“Call me! Call me for some overtime…call me!” — Blondie

Okay, all of you who are terrible at finding things, please raise your hands.

So, let’s see … by my count, that’s exactly … all of us.

Right now, I can’t find my reading glasses (forgive the typos). This morning I couldn’t find my toothbrush (forgive the bad breath). Trying to find things brings to mind a poignant piece of advice someone once gave me: “Find a clue, buddy.”

I don’t know about you, but I am constantly searching for things. And more often than not, that includes things that I just held in my hands … car keys, ketchup, needle nose pliers, doesn’t matter. If I had a dime for every time I’ve used the phrase, “I JUST FREAKIN’ HAD IT,” I’d be a wealthy man.

To me, it’s one of the more frustrating aspects of being a numbskull. As the old expression goes, “He couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel.”

But here’s the thing: Finding things has gotten more urgent since moving up to the North Country. Oh, I can eventually find those unimportant things that were just

in my hands by cussing a lot and putting on my glasses (if they’re

not lost). I’m talking about something way bigger than finding the ketchup.

I can’t find workers.

Carpenters, contractors, electricians, plumbers, plowers, roofers, handy-men … I can’t find them.

I know they exist. In fact, thanks to neighbors, I know their names and their cell numbers. And I’ve called them. But whenever they return my calls, I get the same answer: “We’re too busy.”

First of all, good for them. I have mad respect for any professional tradesman and I’m honestly glad to hear that business is good. But second, how can that be? If they’re so busy then someone is finding them. Someone is getting a hold of them. Someone is getting work done. It just ain’t me.

Trust me. I’m normally not one who puts much weight into conspiracy theories. I don’t believe that Elvis still walks among us. I do believe we actually landed on the moon. And I don’t believe Twinkies were planted on earth by aliens to zap us of our nutritional well-being leading to the rapid decline of our overall health, therefore rendering us defenseless against their imminent attack followed by the taking over of earth and all of mankind. No … most conspiracy theories are just too far-fetched.

But I am getting suspicious of this worker thing.

So here’s my theory: I believe there was a convention held at the Tupper Lake Civic Center about a month or two before my wife and I moved up here. All carpenters, contractors, electricians, plumbers, plowers, roofers, handy-men were in attendance. At this gathering, all attendees pledged that if some jacka** named Cardone ever called that they would never do any work for them — not lay a brick, fix a faucet, install a ceiling fan or build a shed.

As the focus (and maker-upper) of this conspiracy, I submit that it is not a theory. It is fact. You want proof? Ask any carpenter, contractor, electrician, plumber, plower, roofer or handy-man if they’ve ever been inside the Tupper Lake Civic Center — they’ll answer “Yes.” Then ask if they’ve ever done work for a guy named Cardone — they’ll answer “No.”

There’s your proof, good readers, there’s your proof.

I have to say, all of this calling and searching and paranoia without ever finding anyone is extremely exhausting. So exhausting that I’m tempted to try and do the work myself.

But who can find the time?