Always one to join wholeheartedly in any improper shenanigans, I dropped in to see what Tammy had up her sleeve in her weekly Improper Poll. Turns out it was a lovely bejeweled watch, apparently one of many in her Tacky Watch Harem. Tammy posed the question:
"Do you have an object you love and just can’t explain why?"
Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Nothing as good as Tammy's hot little wrist-hugger. Because I'm a big ol' nerd. Office supplies are my passion. Specifically, I adore my maroon Swingline business stapler, model #74728. I don't watch The Office, but I hear there's some kind of special connection there with a RED Swingline. Mine is NOT red. It's maroon. And don't you forget it.
My sweet, sweet Swingline uses only the best high performance staples. From the cool, smooth tip of his contoured metal cap, to the soft cushion of his padded rubber bottom, my made-in-China cohort gets me through the day. He resides in the top right drawer of my wooden classroom desk, out of sight of the prying eyes and sticky fingers of my students.
Swinger, as I think of him, is quite the attraction in an otherwise unremarkable institutional setting. The kids are always asking about him, though not by name. That's just between me and Swinger. "Do you have a stapler? Can I use your stapler? Where's your stapler? Don't you have a stapler?" I protect Swinger from their amateur advances. Only I take Swinger out and let him bind their papers together. Like a well-trained service dog, Swinger responds only to MY commands. That's how he's survived so long. We've been together for ten years now. And he's as spry as the day we met.
About a year into our relationship, Swinger was swiped by persons unknown. And non grata. I left him to enjoy the summer in the top right drawer, his vacation destination of choice. When I returned in August, Swinger was missing. Six long days I pined for him. And on the seventh, Swinger reappeared. He sat in the top right drawer as if he'd never left. I was so happy to see him, I trimmed a tiny nameplate out of index card, and taped it to his silver belly, inside his maroon outer skin, up under his staple trough. A kind of camp nametag, if you will. For Swinger's next vacation without me.
Some stealthy snooping revealed a large pile of athletic handbooks, freshly stapled, piled in the teacher workroom. The workroom just a boy's room, janitor closet, and girl's room away from my classroom. I knew Swinger's kidnapper. And maybe, just maybe, I was less than polite when he wheeled in my missing TV/VCR cart.
Every day is a battle. A minor skirmish in the ten-year campaign to keep Swinger sequestered from those who would harm him. He's mine. All mine.