Somewhere in this house there are seven pairs of scissors. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not witnessed with my own eyes shortly after I moved here.
In a drawer, the only drawer my 1910 library desk has, a drawer that is an archeological dig from the early part of this century, and a drawer I never look in because I don’t want to dig through all that crap, there they were, seven pairs of scissors. I am sure they were as surprised as I was. I have never seen that many scissors together under any of my roofs. I don’t own that many scissors.
I have always suspected they throw lavish parties and invite all of my favorite pens and that entire package of gold foil address labels I planned to use for my howliday cards, (actually it’s the cards the Bassets send to each other).
In some parallel universe the Pam that I am there might be stumbling on their little soiree even as we speak, because not one of them is here today and I think they took the brand new olive oil I just bought with them. The bastards.