Every year around mid-November, Yvette brings up the subject of The Tree. “So… what’s your plan for the tree?” She likes to plan. A lot.

I rarely plan anything because I have learned that plans rarely work out. Most of them actually fall apart faster than a made-in-China espresso machine. However, she insists that this is the nature of plans and that despite their spectacular rate of failure, they are useful necessary indispensable. “Having a plan is like having a map before you embark on an adventure. You’re less likely to get lost.”

Apparently, even if it’s a lousy map. Christ on a crumpet. Remind me never to go on safari with her. She’d drive us right into a lion’s den rather than follow her intuition. Her child-like trust in man-made items like maps and street signs never fails to amaze me. (“Why are you slowing down? They have a stop sign, so they will stop.”) She is so clearly a child born in a civilized corner of the world.

Where I grew up, you were safer using a compass, than a map. And street signs? A luxury found only outside the local cop shop, where they were less likely to be stolen. The only street lights were the headlights of oncoming cars. Which could be a bit blurry during monsoon season, especially when crossing a spontaneous mud slide. That’s a teen defensive driving lesson, right there, let me tell you.

But back to the Christmas tree discussion. I now live in sophisticated, urban, icy Montreal. They have Christmas trees growing out their ears here. Seriously, the hills are covered in them. All year long. Can you imagine? I get to look at Christmas trees every day here! Only don’t make the mistake of calling them that. They are fir trees, if you please…

Whatever. I love them. All I got growing up was a bunch of scraggly coconut tree fronds lashed together and stuck in a bucket of sand. Propped precariously against the nearest wall lest it come crashing down, we didn’t dare add lights. Tossing on a few strands of tinsel, my Dad, scotch in hand, would proclaim it a true Christmas Miracle. Indeed. Any kid over the age of 3 could tell you that that was most certainly not a Christmas tree. (And don’t get me started on the abomination of Santa arriving by water ski in red swimming trunks.)

To make matters worse, all our friends had proper-looking Christmas trees. Okay, they were made in China, and came in some very un-tree like colors (fuscia, anyone?) but they were sturdy enough to hold ornaments and lights, and all the other Mums loved them. (“So much easier to clean up. It just opens like an umbrella!”)

But no. Our Mum was dead against any fake trees. She preferred dealing with the temporary mess of real foliage than the permanent curse of acquiring “another bloody dust-collector.” Her version of the Ten Commandments included, “Thou shalt bring unto me no plastic flora or fauna of any kind, at any time.”  I hold her entirely responsible for my subsequent fondness for hacking off sections of live trees.

Yvette, understandably, is not such an enthusiastic fan of “chopping down a perfectly healthy tree so that you can stick it in a bucket of water for 2 weeks and watch it die.” Actually, I can sometimes push it to 3 weeks, if I’m lucky, but she keeps the fire station on speed dial, and is freaky about maintaining the water level in the bucket, convinced that it will spontaneously combust and set the house on fire while we’re asleep. (“Did you check the water?” “How’s the water?” “Don’t forget to top up the water.”)  She doesn’t buy cut flowers for the same reason. Ever. Yeah, she’s Inter Flora‘s worst nightmare.

But she has grown weary of listening to How I Was Deprived Of The Real Thing For 30 Goddamn Years. Rather than listen to me carrying on like a pork chop, she grits her teeth and concedes this one to me. Although there was one  year where I reluctantly agreed to “no tree, just a wreath.” We were going to a lot of parties and (she reasoned ever so logically) we were spending most of the weekends in December away from home so we wouldn’t really get to enjoy it. Yeah, can you believe I fell for that crap? I was miserable every time I walked back through the door. Which was several times a day, thanks to Oscar and his walks. The wreath didn’t even smell after 2 days, and half the appeal of Christmas foliage is the smell. You can’t fake that fresh pine smell. Believe me, I’ve tried. I now refer to it as the Year of the Branch and I have will never let her forget it.

These days, instead of disputing whether or not we will have a tree, or whether it will be a live one (or as she points out, a once-live one), she has shifted the negotiations to what date we will bring home the sacrificial tree, and what date she can look forward to hurling its brittle brown carcass onto the sidewalk. Thank God for municipal recycling. It does redeem my position somewhat to know that it will be turned into mulch, which is good for the planet, yada yada yada.

I usually suggest the first week in December, to which she recoils in horror, before countering with something ludicrous like December 23. She then launches into her best pitch, claiming all sorts of nonsensical precedents, not to mention the appeal of last-minute-great-prices. We usually settle on a date between December 7 and 14. (But only if I yield on some other point, like agreeing to no Christmas music before the tree arrives.) Probably because I have more patience and stamina for this game. Or she loves me. Bit of both, I suspect.