neu·rot·ic adj. 1. Of, relating to, derived from, or affected with a neurosis; see also bookselling

If the National Institute of Standards and Technology ever wants to create the definitive standard for "comparison shopper," all they need to do is get a bell jar, create a vacuum therein, chill to zero degrees Celsius, and send for a senior citizen looking for a dictionary.

I love dictionaries. The staff knows I love dictionaries. And whenever a person wants a dictionary, I can help. Unless the customer is a senior citizen. Then all certainties vanish, the world is flat again, and I am peering into the abyss.

I have come to dread a staffer saying, “We have a senior citizen who needs your help with a dictionary.”

“May I help you?” I ask the woman, who seems to be about 70.

“I want a dictionary. Mine is old. What do you recommend?”

I reach for the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language. “I recommend this,” I tell her. “It has definitions of the new words in the language and excellent notes on usage. And it has pictures.” I open it for her. “It’s designed to be browsed.”

“Pictures turn me off,” she says. “And there’s too much white space. It’s wasted space. They could have used that space to put in more words.” She pokes at a Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary as if it were an under-ripe cantaloupe in the produce section. “What about this? How many words are defined?” I say it has more than 200,000 definitions. “I know it has more than 200,000 definitions. I just read that. How many words does it define?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“How am I supposed to make a comparison if all the dictionaries are shrink-wrapped? How about the Oxford American Dictionary?"

“Well, you can’t go wrong with Oxford.”

“What do they know about American English? They’re British, aren’t they? Why aren’t they writing about British English? Don’t they do that anymore? How many words are defined in this one? If I’m going to buy a dictionary, I want the most words per dollar spent!”

I’m wishing I had some cold rags to apply to my forehead, when suddenly I flash back to fourth grade and the word problems: “P-doobie wants a dictionary. The American Heritage Dictionary costs $59.73 and defines 90,000 words and 10,000 new words. The Oxford American Dictionary costs $62.98 and defines 107,000 words. If each dictionary leaves its respective station at 10:15 a.m. . . . . "

I snap back from my reverie. “The cover says it has more than 204,000 definitions.”

“I know how many definitions it has. I just read that, and then you read it to me. How many words does it define?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“I want to look inside both of these. I want to know whether they define the word goth with a lower-case g. And they better have the definition of emerods in them.” The dictionaries are shrink-wrapped, and my handy Swiss Army classic is in my jacket pocket back in the office, and going to get a box cutter right now is a really, really, really bad idea. I turn my back to her and gnaw a starter hole in the shrink-wrap. I pull off the shrink-wrap and hand her the dictionaries. She pokes and prods them. “I wish I knew which one has more words. I want a lot of words, but I can’t lift an unabridged dictionary.”

“This one has a CD-ROM you can use in your computer,” I suggest helpfully.

“Do I look like I have a computer in the house?”

“No, ma’am.”

She hefts American Heritage and Oxford English. "I guess I’ll take this one," she sighs, handing me the American Heritage. I start to ring her up.

“That will be . . . .”

“Wait! Does it come in paper? It’s very heavy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” We return to the dictionaries, and I hand her the paper version.

“The print is too small! Doesn’t it come in a large print edition?”

“Yes, ma’am, but it has only 35,000 definitions.”

“No good. I’ll just take this one.” She flips through it to make sure that there’s a definition of goth with a lower case g, and smirks. She murmurs to herself, “I’m going to whip their butts in Scrabble down at the senior center.”