Grumpy Old Men

Grumpy old men used to really bother me. Now I am one.

I used to meet these guys everywhere, in church, in music, in discussion groups, and in the grocery store. I would think to myself, whatever it is that’s irritating you guy, get over it, now! As the Good Lord said, “he (used intentionally here) who is without grumpiness, cast that first stone.” Better still, drop that stone on your left toe.

At sixty-five years, happily ensconced at the junior end of the senior spectrum. I find myself, day after day, grumpy, increasingly so. This disappoints me, as I like to think of myself as someone with a sunny disposition, an attitude hopefully conveyed to both friends and lovers. Alas, if you really knew what lurks beneath the skin, in the cavern of my heart, you may be shocked. Let me explain.

Good, organized citizen that I am, I paid my property taxes well before the due date this year. For the first time I claimed the amount in Column C which includes both the Home Owner Grant (HOG) and the seniors’ discount. Big smile. For the first time this year, a new system is in place for claiming the HOG; but my gosh, the website was clumsy and more than a bit confusing. Fast forward to this week when I received a bill for an outstanding amount. Grumpy me was, well . . . grumpy. So I pedaled town to the town hall (confused by road works, but hey, at least they are finally fixing the roads). Two pleasant staff clerks assured me that my HOG was never registered— AND I must pay a fine! I registered a grumpy protest, possibly ruined their morning. I  returned home to find the HOG website vastly improved, efficient, and effective. I must however still pay the fine. “Why do the wicked prosper O Lord?” Grumpy.

In other transactions, I have ordered a new keyboard and amplifier system from my favourite music store in Kamloops. Weeks ago all the bits and pieces were in-store but not the piano itself. Fine, I said, keep the bits and pieces for now and send everything together when it all arrives. I actually thought this would save them some money. BIG MISTAKE. When the piano arrived at the store, I was notified that the order was complete and would now be shipped. WRONG. Someone sold some of the bits and pieces. And I need everything for a gig in ten days’ time. “How long, O Lord?” Grumpy.

A couple of months ago I ordered two new bikes. The distributor sent them from the Burnaby warehouse to the wrong store in the wrong town. Hello! Williams Lake is nowhere near Summerland. “And they shall search from sea to sea.” Grumpy. Well, we enjoy the bikes now, finally. The whole mess took three weeks to resolve.

Turning now to online subscriptions, I needed to read an article in The Economist about deep ocean mining—not a fan I must say. So I signed up for a free trial of thirty days so I could access the content—except I did have a subscription twenty years ago. So TE figured out I was renewing the older contract. When I tried to cancel what I thought was a free trial, guess what. “And Jesus turned the temple tables one on another.” Grumpy. In a lovely chat with a bot-type human I ended up with a one-year subscription at half price. A good, though grumpy compromise.

Did I mention our Strata Council. Who would believe that our cozy little 12-unit group faces some challenges. I am still smiling, but some days, grumpily so. We are having the interior of our house painted. So everything is out of place for a week or two. I am a firm believer that there is a place for everything. I further believe that the test of an organizational system is found in its capacity for retrieval. When you renovate, everything moves “in God’s mysterious ways.” Grumpy.

When I visit grocery store parking lots nothing makes me grumpier than when lazy consumers leave unattended carts in parking spaces. I get steroidally (is this a word?) grumpy when people return their carts to long snakelike lines which block the driving lanes. This is just wrong. “Vengeance is mine says the Lord.” Mine too. Bigtime grumpy.

So clearly, I need some help. To what or whom should I turn? My wife is increasingly convinced that my cognitive function is in steep decline—this could actually be good news—less responsibility given reduced intellectual capacity. She can replace me on strata council. Done deal. Big smile. What then is my solution? I think I need to watch a movie.

Surely the most relevant flick is Grumpy Old Men. The plot summary says it all: “In Wabasha, Minnesota, retirees John Gustafson and Max Goldman are feuding next-door neighbors. Living alone, they spend their time ice fishing, trading insults, and pulling cruel practical jokes on each other, including John leaving a dead fish in Max’s truck. Their rivalry irritates their friend Chuck, owner of the town bait shop, and Max’s son Jacob, who is running for mayor. Dodging the attempts of IRS Agent Elliot Snyder to collect a serious debt, John supports his daughter Melanie when she separates from her husband Mike.”

Released on Christmas Day in 1993 it grossed $80.5 million at the box office. So there must still be a lot of grumpy old men out there—I am not alone—Good news. Remember Red Green—“Keep your stick on the ice.” Stay strong friends, we’ve got this, together. “I’m Ken, a grumpy old man.” “Hi Ken, you certainly are.”