Don't burn the wrapping paper. When I was a kid we fed the paper into the roaring Yule blaze, much to my mother's discomfort; some of that paper was perfectly good, and with some ironing you could use it again. For years to come. This may have been a Depression thing -- for all we know, folks in the '30s hung the paper out on a line the day after and beat it like a rug to work out the wrinkles. You didn't rip; you opened a package like you were performing surgery.
"Scissors ... clamp ... X-Acto knife ... Nurse, some pressure on the seam, I'm going to attempt to lift the tape without marring the paper."
But doctor, that's Scotch tape, not cellophane! It'll pull up the print and leave a white mark!
"I know what I'm doing, nurse! Now give me pressure!"
(Huffily) YES, doctor.
We don't save paper anymore, but burning is out for many: Bad carbon. Naughty carbon. Me, I remember the solemn words of a cousin when we were young, and I told him my theory that the fire changed colors according to the paper. Since it was probably made of lead and gunpowder, I may have been right. But he said burning paper in the fireplace caused fires in the house. Captain Kangaroo said so. That ended the practice, right there. No one went against the Captain.
Anyway: By now you've probably opened everything, and you're ankle-deep in wadded paper, unless you don't celebrate Christmas, or you're Orthodox. How did it go? As I write this I'm awaiting the results. Let me share with you the thrilling back story:
Two weeks ago I was in the Mall on a miserable expedition for a new perfume. There's stuff she will pretend to be excited about then pour down the drain, stuff you don't quite like but will never say so because she likes it, and stuff that smells exactly like the stuff you bought last year, but -- and this is crucial -- comes in a bottle with a different shape.
Chanel No. 5 is always popular, but I always wonder why happened to Chanel Number 1 through 4. Well, one through three went right through the skin, and No. 4 attacked DNA at the subatomic level. Got that all fixed for Number 5, though. It's just such a cliche, that's all.
When the Perfume Clerk wandered over I wanted to sling some lingo. Do you have something with a top note of warm cardboard and a tofu finish, with hints of musk, ice, rose, and Sharpies? Good clerks will wheel right around, pluck a bottle, and say this is very popular this year, and it comes with gift pack that might has well have been labelled "Exquisitely designed tiny bottles she will put in a bag and never use."
The clerk showed me a new popular scent. It smelled like someone burned a muskrat in a baby-powder factory. If it is very popular it's because they've been visited by many blind men who want to be able to locate their partner from six blocks away.
The clerk must have seen my expression, because he gave me something else to smell. "That's it," I said. "That's what I'm looking for."
"Sir, these are coffee beans?"
Oh. Right. They use beans to help you recalibrate your nose. It reminded me how much I can't stand most perfume, how nearly all of my favorite scents are unrepresented in the perfume counter. Mimeo fluid. Old bookstore. Cigarettes, no, but Grandpa's Cigarettes, yes -- I'd give anything to catch a whiff of butane and Old Gold if it meant a minute with him again. Scents bring it all back, which is why I can't buy my wife something with a powdery top note: It reminds me of the default aroma of the Diaper Genie refills.
But! What I found was extraordinary. For that matter, every single gift I got the family this year was perfect. As I write this Christmas Eve I expect it will take hours to unwrap on Xmas Morn, because wife and child will be stunned to immobility by the perfection of my selections, and stir themselves only to compose long, formal odes on the heroic glory of Dad's shopping odyssey. I'm so confident I'm putting this in the paper, and sending you here: startribune.com/blogs/lileks where I will post the results around 1 p.m.
I know my wife will be pleased. First of all, it's Chanel No. 6, which has to be better than 5. You know it's got to be good when they sell it at the Dollar Store, and they charge six bucks.
jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858
