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When All The Pens Go Missing

This is a household where writers live. Three of us and a seven year old.  So who steals the pens? One of the greatest mysteries of man, aside from the Great Sock Caper that your dryer pulls off each laundry day.

I frequently buy a package on sale. I carefully put them in the pen cup on my desk, warning my family to keep their grubby paws off of them. I get a flash of brilliance and I canít find a pen.

Now, donít get me wrong. This has no paramount significance in my life. Itís just one of those things. Although, it does affect my writing to a degree.

I share this computer with two other members of my family. My husband loves time on to play computer games and mess about with his websites. But for him, itís a leisure activity. My seven year old gets time, too. She plays games and does a childrenís typing course for her keyboarding skills. So, I have to use pens on occasion. When I can find one.

Iím not asking a lot. In fact Iím asking for one little thing. The pen gods find it humorous to taunt me with flashes of pen imagery. They laugh and make pithy remarks about how writers forget things. They sip their ambrosia and chuckle at my frustration. They wait for the moment when Iím looking for a pen and slip one behind my right ear. They collapse in laughter when I look in the mirror and wonder where my sanity is going without me.

I find pens on occasion. I found one just yesterday behind the cat box. Yes, cat box. Donít ask me how it got there. Donít bother asking my seven year old. She doesnít even know what color the cat box is. Sheíd rather be invisible when it comes time to clean it. She would have no clue how the pen got there. Maybe the cats played floor hockey with it on one of their midnight romps down the hall.

We have five of them. Navarre doesnít steal pens. Heís a huge black cat with the deepest green eyes Iíve ever seen. But he canít write a word. Pywacket is too fat to bother with pens. Heís into mothering the rest. Polgara is nursing a hungry brood of two weeks. She tripping over her bountiful teats. Hardly in a position to scoot pens down hallways. Buddy? Well, Buddy is a corker alright. Heíd steal the pen, but heís much too preoccupied with his human (my husband) to bother with such mundane things. Turtle Butt (donít ask) is way too tiny. The pen outweighs him by four ounces. He has no clue what a cat box even looks like. Heís one of the tiny brood. The pen behind the cat box remains a mystery. And itís location remains behind the cat box. My husband can pick it up when he does the litter.

I saw another pen on top of the microwave a few days ago, but alas, it has flown the coop.

I know I saw one in the bathroom. (Is there a pattern here?)  That one is usually for crossword puzzles and list making. I once used lip liner for the Sunday puzzle. Messy, but workable.

My purse is a dead loss. Itís more of a backpack really. It hasnít been able to hold a pen in its gravitational pull for years. I put them in, never to see them again. Like the socks from the dryer. Gone. Sucked into the wastelands, full of skeletal remains of socks, your favorite earring and grocery lists. Vast deserts, strewn with vanished items. Dark, dismal and reminiscent of the Twilight Zone. 

I guess my only option is to keep on buying pens on sale. Itís either that or tie one to my desk leg like a bank. I did that once, with a pen near my grocery list pad. Two days later I found a cut string. Didnít work. I need heavy chain if Iím going to go that route.

For now, at least I know where to find one should I need it. Now where did I put that disinfectant?

 

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Copyright 2002

 

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