So here it is. We’re four days into December, and there’s no snow on the ground or smell of it in the air. The grass is green and brown, but it’s not dead. It’s just lying there cropped so short to the bone you couldn’t hide a quarter in it.

So it’s December and it’s time to go to the back of the house where everything that belongs to the past is kept: the summer clothes, patio furniture, two pair of Madras slacks, eight linen shirts, two Panama straw hats and six pairs of Crocs.

More importantly we find two big boxes all marked in black letters and easy to read: “Christmas Stuff.” It’s not eloquent or poetic I know, but it’s simple and to the point, just “Christmas Stuff.” Actually, I wrote in another “S” word but she crossed it out in case future generations find it and think that I was irreverent.

And there it is in the corner where I put it last year. It’s the “not real” tree my daughters hate. It’s functional and cheap. This is not a good money year, we’ve all agreed to cut back, and it starts with the tree.

I’m fond of real trees. I have a yard full of them. I love to see them draped in real snow. I love that they don’t have leaves to be raked in the fall. I just don’t want one in the house.

Fire is my biggest fear. Unless you stay focused and keep that big green bucket at the bottom filled, real trees become time bombs.

I have this recurring nightmare. We all go to Portland for the day to shop. My dog, whose water bowl we forgot to fill, goes into the living room, tears apart a few packages and makes his way to the tree base. Here, dying of thirst, he gnaws his way through the ancient creche, chews on the baby Jesus and the plastic cows, and drinks the tree’s water bowl dry. In about an hour, this tree starts dropping needles and then the light chain short circuits and the tree and my house go up in flames.

I have this recurring nightmare. We all go to Portland for the day to shop. My dog, whose water bowl we forgot to fill, goes into the living room, tears apart a few packages and makes his way to the tree base. Here, dying of thirst, he gnaws his way through the ancient creche, chews on the baby Jesus and the plastic cows, and drinks the tree’s water bowl dry. In about an hour, this tree starts dropping needles and then the light chain short circuits and the tree and my house go up in flames.

So I’m a drama queen. It’s my house. So several years ago, I bought my first faux tree. It was white and I decorated it in red and blue ornaments. I thought it patriotic. Proudly, I emailed a photo to a friend in Los Angeles. He said he knew a Las Vegas pimp who had one just like it. I returned it.

This year, just to make sure I had the right one, I did what any modern shopper would do. I went online. At ChristmasTreesGalore.com I found several to offer the girls. First was the Narrow Red Ashley-Clear at $199. It has 1679 tips to give it a “lush look and feel.” It is bright red, the shade of Lady GaGa’s lips. She, who refused to put the plastic baby Jesus under a red tree, rejected it.

Then there was a bright green one that looked something like that fake grass you find in Easter baskets. I emailed my selection to all three of my women. Out-of-office replies from all came back.

I’m going to stick with the standard green one in the back of the house. I considered spray-painting it to make it look more authentic, but I’m told that the scent might kill Ms. Kramer, the family cockatiel.

So there it is. I’ve moved it into the living room where it will sit until Monday, St. Christopher’s Day. That’s the earliest I will start decorating. I brought in the boxes, set them in the corner and sat back with a large glass of Irish-fortified eggnog to await the first snowstorm.

Bring on the partridges, maids a milking and lords a leaping. Game on.