Halloween Treat

I remember growing up and having my older uncles and aunts saying things like, “I remember 50 years ago when . . .” a whole whack of times. When you are a youngster 50 years seems like a very long time. In fact, it seemed as if 50 years was a pretty good “lifetime” to Grumpy Junior.

Little Grumpy believed this so strongly that he put an amendment into his prayers every night. Kneeling beside his bed he’d sigh and end his payer with, “And, God, please let me live until I’m 50!”

Well, he prayed this so many times he actually got a little queasy on the eve of his 50^th birthday.

What if the big guy was listening? What if Grumpy had reached his expiry date?

Nowadays Grumpy finds himself spewing this exact same “50 year” statement, given that he has long passed that deadline. This blog will be just one of those times.

So, here goes!

Grumpy remembers the time 50 YEARS AGO today when he dressed up as a woman. This was the first and only time he ever did that. You see it was Kenny’s idea and what Kenny wanted Kenny usually got.

You see Kenny was the toughest guy in the school and the hood. One look from him and you’d want to flip on your back like Pumba the Farting Dog and submit. Grumpy was smart enough to put Kenny into the best friend category. You see, every pintsized kid needed a protector on the school playgrounds of the 50’s and 60’s. Having a personal body guard at St. Andrew’s Public School was a lifesaver.

“Hey, boys, let’s go beat the snot outta that grumpy little kid!”

“Naw bad idea, Bart. He hangs out with Kenny. See, I’d like to keep my front teeth.”

Because Kenny was a tough guy he’d like to fight even when it wasn’t the real deal.

“Hey, Grumpy, let’s have a play fight,” he’d say.

These play fights were knock down drag-them-out brawls that usually left bruises and abrasions. These “play fights” were daily, usually on the front lawn of his house. When Grumpy sees MMA or UFC fights, they remind him of the punch ups and grappling with Kenny.

You never wanted to go to ground with Kenny. He could make you feel like a squished beetle. These battles were that intense! But, Grumpy swears to this day that Kenny made Grumpy a much tougher street rat.

Anyway, when Kenny came up to Grumpy in the Eighth Grade and said, “Let’s dress up like girls on Halloween night”, Grumpy had no choice but to answer, “Yes!”  You don’t say no to Kenny unless you like nose bleeds, split lips or “noogies”.

Now, if you were to dress up as a woman in the 1960’s and go out in public, it was a good thing having a tough guy like Kenny at your side. Little Grumpy’s only concern was, “Would the other bullies in the hood even recognize him?”  Maybe Kenny was setting us up for some candy bag battle royals. Maybe we were to be like Trojan Horses – accepted as sweet little girls but really full of piss and vinegar when it came down to candy collecting and confrontations.

You see in those days, bands of roving candy-bag snatchers could make your Halloween a nightmare. It was a jungle out there.

Kenny had other ideas though, because Kenny had a heart as big as a beach ball.

“No one will suspect it’s us,” he offered, “So, like we can protect all of the little kids. They’ll probably pay us off with a few treats.”

We were to become the Mafioso of Dumfries St., providing protection for a price, and roving around like Rock stars.

We asked our mothers for an old dress, found some fake long hair and got our faces made up with lipstick, rouge and eyeliner.  We tackled the problem of “boobs” head on, given that our thirteen year old minds were preoccupied with that subject anyway.

Nowadays, teenagers and boobs are a non-starter. These girls flaunt them like jewellery, leaving nothing to the imagination. Go to any mall and there’s more cleavage exposed than those on the rocks of the San Andreas Fault in California.

As an aside, just the other day Grumpy saw a bra displayed in a lingerie store window and asked the wife, “What gives with that contraption?”

“Well, Grumpy,” she explained, “that bra is to push the breasts together and give them a lift.”

All Grumpy could think about was why would you want to put your boobs in a vice?

Ouch!

But 50 years ago, Grumpy being the creative thinker in this gang of two, suggested balloons for the costumes.

Kenny loved the idea saying, “Ya, balloons for bazooms will be really rad!”

(If you were born after 1970:  rad  = radical)

Well, of course, we blew those balloons up to Playboy Pinup proportion. The bonus was that they also would provide protection for upper body blows should a scrap erupt.

And, guess what?

Kenny decided he would wear pumps. Grumpy wondered if Kenny could run in those high heels. On second thought, because most kids ran away from Kenny anyways, wearing pumps was a non-issue.

So, not unlike the New York subway’s Guardian Angels, Grumpy and Kenny set out to meet the night. Like two Robin Hoods in drag, out they trudged with Kenny trying not to stumble in his pumps and little Grumpy attempting to keep his “balloon bazooms” from slipping to his knees.

First, you must realize that two tough guys DO NOT “Trick-or-Treat” door-to-door. Rather, they use interrogation along with a little intimidation to find the treasures along the way.

KENNY: “Hey, kid, you know where the good treats are on this street?”

LITTLE KID: (Shaking in his monster costume) “Ah, we got chocolate bars at number 22, Sir!”

KENNY: “What kind?”

LITTLE KID: (Almost crying) “I . . .I . . . I . . .forget!”

KENNY: “Pull er out and show me!”

We’d only knock on the doors of the “good treat” places.

This cut down on our time standing in doorways doing “tricks” like singing, telling a joke or doing a dance. We also realized that this was our last kick-at-the-cat because NO ONE above the Eighth Grade went out on Halloween. NO ONE!

Nowadays, you almost have more high schoolers and adults hitting you up for candy than children. Don Mills, in his humor Blog, describes it this way.

“These damned teens refuse to say “trick or treat,” won’t make eye contact and sure as hell don’t bother with costumes. They just roll their eyes and stick a sack under your nose while text messaging their location to other scurrilous moochers in search of easy prey. If they intend to carry on with this shameless behavior the least they could do is dress like hobos or – perhaps more accurately – petty thieves.” http://crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com/2011/10/23/god-damned-teenage-trick-or-treaters-drive-me-batty/ (READ THE ENTIRE BLOG FOR A GOOD CHUCKLE)

We also dealt with the “trick” part by coming up with a song we would sing to the householder, upon request. Seeing as we were attractive women, we latched on to the theme song from the “Miss America Contest.”

Our take on the song was this, “Here she comes . . . Miss Al-a-vees-tee-ah!”

We laughed so hard every time we sang the song that we also took to singing as we rambled up the street. Imagine the shock and awe of all the children in the neighborhood when they saw the toughest guy in the hood, along with his pee wee sidekick, both dressed like women, singing at the top of their lungs and laughing like idiots.

Indeed, some kids hid behind trees, cowered in the bushes or quickly crossed to the opposite side of the street. Apparently, there’s nothing scarier than crazed tough guys dressed as woman.

But it doesn’t end there because, as the evening wound down, word got out that someone was handing out CANDY APPLES over on Lansdowne Avenue. Candy apples were the be-all-and-end-all of Halloween Treats.

With that Kenny stated emphatically. “I ain’t walkin’ that far. No way, Jose. Let’s get our bikes!”

So, off we trundled, peddling madly with Kenny’s pumps shoved down the front of his dress so he could go barefoot and Grumpy’s “balloon bazooms” bouncing off the handle bars.

When we got to Lansdowne it turned out that all those CANDY APPLES had been handed out. Even without cell phones, news travelled fast in those days – face-to-face conversations and word-of-mouth was just about LIGHT SPEED, especially on Halloween. There was a “candy connection” between all of us.

Over the course of the evening we protected many a little kid from bag burglars, we chased away the tough guy wannabees, dabbed a few tears from little kids who were scared, and generally policed our hood with abandon. Yes, we were undercover – dressed as women – but, let me tell you this, no one would doubt the force of Kenny’s voice or the look in his eyes.

Even when Kenny was dressed as a woman, if he said “jump”, everyone in his presence would say “how high?” And those pumps made him at least 4 inches taller.

All the while the hood echoed with the refrain, ““Here she comes . . . Miss Al-a-vees-tee-ah!”

Kenny and Grumpy ended their Halloween evening in drag with their backs propped up against a tree, munching on “only the best treats” the neighborhood had to offer. They had laughed themselves to tears such that their makeup ran down their cheeks. It was a night to remember. The Goodfellas had made their mark.

It’s hard to believe that all of this occurred 50 years ago. I guess I should thank God for that, given that I’m writing about it now. Sometimes your prayers are answered, even when you’re a little kid.

Little Old Man Jailed For Putting Dixie Cup in Wrong Bin

Little Old Man Jailed For Putting Dixie Cup in Wrong Bin

Down here just West of Podunkville nothing in the news surprises the Grump. Indeed, in a place where the kids are given a day off school to go to the fall fair, every Friday the 13^th a lakeside community is infested with 30 000 bikers and the demolition derby trumps any TV reality show – surprises are as rare as people driving pickup trucks WITHOUT mullets and ball caps!

The powers that be have been debating a topic of great import and concern over the past several weeks; that of instituting fines for garbage “faux pas”! It seems as if your typical burly garbage engineer is a little miffed with the behavior of his clientele. After all, a career in garbage collecting is an art requiring very acute vision, a high school education and superior upper body strength.

In this regard scavenging was to be outlawed. Taking bottles out of recycling box would cost you $300 if you got pinched by the constabulary. Also, having your dog run loose during pick-up day would cost you another $300, seeing as dogs and chasing garbage trucks go hand in hand. Putting you trash out the evening before pick up would ring up a $200 fine. The biggest fine would be for “pathological waste” – a fine that carried a $500 price tag. Heck, Grumps has seen the inside of his garbage can on a hot summer’s day – if that’s not pathological – what the hell is?

And, the fine that irks him the most is the one for putting the wrong junk in the wrong bin.

Grumpy supposes those garbage guys will be wearing tuxedos and white gloves the next time he sees them. The guy riding shotgun, no doubt, will be an officer from the Garbage Police.

The paid employees that came up with these ideas must have met many times trying to decide on ways to top up the Podunkville coffers.

CITY MANAGER: “Hey, every freaking citizen has garbage. Let’s come up with some fines for that?”

MAYOR: “Ya, that will go along well with our four bag limit!”

CITY MANAGER: “As I said before, this isn’t rocket science, Mister Mayor.”

Friends, four bags are plenty for most households unless, of course, you are disposing body parts and cadavers. In that case expect a $500 fine.

These proposals made Grumpy so angry he was considering appearing before council as a delegation. Not only would he protest the fines, he would announce some of the fines he intended to collect in a reverse citizen arrest kind of way. After all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

Let’s start this way.

If the garbage truck wakes him up from a good sleep by rumbling along like a Sherman Tank (usually arrives before 8 am) that’s a $50 fine. Those air brakes sound like the hiss of a guided missile and they squeal like a cat with his tail caught in a door.

1. If the garbage engineer tosses the trash or hurls the recycling into the metal superstructure of the truck, there better not be the rattle, crash and clang one would associate with the demolition of a hydro tower. That would add $20 on to the previous fine for excessive noise.
2. If Pumba the Farting Dog becomes agitated and continuously bounces off the bay window – that’s a $75 fine. He can hear that truck coming from about a mile away, you see. He wants  to go chase! (If said bay window breaks – trump that fine to $1000 to cover replacement.)
3. Excessive Pumba barking (usually about 20 minutes worth) because of Item 3 above will cost the municipality $100. Grumpy’s beauty sleep is important to him given his wrinkled old countenance.
4. Spillage of garbage slop on the road within 50 feet of the front door – $75 fine. On garbage days when Grumpy goes out for a stroll he needs a clothes peg to pinch his nose. You DO NOT want that pathological gunk stuck to your shoes.
5. A proper recycling item left behind due to dropsy and “failure to bend over” syndrome – $20 per item.
6. Damaged recycling bin or garbage container due to gorilla like behavior (stomped on or tossed carelessly). Replacement of the bin/container plus a $50 fine.
7. Tree branches knocked down from Grumpy’s huge Manitoba Maple (These garbage behemoths stand taller than a transport truck) – $100 fine.
8. Potholes created by the bouncing and thumping tires of a said behemoth – $500 fine plus patching the very next day. Our street is breaking down faster than a NASCAR track in Georgia. You even need protective covering for your head when you go out for a  walk.
9.  Tires flattening the lawn because the driver requires the shortest distance from the truck to the trash. $50 fine.
10.  Backing up within 100 feet of the household – $75 fine. That “beep-beep- beep” sound is enough to put anyone 50 years  plus over the edge. And, take that bleeping beeper and put it where the sun don’t shine, fella!

The most annoying thing about this whole situation is that, even though Grumpy pays the same taxes as those in town, he does not get leaf pick up in the fall while the town folk do. Hence, with each succeeding year “Leaf Mountain” rises higher in the far corner of Grumpy Villa’s lot. Soon he’ll have enough compost to start cash crop farming in his backyard. All he needs to do is throw a handful of worms on that ginormous pile.

If Grumpy chooses to haul this refuse away, he’ll be sure to bill the municipality for fuel, food and overnight accommodation. He plans to become the Mike Duffy of Podunkville politics.

Anyway, the powers that be in their ultimate wisdom decided to put the kibosh on these proposed fines.  

From the Simcoe Reformer: On Tuesday night, however, councillors objected to the ticketing section of the new bylaw, saying they found it too extreme and had fielded numerous complaints from the public about the proposal.

Damn straight! Grumpy was ready to get all over this in spades. He was going to fill a pickup truck with leaves and dump them at town hall.

“The population in general is losing more and more confidence and more and more faith in all levels of government,” noted Port Dover Coun. John Wells, adding the public now views all governments “as trying to get more money out of them.”

Here! Here! Mr. Wells!

And, take that, Mr. Harper!

So, all is good and well in Podunkville and Grumpy can now ease back into his role of just being grumpy. But, he’ll keep his radar up in preparation for the next assault from the Powers that Be! Those morons are always looking for ways screw us over.

In closing, “friends, neighbors and countrymen”, you can be assured that we, the  Grumpy old men of Podunkville, have your back and your best interests at heart!

Grumpy Continues to Dog It

Grumpy Continues to Dog It

Not all of Grumpy’s truck driving experiences with dogs involved full out sprints for survival. Indeed, he quickly learned that, if he was going to deliver to a location more than once, he better damned well get cosy with the resident dog. In this way he hoped to avoid any confrontation that might result in teeth marks on his posterior.

One particular delivery northeast of Chatham involved one such dog. Grumpy delivered there when the greenhouse owner had just purchased a German shepherd pup. The owner insisted said pup would be ample security once it became full grown. After all, it’s a scary place way out there near Florence, Ontario.

Grumpy, being short of stature, recognized that a large German shepherd could easily lord over him. He recalled his eldest son Matt, and his friend Dustin who had a dog named Bo. This dog was so big Grumpy thought that it might just be a wolf.

Once in a while when Grumpy was out for a walk, Dustin would sick old Bo on him, laughing like hell and hoping Grumpy might just wet his pants. He’d call the dog off at the last moment, of course. Grumpy would smile and give Dustin a single finger salute.

Anyway, Grumpy played with that little pup each time he made a delivery. The dog would come at him all piss and vinegar, but once he saw the Grumps, he’d flip over on his back and beg for a tummy rub. Oh, once in a while that little dog would sink his teeth into Grumpy’s pant legs and pull. But, it was all in good natured puppy fun. The manager was never present during these playful interludes, Grumpy might add.

That year several deliveries were made and after the last visit (Construction Project Complete) the pup was still a puppy but he was getting much much bigger.

Fast forward two years.

Grumpy got the call from Uncle Butch to make a trip up to Florence to deliver some parts. Being of an age when memory often fails him, it didn’t even dawn on him that this was the location of his little puppy friend. Two years is like a millennium when it comes to Grumpy’s memory banks.

So, upon arrival, Grumpy disembarked and set about releasing the triggers that held the thick strapping in place. Grumpy never worried about losing a load because the 250 pound dude that secured the straps had biceps like watermelons. However, this did pose a problem for Grumpy because his biceps were more like the size of tennis balls. Most often, Grumpy had to put all of his feet-off-the-ground weight on the bar that levered the gear in order to release those straps. This day was one of those feet-off-the-ground days.

Just as the strap released and Grumpy was nearly catapulted into the air, he heard a growl and a bark that could have come from the depths of hell. That’s when his memory banks kicked in; that’s when he remembered that German shepherd pup from two years ago. At that moment his bladder felt as if it were about to detonate.

Turning slowly to put his back to the trailer, Grumpy saw the bounding beast as it sprinted in his direction. This dog was bigger than Bo; in fact, this shepherd looked to be bigger than a good sized Saint Bernard.

Grumpy’s assailant slowed as he approached, growling and sniffing the air. His dagger fangs had Grumpy written all over them.

Grumpy would have screamed or called out, but somehow his voice was frozen in abject terror. So, he did what most victims do in horror movies – he closed his eyes and prayed. He felt as if he was “done like dinner” and you can take that in a literal sense.

In the next moment, Grumpy felt the weight of two doggy paws on his shoulders and the dish cloth lapping of a giant tongue on his face. Upon opening his eyes Grumpy realized that this ginormous canine was treating him as if he were a long lost friend. It seems as if doggy memory banks are exceedingly strong because it was obvious this doggone dog remembered his scent from two years past. His wagging tail confirmed this in spades.

Looking over the shepherds shoulder, Grumpy saw the greenhouse manager running toward him with eyes wide and an expression of terror painted on his face. Grumpy was sure he must of thought that his efficient guard dog was about to swallow Grumpy’s head in one gulp.

Seeing that this was not the case, the manager finally relaxed and sighed. Turning to his huge dog he said, “Some guard dog you are, Cujo!”

MORAL OF THE STORY: Grumpy’s rule for rural deliveries. If you’re going to deliver to a rural location more than once, you’d better damned well get cosy with the resident dog.

The Doggone Dogs of Point Pelee

After Grumpy retired from teaching he was looking for something to do. He thought a part-time job would fit the bill, keep him away from opening the refrigerator door every ten minutes and supplement his pension income. He was fortunate that his Good Wife’s Uncle Butch was the Plant Manager of a greenhouse operation that just happened to be within walking distance of Grumpy’s front door.

For five years, Grumpy delivered Green House Components all over Ontario. His refrain then was, “I’ve been everywhere, man” because he visited just about every nook and cranny in Southern Ontario. This back road’s driving gave the Grumps a true appreciation for the ingenuity of entrepreneurs and the stunning beauty of rural Ontario.

For the most part, Grumpy drove a five ton stake truck hauling a 20 foot trailer that was rated for a  maximum load of 22 000 pounds. That’s over ten tons of steel and 50 feet of vehicle, my friends.

The last time Grumpy drove anything of that size was back in his University days when he had a job with the city of Cambridge. On occasion he was asked to drive dump trucks because he had the proverbial “CHAUFFERS LISCENSE”, meaning he could practically drive, buses, transport trucks and army tanks with no training at all.

He remembers hauling a load of gravel to a worksite in an ancient dump truck that looked as if it was purchased at a World War II surplus store. That old truck seemed to go up on two wheels every time you turned a corner. With the heavy gravel on board, Grumpy felt as if he were one of the “Hell Drivers” doing tricks. That old beast chugged along like a sedated dinosaur. Grumpy nearly soiled himself when he had to dump that load. The hydraulic lift on the “old girl” was as rusted and leaky as an old boat.

Anyway, Grumpy thought he’d tell a few tall tales regarding his adventures as a truck driving delivery man. Believe me, because of his inexperience, there were many “learning on-the-run” opportunities.

We’ll begin with Grumpys experience with those, “Doggone Dogs”.

The Doggone Dogs of Point Pelee

Grumpy had been driving truck for a few months when Uncle Butch called and said, “I got a load for you to take to Leamington”.

Now Leamington is known as the “Sun Capital” of Canada, seeing as it has the most hours of sunshine of any location in the country. You also need to know that a load to Leamington meant a load to anywhere in the vicinity of Leamington. In this case, the load was to be hauled out to the boonies, which were just at the beginning of Point Pelee itself.

“Outback Ontario”, well you guessed it! This is a three hour drive from Grumpy Villa in Pinegrove.

Now Grumpy never knew what to expect when he arrived at a delivery site. Some greenhouses were tiny mom and pop operations while others were huge complexes. In Leamington an incredible 2,014 acres are under glass.

Upon arriving at his destination, Grumpy noticed that the operation was mid-sized and that the site itself appeared to be quiet, with no one in sight – working. This is not unusual because most of the work is done within the greenhouses.

Grumpy followed his standard procedure by parking the truck, disembarking and heading to the complex’s main door. Half way there, his peripheral vision picked up flashes of black and brown, each of which came with a snarling, barking commotion that suggested it was time to walk with a purpose. The purpose Grumpy determined to be, “Not to be eaten alive by two ferocious and humongous freaking DOGS!”

Grumpy prayed that the door was not locked. This “Old School” security system employed by farmers suggested that he would be OK. Who needs locked doors when you have Cujo and his brother on watch?

With a quick twist of his wrist, the door flew open just as two sets of canines were about to rip a butt flap in his jeans. He slammed the door and threw the deadbolt into position. The rabid dogs were jumping at the door. Grumpy could see their fangs through the small rectangular window.

No matter, all Grumpy had to do was find the owner-manager and all would be well with the world.

“Hello,” he called. “Hello, is anybody here?”

The only response Grumpy got was his own words echoing back at him. The Greenhouse was as quiet as a mausoleum. The rows and rows of tomato plants appeared as dense as a tropical jungle. All he could think about was that vine like man-eating plant in, “Little Shop of Horrors”.

“Hell – ooooooooo!”

Call as he might, it soon became obvious that no one was present to assist him.

All the while, the dogs continued their frontal assault on the door.

No matter, Grumpy would use his cell phone to call the manager. Reaching into his pocket he startled and stood at attention. He had left the phone on the front seat of the truck. He also placed the dog spray his brother-in-law had given him in that exact location. The truck was about thirty feet from the door.

This is why they say, HINDSITE IS 50/50, he supposes.

Meanwhile, the vicious guard dogs continued their howling and snarling, knowing well that a pleasantly plump old guy was within reach – suitably aged, he might add, for a midday snack.

Grumpy had to reach his truck if he was to escape. Who knew how long the farmer would be gone?

Grumpy paced up and down the outer wall inside the complex, thinking. That’s when he noticed that the canines followed his every move, now jumping off the steel walls that separated them.

An ideal bloomed in his mind.

Standing at the door Grumpy calculated how long it would take him to scramble to the truck, given his restricted gait and his propensity for tripping over his own feet. (You’ve read about these pratfalls here.)

He also calculated how far along the wall the dogs would have to be for him to make his mad dash to the truck. These calculations had to be precise, you now, because we’re talking life and death.

For a test, Grumpy picked up a discarded tomato and tossed it as far as he could and hit that wall. With a smack the wall vibrated and those dogs took off like Greyhounds, seeking the source of that sound. But, not to be deterred, they soon ambled back toward the door.

At this point Grumpy felt a pumpkin-like lump welling in the pit of his stomach. Had he locked the truck doors?

And, how much farther could he throw a tomato?

Grumpy gathered himself, trying to build his courage but not at all in leaps and bounds. He thought of the worst case scenario. The headlines would read, “Elderly Truck Driver Eaten by Dogs at Glass House in Point Pelee.” No, this was not the time to get his personal 15 minutes of fame.

He had to initiate his plan.

Grabbing a particularly stout tomato he took aim on a spot far along the wall. His assailants were quiet now, sitting on their haunches, licking their chops and staring at the door. Grumpy realized that his timing needed to be impeccable!

Placing one hand on the doorknob, he launched that tomato with all his might, watching it arc through the air until it smacked against the wall.

Off went the dogs!

Off went Grumpy!

Fortunately, the direction each took was opposite to one another.

Grumpy’s legs churned like pistons but he felt as if he was moving in slow motion. Just as he reached the front of the truck the dogs turned and, knowing that they had been duped, came on the run with teeth bared and foam spewing from their mouths.

He leapt to the running board and pulled the door open just as those man eaters made a turn toward the truck.

As he slammed the door shut, Cujo and Cujo Junior jumped right up to the window, leaving messy streaks of slobber, indicating that their digestive systems were in full bore.

Nonetheless, Grumpy had made it to the truck cab, by no means by the skin of his teeth, but rather by a close encountered bite of the bulge of his butt!

Grumpy called the greenhouse manager, of course, but didn’t mention his adventure with his guard dogs. Grumpy is a sensitive guy and doesn’t need to hear his customers guffawing into the phone.

When Grumpy said, “Ya, I went into the greenhouse and realized you weren’t there, so I thought I’d better call you.”

The stunned farmer paused, and then grunted these words, “How the hell did you get past my dogs?”

Well, now he’ll know “the rest of the story” if he chooses to read this blog. Those doggone dogs nearly had Grumpy for breakfast!

Sugar and Spice and all things Nice: Grumpy is Scared of Little Girls

Sugar and Spice and all things Nice

That’s what little girls are made of alright!

Grumpy can tell you this from firsthand experience. More often than not, it seems as if “little girls” are popping into Grumpy’s life more frequently. Given his senior citizen status, these young gals appear barely of high school age, if that. As the old adage should go, “The older I get, the younger they appear!”

In Grumpy’s experience, this can lead to some very uncomfortable moments.

First of all you must understand that these little girls really are young women.  It is only Grumpy’s perception that is way off. He is looking through the eyes of a guy that has a 23 year old daughter, has become a grandfather and is looking more like a Silver Fox every day.

These little girls, he is convinced, look at him and treat him as if he was their grandfather, or perish the thought, great grandfather. To them, Grumpy is the cute little old man. They talk to him like primary school teachers, using that eeky-squeeky high pitched voice and a lot of one syllable words.

Just because Grumpy walks like a toddler doesn’t mean you have to address him like one, right?

“Oh, let me help you with that, sir!”

All Grumpy was trying to do was tie his shoe for crying out loud. Given an extra minute and after overcoming the restriction of his rollover, Grumpy could have reached those laces, dammit.

This phenomenon raised its ugly head once again when Grumpy headed to the dentist for his check up and cleaning. His dental hygienist had retired so he knew he was up for a new one.

Sitting in the waiting room reading, Grumpy raised his head when he heard a squeaky primary school teacher voice say, “Mr. Grumpy, come with me, please.”

Standing before him was, you guessed it, another one of these little girls. She appeared to be somewhere between 12 and 14, stood about five feet tall and had Grumpy thinking, “Maybe, I went through the wrong door and this is nursery school and someone is playing DENTAL FREKING HYGIENIST with the gullible old guy!”

The bottom line though was that this pre-pubescent looking gal gave Grumpy one of the gentlest and most thorough cleanings he ever has had. He almost fell asleep in the chair, which wouldn’t have surprised her, because that’s what grandfathers do, right? Nap all the time!

He recalled then and there how petrified he was when the little girl nurse with the pink dyed hair and the nose piercing and tattoos was about to draw blood for him. All he could think about was that perhaps he had wandered into the liar of one of those gothic teenage cults. Maybe she was an apprentice vampire? Upon leaving Grumpy double checked to see that the letters on the door did say BLOOD CLINIC.

Anyway, Grumpy thinks you understand his dilemma. As he gets older the people that deal with him get younger and younger. And, in most cases he is dealing with little girls.

Here are a couple of excerpts from previous posts that further illustrate the source of his angst.

Little Girls in Malls

Went to the mega mall in the Hammer the other day and just about went postal.  The parking lot was like NASCAR on steroids. People were jockeying for parking places, cruising around as if lost and displaying road rage at the drop of a hat or package! Grumpy asked himself, “How can these people have any money left to spend after the price of gas they put in these monstrous SUV’s they drive?”

Grumpy ended up parking in no – man’s land somewhere in the parking lot boonies. The mall looked really small from that distance. He was kind of glad he dropped his son and his friend off at the mall entrance. They would have bitched about the trek confronting them!

“Park closer.”

“This is too far.”

“It’s cold!”

You catch my drift?

Walking from the car to the mall was like dodging stampeding bulls, as vehicles bore down on him from every direction. Grumpy swears they were determined to kill shoppers before they got into the mall and copped all of “their” deals. “Those sweaters are mine, you mother!”

The inside of the mall was even worse. Frenzied shoppers filled every store to overflowing. Women’s eyes were glazed over as their husbands trailed them like zombies. The young folk were in packs of roving bargain hunters.

Grumpy had two missions on his “honey-do” list – exchange his daughter’s jeans and buy her the fourth book in the Stephanie Meyer Vampire series.

Simple, straight forward and doable!

Well, Hollister had a 50 % off sale and was busier than an ant hill at a picnic. The first young lady Grumpy encountered with his problem (getting one size smaller -7/8) pointed her finger and said, “Look over there under the red hoody for that style!” She said it as if the old guy was challenged or something. She looked like she might be in Grade 8. Grumpy felt like a chastised child but he wouldn’t allow himself to pout.

Hell, Hollister has racks and racks of jeans coming out their ying yang! And, guess what, there was nothing under that hoody that remotely resembled what Grumpy carried in the bag.   (And who the hell fits into a size zero anyway?)

Shaking and paralyzed with fear, Grumpy slithered back out into the mall to call the good wife for some advice.

“Get back in there,” she said. “It’s simple. Just find a similar style in the right size and exchange it! Man up, Grumpy!”

Now she’s starting to sound like that mean little finger pointer Grumpy encountered earlier. You know the one; she thinks Grumps is a challenged five year old. It’s like he’s dealing with his mother (The Good Wife) and a mean kindergarten teacher (The Gruff Sales Clerk).

Now Grumpy knows that finding the right jean for his beautiful daughter will be like finding a needle in a denim haystack. But like a good trouper, Grumpy heads back in to do battle. The girl with the finger gives it to him again, but Grumpy drifts by her casually, head high, trying to hide his shopping deficiencies.

Within a minute, another little girll steps to the plate and asks, “Can I help you, sir?” She smiles at him as if he reminds her of her grandfather or something.  She is like the fairy preschool princess; she flits about as if lighter than air.

Grumpy gives her the rundown on his jean dilemma. He thinks she’ll realize why he’s wandering aimlessly in a store populated by teenagers and their mothers. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll just look in the back for that size for you.” The cute-patootie voice has Grumpy feeling as if he was a five year old about to offered a  candy treat.

In a voice that reaches a pitch higher than he can remember, Grumpy responds, “OK, I’ll just stand right here and wait for you!”

Now, if you’ve ever been in one of these stores you know all of the young ladies (little girls) appear as if they’re attending a cleavage convention. There’s more skin here than on Rosie O’Donnell’s backside. One false move and something is surely to fall out.

Where the hell does Grumpy look? What if one of them approaches him, or worse, bends over.

Suddenly he feels like a 63 year old pervert. He flips open his cell phone, avert his eyes and acts like he’s texting someone. He decides to turn and face the wall and quickly realizes he’s in the undergarment section!

Egads!

Those tiny things look like a pile of fancy slingshots. When Grumpy was a little boy, something that small and fancy would be used as a “hanky” by his grandmother!

Well to make a long story short, the young lady returns empty handed but searches the entire store likes she’s on a mission for her . . . GRANDFATHER!

She finds the elusive jeans that are, “Very close to the ones you brought in, sir!”

As sweat beads form on his forehead Grumpy ambles over to the sales desk, hoping to get the hell out of there quickly and efficiently. He has entered the little girl place from hell and can’t wait to make a run for it.

Medical Message Parlours

Grumpy has never had an echocardiogram before. He had heard that what it really is – is an ultrasound view of your heart’s structure and function. Grumpy fondly remembers watching the good wife receive these procedures when she was pregnant.

So, Grumpy went in prepared that this procedure would be similarly bland and non-evasive. Little did he know that he’d feel that he was being manipulated in a seedy message parlor?

Once again, he was confronted by one of these little girls who keep popping into his life.

Now, this pint-sized girl appeared as if she might be somewhat way south of 20 years of age. Really, Grumpy did a double take as his mind screamed, “She’s either the technician’s daughter or a co-op student from the high school!”

The first thing the attractive young female technician said was, “Mr. Grumpy you’ll have to strip to the waist,” as she pulled the curtain across with a cutesy-patootie smile. The timber of her voice was not unlike what you might hear a kindergarten teacher use with a group of five year olds, all sweet and sappy-like.

Entering the room, Grumpy first was taken aback by the subdued lighting. There was an examination table along the wall as well as whole lot of blinking and whining technology spread helter skelter, this way and that.

Either this was an interrogation room built for Russian spies or a message parlour. Grumpy was betting on the latter.

“Climb up on the table, Mr. Grumpy, and turn to face the wall. She cooed. “I’ll need you to extend your right arm above your head. And, just relax.”

Then it happened.

The technician sullied up beside Grumps to make full body contact, reached over with her arm tight to his chest and began the examination. Her position was not unlike a gentle wrestling hold or one of those MMA ground fights. This was way too close for comfort especially when she said, “I’m going to apply some cool lotion so that my device moves more easily across your skin.”

Grumpy was ready to make a run for it but she had him gripped so tightly he didn’t dare move. This position almost felt like spooning.

Much like a masseuse, she kept moving that probe over his chest, rotating it around until she found the spot she wanted. Grumpy was beginning to sweat profusely.

Grumpy felts as if he was receiving a message from a teenager. His eyes scanned the walls looking for parchment proof that this gal was actually qualified for hands-on manipulation. He was afraid to call 911 because who would believe him?

Then suddenly she whispered, “Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Grumpy, the next sound you hear will be the sound of your heart.”

Egad, that sound was not unlike a load of clothes being agitated in the washer – gushooga-gushooga-gushooga. And, no doubt, all of this physical contact and stimuli was about to put Grumpy’s heart into the spin cycle; rump-a-pa-pum-pum, rump-a-pa-pum-pum, – a la the Little Drummer Boy.

Finally, the procedure was complete. Grumpy knew this because the tech removed her death grip and said, “You can get up now. But sit on the table edge for a minute. We wouldn’t want you to pass out now, would we?”

Obviously she was cognizant of Grumpy’s angst. He didn’t have the gumption to pull his belly in now. Hanging his head like a scolded little boy he noticed his roll over had rolled over – big-time.  You see all the while this little girl was using her, “Little Bo Peep” voice, as if she were talking to a preschool child.

All Grumpy could do was reply, “Yes, mam!”

Grumpy can just imagine this little girl’s conversation at the dinner table that night. “Ya, today I had another one of those cute little old guys. They’re so sweet. They’re a lot like dealing with littlekids, really!”

Grumpy can sum up this entire conundrum by simply relating this famous rhyme to you. No wonder his comfort zone plummets these days. He seems to be constantly dealing with the “scary little girls” in his life.

 

What are little girls made of?

 What are little girls made of?

 Sugar and spice and all things nice,

 And that are little girls made of.

 

What are young women made of?

What are young women made of?

Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,

And that are young women made of.

(Original poem by Robert Southey, modifications by unknown author)