Every year, my parents, my brother, and I take our 2 dogs out to the Christmas tree farm in Connecticut to get a Christmas tree 2 weeks before Christmas. In an ideal world, there is snow on the ground, it's freezing cold, and we pick up a hot chocolate and a powdered jelly doughnut at the wooden volunteer cabin and eat and drink them by the bonfire.

We let the dogs breathe in the brisk air, and gush over how well behaved they are compared to the other dogs going crazy at the foreign creatures. Then, we set out for the trees. We let the dogs off their leashes as they run through the trees, whike each of us enthusiastically claim to have found "THE perfect tree." But we all know we have a better plan in mind.

We don't buy a tree. We walk around in the snow with the dogs a while longer and then hop in the car to our family friend Ray's house. Ray and his wife have their own Christmas tree farm, where they hang a saw on a tree next to a sign that says, "Call this number for a tree."

Usually, Ray will come outside and help whichever family comes by to pick out and cut down their perfect tree, but with us it's a different story. Ray walked with us all around the tree farm, talking to my dad about their motorcycles and wives. Eric and I are focused on 2 things; the trees and the dogs. We picked "the one," and my dad and Ray take turns sawing, laying on the ground, and pushing until the tree fall. Then, they tied it up and threw it on the roof of our Honda Pilot. We took the dogs inside, had a drink, and some of Ray's wife's cookies. I appreciate it, but always itch to hurry home. I blame my haste on the dogs.

I have plans to put on my Hanson Christmas album that I've listened to every year since before I could read - the only Christmas music I'll ever enjoy - and get to decorating.