There comes a time in your life when you realize that you turned a corner and you are on your way to Curmudgeonhood. I don't know how it happened. Like age it just kind of creeps up on you. But I do know the moment I realized that I had arrived on the cusp of becoming a grumpy old man. I'll get to that in a minute.
But first, Hello my name is Rick and I'm a crank. It was inevitable. Most of my favorite characters are cranks. My favorite Muppets are Statler and Waldorf, the two old guys in the balcony. I love Oscar the Grouch. I can relate to Garfield the cat. The Grinch is a soul brother ("Blast this Christmas music! It's joyful and triumphant" - Jim Carey, How the Grinch Stole Christmas). Mr. Roper was the funniest character on Three's Company. I actually like watching Bill O'Reilly! I completely understand where Eeyore is coming from. I really did want the coyote to catch and eat the Roadrunner. There have been other subtle "hit-you-upside-the-head" cues along the way. Looking back I clearly see the blaze marks along the path. One shining moment happened like this; my 21 year old told me that I should watch House, MD. Why? Because he's a lot like you, Dad, he likes telling people what they don't want to hear. I start to open my mouth to say, "Thanks, Josh, I try to be honest with people and just say it like it is." But before I can Steven adds "Yeah, cause House doesn't really like people either." At which point, Joshua gives Steven a look and then cracks a grin as he turns back to the tube. These moments loom as my Dickensian ghosts of Christmas. I'm merely waiting for the bony finger pointing at the decrepit and unkempt tombstone with the engraving "CRANK." It is more depressing to think that the tombstone next to mine will be bright and cheery, all manicured and flower bedded, with the engraving Beloved Mother, We Miss You. We reap what we sow. I'll show all them; I'm considering cremation.
My suspicions are now aroused. I noticed the tact that Josh used. A tact which had completely escaped Steven. I realize that, though the process may be long, eventually my children will learn to be smart enough to make implications that sound like one thing but actually mean another. We cranks are a paranoid bunch. We hate being talked around. Crankiness is a way of taking control. It isn't pleasant but it has its security.
I've been on a roll lately. This spring we watched Survivor for the first time in many seasons. The player with the self-designated nickname of Coach started up saying that as long as he had a brain cell in his brain… And I'm thinking, a brain cell in your brain? Of course, brain cells are in your brain – where else would they be! Isn't the definition of a brain an organ made up of brain cells? Is there a medical condition where other organ cells invade your brain? Should I be concerned about spleen cells taking over my brain? Or is it more like a mass exodus of brain cells? Can your brain just decide to up and leave you? I already have enough to keep me awake at night; and now, this? Hey Brainiac, it should be "as long as I have a functioning brain cell in my head." Just saying.
I do this to my kids all the time, especially my 18 year old daughter. She is the queen of the dangling participle and the misplaced modifier. I take undue delight in making fun of these little gaffes. Of course, as the true curmudgeon, my little comments are made as dryly and drolly as possible. This results in the fact that half of the time she doesn't even know I'm making fun; which is probably good. I don't want to give her a bigger complex than the one she inherited by paternity. Meanwhile, Daughter #2 has these teenage angst periods where she doesn't really communicate verbally with me. So I make fun of her on her Facebook page. Recently she posted a new status, "Live life like you were dying." I knew what she meant. But I thought it was phrased funny. So I responded, "You mean grab your chest and roll around on the ground?" She was not amused. I'm surprised I haven't been unfriended already.
Curmudgery presents the strongest in lack of patience. My son, Steven, decided that he was going to practice all of his ball-handling skills with this 18 inch plastic ball that we bought for the little kids. And when I say skills I use the term loosely. He was through the legs and behind the back, around the head, crossover, etc. He was a veritable Meadowlark Lemon. Except for the fact that he stunk. The ball was too big and too bouncy and he kept losing the handle. The ball would fly off and hit a chair. He would lose it and it would bounce against the table. I'm sitting there getting more and more annoyed. My wife isn't saying a word. Celebrity Password or something was on. Under these conditions you can't pull her away from the Game Show Network. So finally I say, "Steven, that's enough." And amazingly enough, he stopped. For about 5 minutes.
Bonk, bonk, rattle. Bounce, bonk. I look into the kitchen area and now he is practicing his soccer skills against the back door. Our back door is a double entry way made of many smaller panes of glass. Off the knee, against the door, off the head, hit the ceiling, on and on it went. Since the kid has never played organized soccer in his life (maybe gym class) he was in less control and had more fumbles than when he was practicing for the Globetrotters. He knocked a cup off the counter, bounced the ball into the sink and really, really annoyed me. "Steven what did I say?" I've said it before and I'll believe it to my dying day, adolescent boys are clueless and have a 5 second memory retention span – tops!
"Oh, oh, sorry, Dad."
I've been a father long enough that my reflex was to mutter back, "Yeah well, I'll sorry you."
And then, I had my epiphany. When those words came out of my mouth, I knew that I am officially a cranky dad. I have joined my ancestors and a fraternity too ancient to be denied. It runs in the genes. So I have begun my practice of standard Dad-crank talk. It's great, you can take anything the kids say and turn it back on them.
Well, ALMOST anything can be turned back on them. You have to be careful not to habitually genuflect.
"Hey Steven, why aren't you out there mowing the lawn? Your mom said she wanted it done before she got home?"
"I have to go pee, Dad."
"Yeah well, I'll p… um…I'll …you… Okay then. Carry on, son."
You see, Dad crank talk is usually counterproductive. It has the potential to be embarrassing, sure, but mostly it has the potential to be laughed at as an empty threat.
"What are all these towels doing on the floor?"
"I'll get them in a minute. I was just going to finish doing my hair."
"You better or I'll finish you."
I would love to say "Your mother will finish you" but she just doesn't have that killer instinct. The kids know it. I know it. Which disproves the theory that men marry women who are like their mothers. Sigh. So I'm left to do all the parental threatening without actually ever backing my threats up. But I believe this is just another manifestation of crankiness. Talk is easy, but is it really worth the effort to follow up on your threats? I think not. If they did what I told them, what would I have to be grumpy about?
