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Parting Shot Wrap It Up M y personal war on Christmas has nothing to do with religion or politics—it's about gift giving. It's not a Scrooge thing; I don't mind unloading my wallet for the people in my life. Indeed, that's the easy part—I do it every payday. My problem has more to do with logistics, by which I don't just mean the hostile mechanics of living in an international shopping mecca in a season when we Las Vegans and our boutique-bound visitors renounce our common humanity as part of the grim slog to get the damn gifts bought. (A nasty new strain of Darwinism incubates every December in our mall parking lots.) I hate all that, but it's not enough to curdle my Christmas cheer. 152 No, what gets me are the psychological logistics of figuring out what to give whom in a way that convincingly suggests I have thought carefully about it. Too many of the personality traits and habits of mind that Sin City has bred into me—an impatience with anything that doesn't entertain me, me, me! every minute; a ludicrous belief that a stroke of luck will save my ass—thwart the contemplation and empathy required to give thoughtful gifts. Weaned on a culture of nonstop stimulation, how does a guy establish the quiet, reflective headspace required to sift through someone's life—for purely hypothetical purposes, let's say I'm talking about my wife— for clues about what she really wants? So, adhering to a complicated avoidance strategy, I battle Christmas to a standstill every year. Ignoring it ("I still have two weeks to shop, hon"), working extra hours ("Couldn't get away, hon, but I still have a week"), I wait until the waning moments of December 24. Then I rush into the nearest store to see what gifts luck has set aside for me. This is why my wife owns a power drill. I've been there for Christmas Eve shopping, in the very drain of the behavioral sink, and I know: It's not just me. Thousands of my fellow Las Vegans, of every stripe, are right there beside me, clutching at the junk the good shoppers didn't want, the same look—half desperate, half resigned—in all of our eyes. This is why there are people like Marsha Miller, Saks Fifth Avenue's personal shopper, whose annual gift operation is a don't-skip ritual for many of the retailer's wellheeled clients. If you're a corporate macher too busy shoring up the fourth quarter to wrap the kids' presents, if you're a society matron with a shopping list like a Russian novel, if you just need 50 vials of upscale jelly beans to gift the littles, Miller and her Christmas ninjas can pull your holiday together. Or if you're like me—too bewildered to wrap your mind around the chore—she'll do the wrapping for you. And since it's free, you don't have to be among the one percent to take advantage of it. While it's perhaps too much to suggest that the Saks Wonderland on its own possesses any kind of Christmas magic, it does have a few singular properties. It gently nullifies the one inflexible rule of holiday commerce— "The women all shop early and the men all shop late," Miller confirms with a smile—by ensuring that even the most hastily purchased gift tells the recipient, You're special enough for me to engage an upscale shopping service! Cue the "Hallelujah" chorus. This, I submit, counts as a minor miracle, and if it turns out the Saks gift ninjas can translate my mumbles into presents that aren't power tools, they just might broker a peace between Christmas and me after all. V ILLUSTRATION BY DANIEL O'LEARY GIFT-GIVING TIME IS HERE AGAIN, AND FOR THE CITY'S PERPLEXED PROCRASTINATORS, A PERSONAL SHOPPING AND WRAPPING OPERATION RIDES TO THE RESCUE. BY SCOTT DICKENSHEETS VEGASMAGAZINE.COM 152_V_BOB_Closer_Dec13.indd 152 11/19/13 3:50 PM