It happens every year. Every year we venture forth to the Christmas tree farm in search of a fresh tree. Every year my poor wife tries to act as the voice of reason in regards to getting a tree of manageable size; every year I forget how last years tree was just too damn big, and insist upon getting a gianormous specimen that winds up scraping the ceiling and taking up half of our living room. I vowed that it would be different this year, and that I would not repeat my mistakes of years past. With the best of intentions in my heart, I set forth with my long-suffering wife to seek out the perfect tree. Our journey took us up the mountain behind our home to a tree farm on my route where a suprise awaited us...3 inches of fresh snow, the first of the year! She tried to warn me, but my denial was strong. The tree looked perfectly sized to me. She tried to explain that the weight of 3 inches of wet snow was pushing the branches down and making the tree appear smaller, but I would hear none of it. I was bound and determined to bring that beautiful, snow covered tree home, so I went ahead and cut it down and into the back of the truck it went. We got it home, and I got it out of the truck and set up in the garage in the tree stand to dry out. I took a broom and started knocking the snow off of it...and the damn thing proceeded to DOUBLE in size. I now have a huge pile of wet snow on the floor of my garage, a tree the size of an old-growth redwood to try and cram into the house, and a wife who gets to keep reminding me (ever so sweetly of course) that "I told you so." @$%&@!!!!!!