I HATE SARAN™ WRAP
I try to teach my children that hate is a waste of emotional energy – it’s better to spend energy positively. Especially in this season of Thanksgiving, with all the important events and issues we face as individuals and residents of this planet, I’m loath to squander this space (and your time) on something so mundane. But there are all sorts of things I hate: poverty, famine, war. But even more I hate Saran Wrap.
In 1933, a Dow Chemical worker named Ralph Wiley, accidentally discovered polyvinylidene chloride or Saran. He originally christened it “eonite” after an indestructible material in the comic strip “Little Orphan Annie.” Curse you Ralph Wiley and all you evil lab geniuses!
Really now, perhaps I’m being a bit hard on ol’ Ralph-ey. Working for Dow, he was probably just trying to invent a more efficient way of killing people, not just personally frustrating me. But I’m not in the forgiving mood -- there are delicious leftovers to preserve.
The 2000 Year Old Man called Saran Wrap “the greatest thing devised by man. You can look through it, you can put three olives in it, you can put 10 sandwiches in it – it’s clear, it clings and it sticks.” When subsequently asked about the space program, he shrugged, “That was good.” So much for age bringing wisdom.
Whence comes my vitriol? The effective use of plastic wrap must require some sub-set of skills that I am devoid of. I can make a bed, hospital-corners and all, that you can bounce a dime off of. I can wrap a present, pretty as you please. I can do higher mathematics and the NYT Crossword everyday but Saturday. But when it comes to plastic wrap, I’m a zero.
My sister, who worked in a cheese shop in high school, has a black belt in Saran. She can wrap a wedge so tight and neat you’d swear it was done by machine. She always advises me to just buy the cheapest kind, but even when I try with her wrap in her kitchen, I fail abjectly.
It must be something coded into the DNA – a genetic signal my sister has that I lack. Like being able to roll your tongue, taste the soap in cilantro, or whether your second toe is longer than your first.
Searching the net for images of Saran Wrap (let’s see how the other half lives), I’m shocked by the number of scandalous female pics. I recently heard about an erotic, plastic wrapped scene on the TV show Pushing Daisies. Men seem fascinated with using it as a material for a third sock. I prefer sex a little more dirty.
But I digress. Let’s start with that cutter thingy that seems designed to cut everything but the intended. You’d think by now there’d be some multi-million-dollar headline-grabbing lawsuit about some poor fool who decapitated himself trying to wrap an egg salad sandwich. A lawyer should accompany every box.
I know that I’m going to need more than I think, so I pull out yards of the stuff. When I go to cut, it snags, and then rips, in the perpendicular direction than intended. In the course of this commotion, the other end of the wrap becomes a wrap ball. Trying to detangle the ball is a fool’s errand and after several aborted attempts and restarts, I may eventually end up with a reasonable piece. But something funny has now occurred. It won’t stick to anything. It’s fundamental atomic structure has changed and my anticipated success vanishes. Even wrapping around and around the object-to-be-stored, in the hopes that the wrap will at least stick to itself, as I can attest to just by the glittering balls littering the kitchen tile, results in failure. I consider using duct tape. Or a noose.
All I wanted to do was wrap some chicken.
Don’t even get me started on Reynolds™ Wrap. Or rice.
-ramon