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'Twas the month of December and I had the itch... the itch to yet again attempt a Norman Rockwell Christmas. One day I'll learn. It seems like every year I either injure myself (last year I sliced my hand open wrapping presents and ended up in the ER), do great harm to some unsuspecting tree, or end up too stressed to enjoy the season. Or all three.

Having not learned my lesson from seasons past, I again embarked upon "Forced Family Togetherness" by gathering the clan to select a tree. First off, I truly don't like live trees. Why do they call them live? The tree is dead, it just doesn't know it yet. We cut 'em down, decorate 'em, then make mulch out of 'em. As a child I was horrified when I saw my father toss our "live" tree in the garbage heap, and since then artificial trees have been the way to go. I don't like the prickly needles of real trees, I don't like the smell, and last of all, I have never enough experience with them to learn to cope with them. What's up with all the needles on the floor? But I'm a sucker when it comes to providing that Rockwell Christmas for my son.

We select a tree and, with a minimum of struggle, haul it home. We did learn something last year: you leave the tree outside for a day so the dog can get used to it. Yep, Athena had to sniff it, lick it, gnaw on it, and of course (blushing) "dominate" it.

After allowing the Spotted Princess to assert her "dominance" over the tree, husband comes home for lunch and it's time to put the stand on. Unfortunately, I didn't remember from last year that you need a PhD in mechanical engineering to accomplish this. Six hands do not a lighter load make. After we managed to get all screws evenly "scrod" in, and tree appears to be straight, Dear Husband remembers "Oh yeah, you have to smash the tree into the stand so the little sharp things can dig into the trunk." CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! Husband then, with smug look on face, places tree in living room and announces, "My work here is done." As his car is scooting down the driveway and I'm doing the suburban housewife routine of standing next to the tree in the picture window, waving... tree collapses on me. Turns out in his zeal to make sure tree was in the stand properly, he bent it. Now the official live-tree-heebie-jeebie-sufferer is the designated tree surgeon. Makes sense huh? Sure does to my husband.

Off I scurry to the tree lot to buy another stand, a simpler one this time, a plastic round "thingee." Despite pleas, begging, whining, and offering of brownies, I cannot convince nice tree man to put the stand on the tree. I spent the better part of an hour engineering the blasted tree into the new stand while son attempts to climb tree and Athena "defends" me from the evil attacking tree. No, it is not fun being under a tree whilst the Dalmatian is humping it and son is cackling with laughter. Bacall, my dear sweet Bacall, decides that no matter how amusing this sight might be, the risk of injury is great and removes her little poodle self to the back bedroom vowing to watch the videotape later.

Feeling as if I've beaten the tree into submission, I begin to put the lights on. Let's for a moment return to this same scenario from last yr. Ahhh yes... no one told me you can't put lights on every limb of the tree. And no, I didn't take the hint that maybe fifteen strands of one hundred lights might be too much. Nor did I notice the increasing heat in the living room. Husband said he could see the glow of the tree from the end of the street. He was surprised a jet didn't get our house confused with the Atlanta airport and land on our roof. I was living in an Easy-Bake oven. Told ya'll I'm tree impaired. I limit myself to four measly strands this year... and begin.

Another hour later, and re-setting the tree upright several times, I'm done. Okay, I was done till Athena decides to investigate the tree again and son decides to see if it's climbable with the lights on it. Next year, I am vowing to drag that lovely silk tree (with lights already done by a nice florist and stand already attached) down from the attic and use that one.

Husband arrives home... "What's for dinner?" That little innocent query got the tree pushed down onto him. By the time I, no we, got dinner on the table (we decided to actually sit and admire MY handiwork and eat at our dining room table), I noticed the time (and the tree beginning to list to one side)... EEEEEEEKKKKKK! I leap to my feet... and slam my left foot into the dining room table. SNAP! I can now say I have broken three toes, and no, there is nothing they can do for a broken toe. I hobble to the computer for my favorite chat, Going to the Dogs. Luckily a fellow host takes pity on me and allows me to eat dinner, finish up the tree, and put ice on my foot. I think she really just wanted me to leave the chatroom so they could all laugh at me.

Finally, a pseudo-Martha Stewart moment... until, as we (read "I") are cleaning up dinner, the doorbell rings. We have a friendly neighborhood, but only one person drops by and it wasn't her. It was my mother-in-law (ominous background music inserted here). We all know the feeling you get when in-laws come to visit, but this is a classic moment. There are tree needles everywhere, random branches scattered, Athena innocently disemboweling a tree angel, Bacall cowering under the table lest the tree decide to attack her, dear son dying to demonstrate his tree scaling abilities, boxes of decorations spewing their contents all over the living room as we had pilfered them for specific ornaments... you get the picture.

Y'know, sometimes when you offer guests an eggnog, you're really the one who needs it. All I wanted was to attempt to decorate my tree. Instead I get attacked by the tree, a broken toe, and a mother-in-law over to admire the chaos. Next year I'm going to hibernate.