Losing It

Like most modelers, I buy more models than I finish, and that's saying something because as modelers go, I'm reasonably prolific. I've got about 150 kits heaped up in various piles awaiting their moment in the sun. The problem with this (or, should I say, one of the problems with this) is that I am prone to opening the boxes, reading the instructions, fiddling with the parts and gawking at the decals even though I have no intention of starting the kit any time soon.

This means that I tend to lose things. No, wait a minute, I have to rephrase that. This is America, after all, and America is all about avoiding personal responsibility. So I don't lose things. They are taken from me. Somewhere there's a shadowy team of corporate mercenaries on the government payroll and directed by "intelligences vast and cool" in UFOs that steal my decals, clear parts, instructions and the left front wheel from my dang Boss Nova drag car. It's not my fault I have about fifteen kits that I can no longer complete in the expected fashion because of missing parts.

Actually, in a way, it isn't all my fault. Some of this I blame on the roadrunners. Most people think the Roadrunner cartoon was an accurate depiction of roadrunners. They think they're cute, long-legged seed-eaters that go meep-meep and have a penchant for holding up sardonic signs. One hates to be a wet blanket, but the reality is that roadrunners are violent, ugly, menacing dinosaurs that would gladly eat my liver if they were just a tad bigger. They don't make cute sounds, they don't eat seeds, and they like to come into my workshop, get up in the shelves where my unbuilt kits are stored, and scatter them to the four winds as they scrape out places to hunker down. If I go to my workshop and see boxes all over the floor, I know there's a roadrunner in there somewhere; it's just a matter of finding it. They don't intimidate easily. I had to poke at one for a while with a yardstick before he finally left, and the whole time he snapped at me, made a hideous hissing screech, and flashed red cheek patches at me. I'm sure somewhere in his reptilian brain he was thinking "Oh, if only I had thumbs!" (Yes, I know roadrunners are birds and not reptiles, but seen up close, the reptile label seems more accurate.)

Oh, sure, and I suppose it's my fault I leave the door open too, huh? Pfft!

(I also think I have a pack rat. Every now and then I hear the scurrying of little feet and catch momentary glimpses of a small hairy thing darting behind boxes, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was the pack rat that swiped the canopy for my He-219 Owl night fighter right off my workbench. Oooh! Shiny! That's mine! I needs it! Someday I'll find the pack rat's stash, and I'll probably find all sorts of interesting things - the missing valve stem wrench, the missing He-219 canopy, the missing left front wheel from my drag car and - who knows? - maybe even my four-inch Crescent wrench.)

Oh well. Toss the He-219 onto the pile of stuff what can't be finished.