Meet our writers

Win $1,000







Humor May 2015

The Grumpy Old Man

Grumpy Hides in the Bushes to Celebrate His Family Reunion

By Don Rizzo

In the morning I like to sit with my coffee and read the paper. Yes, I'm talking about printed words on real paper. Already that marks me as a fossil. When there's guests in the house you have to talk to em! First thing in the morning! It’s so painful!

Summer is when our children, and their children, and their children's dogs, and miscellaneous other friends and acquaintances come to visit. I'm so conflicted. Don't get me wrong. I love my family and appreciate my friends. But, I think I love them more as an abstraction than a reality. Or in small doses, maybe. When they interrupt my routine for days and weeks at a time, my circadian rhythms get out of whack and the puny grasp I have on my sanity begins to slip. (Don't bother to tell me that you've noticed.) I'm old. I'm set in my ways. Unstructured chaos annoys me.

In the morning I like to sit with my coffee and read the paper. Yes, I'm talking about printed words on real paper. Already that marks me as a fossil. When there's guests in the house you have to talk to em! First thing in the morning! It’s so painful!

My lovely wife, Diane, knows that a grunt of "good morning" between coffee slurps is, for me, tantamount to a Shakespearean soliloquy. (Apologies to my pals who kid me about using big words. I do respect the great pride you take in your stupidity.)

Uh oh, I'm rambling again  – where was I going? Oh yes....our recent visitors.

Recently, one son, his beautiful wife and their five year old, who was celebrating her sixth birthday, came in for a week. They are fabulous and didn't even interrupt my schedule of mediocre golf. But three more bodies in a house that's used to two people can't help but bust up the routines. And they're very bright and informed, so thinking is required if I'm going to fend off my emerging image as a doddering old fool.

It all came to a crashing crescendo when the second wave arrived in the form of a second son, his wife and their nine year old AND their two dogs. Any sad souls who have nothing better to do than read this stuff, may remember my column about spending the night with the two multipoos. In they roared like the Viking marauders. The dogs quickly took over the house, running madly over the furniture and yipping in high frequency, ear-drum piercing shrieks. The two little girls ran wildly behind, dueling for attention and vying for decibel-shattering supremacy. The TV had to be turned to full volume to drown out the mini-herd of ruffians. Dishes clattered, food was dragged from every refrigerator crevice, partially eaten and left strewn around couches for the dogs to mop up.

At this point I was hiding in the bushes in the backyard in a fetal position.

The finale came when one of the dogs pooed on the carpet. My poor wife took to her hands and knees, along with her daughter-in-law. I guess real men don't clean up dog poo. At this point I was busy rummaging for a razor blade so I could slit my wrists.

Finally they all cleared out and I crept out of my hiding place to assess the damage. The carpet was ruined, the TV volume was swinging crazily from earth shattering to inaudible without discernible cause, and one closet door had been locked from the inside so we couldn't get in it. BUT – it was quiet. Diane and I are already planning for the future. Next year, we're all going to meet up on Facebook. Finally, I understand the real value of the new social media.

 

Meet Donald