Lileks: Don't give him any lip about Carmex

As we shuffle through another week of endless winter, it's helpful to remember the words of Churchill when the tide of war had begun to turn: "This is not the end, nor the beginning of the end, but it is the end of the middle part where the beginning is mostly done and you can start to think about getting your tax stuff all together."

Not an exact quote, but you get the idea.

Let's say there are six weeks left of cold weather. At my current consumption rate, this comes out to 18 tubes of Carmex. No, I do not walk around waxing my gob all day, looking like I went bobbing for apples in a vat of Vaseline. I just lose the tube, again and again.

I used to buy the small white glass containers; the act of unscrewing the lid and daubing a bit on your afflicted area seemed like a 19th-century affectation, like a dandy taking snuff.

But the containers got grotty — you might have stopped smoking 20 years ago and not been on a Caribbean vacation since 2002, but after 10 minutes in your coat pocket, the inside of the jar was full of sand and tobacco fragments.

Tube form, that's the ticket. When winter began, I bought several three-packs, thinking they'd last a long time. "Classic Lip Balm," it said, guaranteeing the timeless experience you had come to expect. I am going to pour some Classic Coke, turn on some classic rock, and balm my lips, classically.

I put one tube in my pocket. It was gone in a day. Well, it's probably at the office; maybe I was Carmexing my face when a hot news tip came in and everyone dropped everything, and I was lucky because it was just Carmex instead of a Ming vase full of hot coffee.

Perhaps the dog ate it. They eat grass when they have an upset stomach; perhaps they eat Carmex when constipated.

I never found it. No matter. I've Carmex galore. No, that was a 1940s Latin American singer. I've Carmex aplenty — or was that a Bond villainess? Whatever. The point is: I have more.

Had more, anyway. It vanished, and there are only two possibilities. The tubes went to the Lost Sock Dimension, an infinite expanse of waxy footwear, or they joined the Consortium of Lip Stuff at the bottom of my wife's purse, jostling around a hundred lipsticks. (Note to self: Hide the Variety section this Sunday.)

They'll turn up. In May. I've one left, though, and it has to last, so I'll tape it to my index finger. As soon as I find the duct tape.