1,000!!

Well, folks, this is a milestone. Your humble chronicler, curmudgeon to the core, has taken no less than 1,000 opportunities to warn you of bad behavior, bad manners, bad dress, bad movies, just about everything else bad that the Curmudgeon Societé Generale hopes to see change. Yes, this is my 1,000th post.

Three years ago I took up the challenge to communicate our philosophy to a broad audience. Who could have guessed that I would be so successful? In addition to our local readers here in the U.S. I want to give a special shoutout to Latvia, Ukraine, Malaysia and Serbia for their enthusiastic embracement of the Curmudgeon way.

And the Societé wants me to press on, so buckle your seatbelts, folks, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Holy Crap, Marie

You know another thing that really grinds my gears? You're innocently watching a TV show or lousy movie and a long lost father meets up with his kid and calls him "son".

Who does that? Let me take a stab at an answer - NOBODY. Fathers don't go around addressing their kid as "son." That's pretty much why they give the things names. You know, to avoid confusion in public when they call out their name, they sort of want one kid to respond, not every one within earshot.

It's not like mothers go about calling their girls "daughter". I may be a curmudgeon but I at least use people's names.

Space, the Final Frontier

In this curmudgeon's life, space is indeed the final frontier. Storage space, that is. Even more specifically, the storage space my Sainted wife needs for all the "stuff" she insists on accumulating.

"Just put it in the basement" she will aver. "The basement is full" I counter. "OK, over the garage" she will then suggest. Sadly, that, too, is at capacity. All her china cabinets are full to bursting as are her closets. Is this some sort of insidious sickness?

In desperation I talk to other curmudgeons in the Curmudgeon Societé Generale. They are no help...mostly because THEY suffer from the same malady. Alas, at our age, and after a lifetime of following Chapter 22 in the Curmudgeon Handbook (Trash is the Last Resort), we all have too much "stuff".

Delbert McClinton got it right in his great song "Too Much Stuff".

Paul Drake

"Perry, vanish!"

This from Paul Drake, operative, warning Perry Mason to get away from the murder scene up in the building behind him as Lieutenant Tragg approaches there in the background.

Of course, it took Paul a while to accomplish this as he had to find a phone booth and then literally dial the phone number.

Life was not only simple back then, but the dialogue was snappy.

Where Are My Keys?

Here in curmudgeon central, we are about to go out. I hear my Sainted wife - "Where are my keys?" With hundreds of purses that are changed out AT LEAST once a day, in her world, they could be anywhere.

Even she will accede that putting things away is not her strong suit. Otherwise, she would have to deny how she spends a large part of each day - looking for her keys, that day's purse, various kitchen implements - seeing as how she seems to have a policy never to put things away in the same place twice. To her credit, she often remembers where things are on the fly, which is quite impressive.

I grew up in a "there's a place for everything and everything in its place" kind of world. Hence I spend a large part of each day putting her things away properly.

Oddly, this only seems to aggravate the situation.