Sometimes I sit down to write just for the fun of it, just to unwind . . . at times like that, things like this are often the result.
Pulling the Rabbit Out of the Hat
“Harvey, Maggie’s stuck again!”I groaned and trudged out into the hall and into my sister’s room.
“How did it happen this time?”
“Well, I hid her food in there so she couldn’t get at it, but when I wasn’t looking—”
I sighed. “I’ll go get the scissors.”
I galloped into the hall, through the living room, into the kitchen, and fumbled through a drawer. Scissors, scissors . . . why are the scissors always missing? I mean, seriously, is it so hard for someone to put the scissors back? Would it kill them? Is it against their religion? Would it go against everything they stand for, everything they are, and their very purpose in life? And how much time have I wasted moaning and complaining and cursing the names and auspices of whoever was ever guilty of misplacing a scissors, when I could have spent my time more constructively actually looking for the scissors? Is it so hard to hunt down a pair of scissors? Am I so lazy I just can’t look around a bit? It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to get into the head of a family member and try to figure out where they left the scissors, I mean seriously—
“Harvey! What’s taking you so long?
“I can’t find the darn scissors!”
“The scissors are in your room! Don’t you remember? You were using them this morning to cut something out of the newspaper.”
I galloped shamefacedly back to my room, snatched up the scissors, took them to my sister’s room and had her hold Maggie’s rear while I carefully cut through the fabric of the hat until the rabbit was free.
I sighed. “No problem.”
The voice of my other sister echoed through the house. “Harvey!”
“The cat’s out of the bag again!”
I’ll never get back to my desk to write.