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.
