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!”
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!
“This is too far.”
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!
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)