THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, May 26, 1995 TAG: 9505250207
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 91 lines
Bill and I each have a problem that keeps us from doing things the same way other people do them. He's left-handed. I can't follow a straight line.
Astigmatism is the fancy name for my problem.
A handy excuse is what I call Bill's.
I can understand any lefty doing some things backward - cutting paper, tying knots and cleaning windshields, for instance. Actually, he doesn't really clean windshields backward, it just looks that way to the rest of the world.
The one thing I can't understand, is why, because he's left-handed, he thinks backward, too.
Take the job of trimming the Christmas tree. Every right-thinking person puts the lights on first, then puts the glass balls round them. Not Bill.
Every year he attaches our collection of 852 glass balls to our tree's 20 branches, then tries to retrofit 700 light bulbs attached to enough electrical cord to reach from here to Toledo.
Every year I scream, yell and plead for him to do it the other way. Every year he ignores me - and complains about how hard the job is. When I try to explain to him how much faster the job would go if he'd do lights first, ornaments second, he tells me he can't because he's left-handed.
That is what I call a major excuse.
Recently he's started using his left-handedness as an excuse for something even more far-fetched.
Bill cannot find anything in a cupboard or refrigerator unless it's standing front and center whistling Dixie when he opens the door.
``Where did all of the olives go?'' he'll ask in disgust. ``We just bought a new jar Saturday and we're out of them already.''
I walk to the fridge, move a small jar of mustard and pull out the missing olives.
``I couldn't find them because they weren't in the first row,'' he says in explanation. ``That's because I'm left-handed.''
Now I tend to doubt that there is any research to back up the excuse, but Bill swears that there is.
``I read it in something reliable,'' he tells me, ``like Science or Smithsonian.''
``Or maybe in the National Enquirer at the checkout line?'' I suggest.
He looks hurt, even as he admits that it's a possibility.
The man has become comfortable using the fact that he's put together backward as an excuse for everything.
I, on the other hand, have a much more serious problem, which I use as an excuse only when it's absolutely logical to do so.
My astigmatism truly does make it difficult for me to do certain things.
Like find the curb before my right front tire does, for instance.
New employees at the car wash run in terror when they see me arrive.
``Hey, man, that lady's got a mark on her white wall as big as a Coke machine,'' the latest hire on the finishing line yelled when I went in last week.
``You think that's bad,'' one of the older employees said, ``wait until you see what she's got on the left rear.''
``Didn't think nobody dinged the left rear,'' the first kid said.
``It's OK,'' the manager said reassuringly, ``she tips real good.''
Yeah, right. So my $7.95 car washes end up costing me $11. Bill says those kids at the car wash earn their money. I say it's one of the prices of having astigmatism.
Tires aren't the only casualties. In 40 years of driving I've messed up three car doors, a quartet of fenders, a running board (they were still in vogue when I learned how to drive) and the mechanisms on three overhead doors for a total cost of $3,203.27.
Did I mention that I also have trouble cutting brownies, lining up bedspreads and following the lines in my checkbook register?
The first two don't cause a whole lot of trouble, but the last one does.
``How could you possibly overdraw your checking account when two paychecks and the tax rebate were deposited last week?'' Bill asked the other night.
``Blame it on my astigmatism,'' I told him. ``I read the other day that 72 percent of all people who can't follow a straight line overdraw their checking accounts at least three times a year.''
``Where did you read that?'' he asked.
``The same place that you read about lefties not being able to find anything in the second row,'' I answered.
He sighed, straightened out my checkbook, rubbed his head and made a trip to the medicine cabinet.
``I need an aspirin,'' he said, ``and we're all out.''
``There's a full bottle behind the Pepto-Bismol,'' I told him. ``In the second row.''
``I couldn't find them because I'm left-handed,'' he said.
Which kind of sums up the whole situation of checks, balances, overdrafts and missing items at our place. by CNB