The Wog no longer calls them "Nis-Mas" trees. Sniff, sniff.
Nonetheless, she was very excited to go pick one out, and talked about it constantly. She asked if we could get a pink one; when I told her we could not, she said, "How about a green one?" Done deal!
It is our tradition to pick the fattest (most vertically challenged?) tree on the lot. I saw it immediately, but The Wog insisted on methodologically inspecting each one. When she reached my chosen fatty, she rejected it saying, "No, it's not right." (She obviously wanted to choose it for herself, and resented our pushing toward this one.) So Marc wove her in a circle back through all the trees so she could "find" it for herself; she immediately declared, "This one's perfect!"
The elfin Doodle wishes he could have some post tree-picking pizza, too: