Fascinating things, pairs of nail clippers. I bought one a couple of months ago, to replace a pair that had mysteriously vanished into thin air. I gave my toenails a good going-over, placed the appliance neatly in a spot where I would never lose it ... and lost it. That had to be a new record for me: one use and the clippers had decided to get out of Dodge.
All right, fine. These things are cheap. A growing nail stops for no one. So off I went to the drugstore, and sheepishly I purchased another pair of clippers. I thought of attaching them through my sleeves the way some kids' mothers would do it with gloves. Nah, too much work. I brought them home, used them once, placed them where I couldn't possibly lose them ... and they disappeared.
This brought out the Hardy Boys reader in me. I had to solve the mystery. After looking all over my desk, picking up things, dropping them back on the desk, discovering painfully that if you're going to drop a heavy object on your desk it's best to take your fingers out of the way first, and generally turning the place upside down, I then concluded that the clipers had made it safely to that place of Nail Clipper Fulfillment. Well, best of luck to them.
So I'm sitting at my desk last week, contemplating the meaning of life, the futility of death and the importance of birth control (or something), and I reach a tentative hand out onto the desk to pick something up. What do I find? Not one, not two, but three pairs of nail clippers. They had come home. My prodigal nail clippers had come home to me, never again to rome. Oh happy day. So I killed the fatted calf (or was it nuked the nearest pizza pop?) and celebrated.