrapping gifts.

I suggest that we do something crazy with our money for a change. Like save for retirement.

“We’ll never retire,” explains Mrs. Claus.

“I want to retire by 45,” I say.

“You’re 51, little pal,” she says.

Sure enough, that’s what my driver’s license says. Last week, in an effort to live forever, I went to see a doctor over a head cold I’ve had for seven months. It’s that same cold everyone’s got — you have it for about a week, then think it’s over. But that’s just the pre-cold phase.

“So what seems to be the problem?” asks the doctor, who looked to be about 15.

I tell her my head is full of magma. If that doesn’t kill me, my children will. Then there’s Mother Christmas, who has turned the house into a Tim Burton movie set.

“Uh-huh,” the doctor says and types into her laptop computer.

This is my first experience with a laptop doctor. Soon, there will be no doctor offices. If you need a doctor, you’ll just buy one at Brookstone.

Till then, the doctor tap-taps-taps on the machine. She admires what she’s written. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I’m pretty sure she’s updating her Facebook page.

“Have you been taking anything?” she asks.

Does gin count? What about that Bloody Mary I had before the elf stole my favorite glass? You know the one, with Air New Zealand on the side.

“Just a little Sudafed,” I say.

“I’m going to prescribe amoxicillin,” the doctor says, making a note on her laptop. She finishes, then starts an e-mail to her mother, then pauses to explain the possible side effects of the antibiotic — queasy stomach, diarrhea. ...

OK, great. In addition to a cold, I’ll now have the flu. Get me out of here now.

After getting lost in the parking garage, I return home, where my captors take me back into immediate custody. The days drag, but that’s how things go in hostage situations — the same faces hour after hour. There is talk of church, yet no one makes a move for the door.

I wait for Mrs. Claus to go to bed, then slide in close to her. I confess, I’ve always had a thing for women in voluminous 15-foot flannel gowns.

“I think,” Mrs. Claus says with a sigh, “that the washing machine is leaking again.”

Those elves aren’t watertight, either. Lady in red, lady in red ...

Contact Chris Erskine at chris.erskine@latimes.com