With nearly a foot of snow on the ground, it’s darn near impossible to not feel festive. With Kitsap County looking more like a scene from the classic “A Christmas Story” than the Rock’s version of “Walking Tall,” (which was actually set in Kitsap County) the little kid in all of us has hopefully surfaced this week.

Instead of freaking out about gas prices, we’ve improvised — as Pacific Northwesterners are apt to do — and either stayed put if we were able or came up with alternative modes of transportation. Reported sightings of snow shoes, cross-country skis, all-terrain vehicles and even snowmobiles have run rampant this week.

While you typically either love the snow or hate the snow, I fall firmly on the side of you pretty much have to threaten me with bodily harm to get me to come in out of the snow. Oh yes, oh yes, I do love the snow.

Especially during the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus season.

The snow, which I heart a whole lot, will amplify some of the traditions my husband and I have created and solidified through the years. We’re not the most traditional people. In fact, we’ve been known to pave our own path in a lot of different ways from the day we said “I do” on a beach in swimsuits.

And the holidays are no exception.

While others attend parties and commune with one another, we’re perfectly happy to hang out, by ourselves, at home with nothing but our personalities and vast movie collection for entertainment.

Our holiday traditions usually begin on Thanksgiving weekend with the annual viewing of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Nothing says let’s dig out the artificial tree and Star Wars Christmas ornaments like Jimmy Stewart obsessing over Juju’s petals.

Then, of course, if you time it correctly, you can catch a full 24 hours of “A Christmas Story,” the timeless tale of a boy who so badly wants “an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.” His request falls upon deaf adult ears, however, as anyone older than 20 replies: “you’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”

Bummer, Ralphie, bummer.

On Christmas Eve, while the kid is running around in our house putting his toys away to make Santa Claus think he tends to his toys year-round (he doesn’t), we throw in “Scrooged,” as practically anything with Bill Murray is really funny.

We, as parental units, track the monkey boy’s progress by the sounds of the thumping throughout the house. After setting out a chocolate chip cookie for Santa, off to bed goes little boy.

Once he’s sound asleep, we prepare the living room for the magic of Christmas and pop “The Ref” into the DVD player. Kevin Spacey is, needless to say, superb as a very unhappily married man who, well, hates his wife — proving that hatred between spouses can be darn funny.

If the setting up goes longer than anticipated, as it always does, “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” is on deck.

On Christmas morning, I usually wake up about 5 a.m. and make not-so-subtle attempts at waking up my husband and son — like brewing coffee and waving a cup under my husband’s nose.

After the presents are torn into and the house is properly demolished, there’s pies to be baked and presents to be played with, so it’s on to the music.

This year, because of something under the tree with my husband’s name on it, I suspect we’ll be iPodding to Rush while he shoos me from the kitchen.

I love the holidays.