Some people find dust bunnies and old papers when they move. For me, scissors and pens vanish from my grasp, and lie embryonic and unseen in overlooked corners, until it is time to move or clean. Suddenly, they gestate, and every room suddenly births scissor twins and quadruplet pens, to my confusion and Jeff's annoyance.

Jeff will tell you that one of the most frustrating parts about living with me is my inability to avoid 'just borrowing' the pen closest at hand, and then accidentally setting it down in an unfindable 'else' or tucking it away in my pocket, never to return. (My mother, many years ago, would tell similar tales about her scissors.)

He'll tell you he's lost countless pens that way, and I can't dispute it. The only pen that seems to be safe from my thieving, forgetful fingers is the one clamped to his checkbook, but this would be a far more significant statement if his checkbook saw more than its current once-monthly use.

I know for a fact that this house contains 6 pair of scissors; my mind riffles through the handle colors while my hands remember their shapes; orange too large and hard for me to handle, purple slender and unsharp, black kitchen shears practically battered beyond use, red kindergarten scissors that my mother found and rescued a few years ago, black hair scissors that I must stop cutting threads with, and the luscious new sport-utility fabric scissors Jeff gave me for my birthday.

The red scissors are undoubtedly in the kindergarten coloring box emblazoned with my unmarried name in an awkward, hesitant script. The fabric scissors are next to my sewing un-kit on the reading room couch...

...the rest are either on a winter safari or are snuggled up under one of our friendly neighborhood piles of clutter. It may be years before they come visit again; I'm hoping they'll send Christmas cards.

I know there are undoubtedly pens scattered throughout this room and the guest bedroom next to me, but the chances of my finding one to start a morning to-do list are slim.

I love the slender whisper of a well-sharpened scissor, but what I have for pens can be described as nothing short of lust.

It started with a gold foil box, the calligraphic sum total of my childhood inheritance from my maternal grandmother. She dabbled in calligraphy, and had somehow amassed a collection of old dip-style calligraphic pens. I loved the feel, the flexibility, the tangible thrill of painting my words in bold, thick strokes.

Since then I've chased the perfect pen, with delicate moues of distaste at the anorexic ink lines so-called "bold" pens produce. Years of grabbing the nearest pen, using it to complete the task at hand, then laying it aside to find a better replacement in the next room have resulted. Our rooms are full of the tested, abused, and quickly forgotten.

I've often wondered if a fountain pen, one with a slashing-thick stream of ink and a nib with some give, would be the answer to my urge to write the world in large letters. I cannot shake the feeling that short of a specially-tailored wrist cuff, such a lovely, high-strung beast would do little more than skitter off to find its country cousins the first time I turned my back.

I'd be pleased if I could just find a pen to write out tomorrow's to-do list, but I keep finding scissors instead.

Somewhere, my mother is laughing.

Current music: Cassandra Wilson, New Moon Daughter

Yes, this is my all-time favorite entry title for this site. Knew that much before I even finished the entry.

Hmm. scissortwins.com doesn't seem to be taken. Interesting. Very interesting.