I called my sister Fran in Florida last week just to say hello, and she was watching a Christmas movie.

Made me laugh. I was doing the same, even though each year I swear I'm not going to, or at least do less of it.

It used to be that Christmas movies came on in mid-December. Inexorably they moved up to Thanksgiving. This year we were in southern California when we saw the first one - before Thanksgiving.

Apparently Christmas movies have a good following. The Hallmark channel produced 12 new ones for this season. And it continues to show all the old ones.

Fran's excuse is that she was born on Dec. 9, exactly two years after our parents were married during the Christmas season of 1937.

My excuse is that I've become a sap in my old age. Just about every movie brings tears to my eyes. I cried at the end of Seabiscuit.

What's really bad is that these movies are terrible. They're cute, but they're cookie-cutter terrible.

The principal characters meet. They do the "does he (she) love me?" mating dance. Then there is the crisis born of some unforgivable fact such as "I love Lawrence Welk music." Finally they resolve the crisis and rush into each other's arms in time to beat the credits.

Pat watches Christmas movies too. She loves them. Two weeks ago, when we couldn't get the Seahawks game, she went right to the Christmas movies. The Seahawks probably beat the Bears because we weren't watching.

Sunday I made Pat angry. She asked me about a new movie that involves ballroom dancing. I told her the guy lies to the girl throughout the movie and dies before he can fix everything. Her laser beam look made me admit my review was a bit off.

Pat and I often watch together, but we keep tabs on each other out of the corner of an eye. She wants to be sure I join her in the crying. I want to be sure she cries first.

The best new Christmas movie this year, so far, involves a Jewish girl who doesn't want to be set up with old boyfriends when she goes home for the season. So she convinces a Catholic boy to play the role of her boyfriend for the season.

Of course, they kiss at some point, to keep up the charade, and sparks fly. They fall in love but struggle to admit it.

Then comes the crisis, which includes the girl saying she's lied about lots of things for several years to her parents. Knowing he can't possibly trust her, the boy walks away. The girl cries and resigns herself to a love-less life.

The two can't stand being away from each other. So they decide to drink their sorrow away. They try New Year's Eve parties and can't even get properly drunk.

Just before the ball drops, she gets into a cab to go home. He sees her, steals a horse from a cop and chases the cab down.

When the cop catches up to the two, he tells the boy all will be forgiven if he hears the two have married. They embrace and kiss, and the Times Square crowd cheers and applauds.

Now who's going to believe such a preposterous story?

Pat and I.

We met on Dec. 8, 1973. I locked onto her mesmerizing blue eyes like radar and couldn't break free. We dated on Dec. 10. We both knew before Christmas we'd be married. That happened the next July.

However, we did not have a crisis, even though I am a Lawrence Welk fan. Instead we have repeated crises.

Those baby blues still get me into trouble.