It began without fanfare, when I overheard a coworker divulge that she forked out $200 at a weekend candle party. Miraculously, I quelled the beast within that wanted to react as men often do: speaking before thinking. $200 on candles? No doubt, astronauts can identify her house from space when the lighting mood strikes.The voice belonged to Colette Weber – soft-spoken (except when it came to candles), unassuming, “normal” by all other accounts. Her other vice is cats, though she seems to have that one under control. She owns just three, or, to be more accurate, they own her. But the candle thing … I had no idea. It cudgeled my tiny brain.
Prior to her admission – before I was exposed to the lunatic fringe – I would have pegged ‘majestic sunrise’ for a nature reference made by someone keeping Ben Franklin hours (all that ‘early to bed-early to rise’ nonsense) or, perhaps, the title of a piece of art. But I was naïve about the flippant name-calling practices of the candle industry: combining wax, perfume and Monet-like titles.
Hundreds of dollars spent on candles with ridiculous names! There was no letting it go. Several days later, I found myself in the Hallmark store, picking up over-priced candles, taking a whiff and christening them aloud. Time and again, what I thought should be called “Grandma Emptied the Perfume Bottle” was instead labeled something meaningless like “Heirloom Pearls.”
I was doing humanity a service, I told myself – doing Ralph Nader-like work for consumers falling prey to the candle industry equivalent of the Hindenburg. Heirloom Pearls? Puh-leeze.
The store owner gave me the jaundiced eye. Why wouldn't she? A man spending more than 5 minutes in the candle isle. Judging by the must-be-a-sicko look in her eye, it was time to go. After one last sniff, I mumbled “pitiful” and weaved my way through the teary masses (who were digesting five-stanza poems in the greeting card isle) and left the Hallmark patsies to their own devices.
The next day, my newfound hobby surfaced again, most unexpectedly, at work, just down the hall from Colette in Lori Martin’s cubicle. I picked up the white candle on her desk – entitled 'Cotton' – inhaled, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Hotel bed sheets,” I announced.
Lori ogled me in horror. Until then, our relationship had been professional – discussing advanced paper-shuffling techniques, corporate ladder climbing and how to look and sound intelligent at business meetings.
Hotel bed sheets changed everything.
The look on her face tested my deodorant and highlighted the need for fast and brilliant words. ‘Hotel bed sheets, I repeated the foible in my mind. Now there’s a picture, you idiot! Quick, say something! Save yourself!’
“Clean ones!” I shouted.
Her laughter was volcanic, causing a groundswell of inquiries from curious coworkers. By day’s end, my reputation was beyond salvage.
Thus ended my candle-naming fling. The memory of it lingers – forever burned into my brain as the day I opened my mouth and leaped into the sea of idiocy. Truth be told: for a short while, I did inhale.
The silver lining? My $200 is still in my wallet.
The REAL Story:
- A Little Music with that Column?
CLICK HERE - Where to Find a Hard Copy of This Column
Bismarck's "Inspire Magazine", Jan/Feb 2009 issue; email: inspire@btinet.net; phone: (701) 255-3422. - Keystone Candle-Naming and ...
The truth in candle naming issue will forever toy with my scruples. Another equally disturbing scam: lotion naming. No telling how much trouble that one would get me into. - Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Teary Masses
Soapbox issue #21: Hallmark greeting card 5-stanza poems. Too sappy. Too over-the-top. Too much like a bad novel. Please! How 'bout a little truth mixed in, like: You're a pretty good guy. You need to work on (insert character flaw). Happy birthday, nonetheless. - Hotel Bed Sheets
Mark my words! Pick up that cotton candle, head to the nearest hotel, toss back the sheets and take a whiff. My nose does not lie.
email: ifguyscouldtalk@hotmail.com
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