Metro Pulse/Yikes!

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by by Angie Vicars

I thought you said they have a wonderful selection," I complained to my friend, Larry, as soon as he got back from lunch. "But they only have one wall of CDs."

"You mean at the library?"

"Yeah, the downtown branch, only one wall of books on CD."

"But they have two more walls."

"Where?"

"Where you weren't looking."

I know what you're thinking. If you don't know me, you're thinking I didn't ask anyone where the rest of the CDs were. I just assumed that one wall was all.

But you're wrong. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I did ask. I got the wrong answer. I probably asked the wrong question. And clearly I left with no idea where most of the CDs are kept.

However, I went up to the woman behind the counter (on the same floor where I found the few CDs). I asked if all the CDs were on the sidewall. And she said, yes. As God is my witness. She told me that, in fact, was the selection they had.

So let this be a lesson to you. Don't send me to find something. I'll come back without it. It can be easy to find, according to you. There can be a lot of it. And you can tell me exactly where it is. But when I come back, I promise you that I won't have it. What I'll have instead, is a very good excuse for an even better reason. A former co-worker, Robin, once explained to me that I return empty-handed because I look for things like a boy looks for them, and that means fruitlessly.

I overheard a conversation once that another of my former co-workers, Heather, was having. Her boyfriend called her at work to say he had an emergency. He couldn't find the jelly anywhere in their entire apartment. But he already had the peanut butter on the bread. "Look on the refrigerator door," she told him. But he insisted that he had already, and it wasn't there. "Then look everywhere," she told him, shifting the phone to her shoulder. "It doesn't matter what I tell him," she said to me. "I know it's on the door but he won't find it. He can never find what's right in front of him."

The question is, why do I suffer from an affliction that's associated with the opposite gender? It's possible that I could be missing a gene. My X could be all alone, without a kemosabe to keep it company. But I think it's more likely that I've picked up a Y, somewhere along the way. I've heard you have to be careful about that. Y's are entirely too easy to catch. If found in time, Y's can be treated and no one will ever even know you had one. But if a Y is left untreated too long, it can lead to serious consequences, such as blindness, deafness, and the inability to distinguish good taste from bad, especially when it comes to interior décor.

I believe I must've picked up my Y in childhood. (I know that's early, but I'm an overachiever.) At Camp SkyWaMo, according to the counselors, I killed more tabletop fairies than any other Girl Scout, except for Ambrosia who preferred the name Chipper and, along with me, dressed like a boy on '50s night. The counselors said that I put my elbows on the table far too often, causing the fairy genocide. But I know the truth. Boy vision can make you a fairy crusher, unless you learn a better way to use it. Then it can make you a really good Girl Scout.

So even though my obvious blindness continues into my thirtysomething years, I don't think I should throw in the towel just yet. At my eye exam the other day, I could still see letters and numbers directly in front of me, even though one eye was completely covered after the doctor blew air on the other one.

Of course, there's nothing else to see at eye exams. And she did say that there could be glasses in my future. But I think that's because I went in the wrong office first. It said Sears Optical on the door and that means having to do with eyes. I know that much. I sat there for at least a good 10 minutes while people ahead of me got fitted for glasses. I'd like to say that I started to wonder if another door might lead to the office for exams. But the truth is, it never occurred to me. Instead, I looked at a multitude of glasses I didn't need to wear until the man working there re-directed me.

In Macon, the next day, where I was speaking at a college, I told my host, Liana, she'd be able to find the Howard Johnson only by looking for its funky orange roof. (Of course, that would never help anyone in Knoxville.) The whole way in off the interstate, the only sign I saw said "lodge entrance," I told her. So, the following morning when I drove out behind her, and I noticed an exceptionally tall Howard Johnson sign pointed in the direction of I-75, it didn't surprise me. It just felt right.

I can read a map. But I hate asking for directions. Chances are, I've already reached my destination. I can rewire a light socket. But I can't find a bulb to test it when I'm done, even if I took the bulb out so I could fix it in the first place. And if you come by for lunch, more likely than not, you'll have to tell me where the jelly is, unless you want a PB and B. But if you need help earning merit badges, aside from killing fairies, I'm here to tell you, that I'm one hell of a Girl Scout.