Yeah, right!

One grandma's decided she's put in enough years and doesn't cook the holiday dinner anymore ... especially since they have a perfectly good pre-made turkey dinner at Safeway.

The other grandma stills plays the organ, but when she plays "Jingle Bells" at the tempo of "Silent Night," it makes it pretty difficult to sing along.

And who the heck roasts chestnuts anyway?

But the tree? Yeah, that still has promise. At least, it always starts out that way.

Maybe our family is just dysfunctional, but selecting and trimming our Christmas tree every December has never really turned into the warm and fuzzy experience it's cracked up to be.

Sure, there were the years we'd brew up the steamy hot chocolate, pick up a dozen or so gooey doughnuts, bundle up the kids and head up to the hills in the mini-van to cut down our tree.

On the way up, it would be four voices in harmony, belting out the words to "Oh Christmas Tree" to no discernable tune whatsoever, yet all of us caught up in the magic of the experience.

On the way home it would be a different story. The oldest would be pouting because I'd taken the saw away from him after he'd poked his little brother with it; the youngest would be green after eating so many doughnuts that he threw up before we ever started hunting for a tree; their mother would be complaining because she got all wet walking through the trees and why couldn't we just get a tree on a lot like every other family she knew; and I was exhausted after having to hunt for the tree, cut it down, carry it up the hill and load it onto the top of the van ... all by myself.

Now, that's sort of a compilation of years of tree-cutting experiences, but you get the idea.

Anyway, now we go to the local lot and just hope that we can all agree on the same tree. Yeah, fat chance.

So this year I decided to go out on my own. The boys are grown, and I figured they wouldn't care much. So I went to a lot on Saturday and picked out a nicely shaped 8 1/2-foot evergreen. I have to admit, it's a beauty—and the best part ... the guy at the lot carried it to the car, hoisted it on top and tied it down for me.

And how did the boys react? Well, you'd have thought I cut them out of the will!

"Whaddaya mean you bought a Christmas tree?" moaned the oldest. "I thought we were all going to go together."

"Well, you guys were busy," I stammered, "so I thought I'd just ... "

"Fine!" he huffed.

"It's only 8-feet tall?" wailed the youngest. "Why'd you get such a tiny one?"

"Uh, it's 8 1/2-feet," I explained.

"Whatever," he muttered, and walked away moping.

(I guess I should explain that in years past we have gotten some very large Christmas trees. So large, in fact, that when the youngest was about 3 or 4, he went with his mom to the bank and blurted, "Look at that, Mommy, our tree is bigger than their tree!")

I suppose that this year I just decided that size doesn't matter ... guess I was wrong.

"Well, don't expect us to help decorate it," said the oldest. "You picked it out, you decorate it."

And that takes us to the other Christmas family tradition ... the annual trimming of the tree.

Any threats the boys make about not helping to decorate the tree are hollow threats indeed. They haven't helped decorate the tree since ... well, they've really never helped decorate the tree.

Oh sure, when they were little they'd hang a few ornaments on the lower branches before getting sidetracked by the animated video, Santa Claus Is Coming to Town , and running off to watch TV.

Santa videos have since given way to the Oakland Raiders, video games and girlfriends, but the end result is pretty much the same ... I string the lights on the tree and hang the ornaments, and the boys complain that there are too many red lights close together and that there aren't enough ornaments near the top of the tree.

OK, so maybe it's not all warm and fuzzy, but it's our Christmas tradition. And I'll enjoy the holiday season just as I always do ... the smell of the pine needles, the twinkle of the lights, the jingle of the bells. And I'll smile knowing that eventually the boys will get it.

Someday they'll have kids, too.

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.