Randy Fitzgerald

I’ve decided to start off the New Year by being a curmudgeon because I’m still smarting from a realization that came to me while Christmas shopping last month: I am totally out of step with the rest of the world. My newfound observation comes with its own set of questions and challenges.

            Have you tried to buy a pair of pajamas lately? They don’t much come in pairs anymore. You can buy as many bottoms as you want, but don’t expect the bottoms to come in a package with tops.  Are there great numbers of men out there who no longer were pajama tops? Well, let me tell those fellows something—they might as well get back in the habit of two-piece jammies because their chests are not going to look so great either when they get a few more years on ‘em. Case in point: Have you seen Arnold Schwarzenegger without a shirt recently?

            Have you noticed how clerks in the bookstore look at you funny if you ask for something by Damon Runyon?  First they ask you to spell it, and then they spell it behind you—and clearly those guys and dolls have never heard of Damon Runyon in all their young lives. How could Damon Runyon suddenly be an unknown? (It’s the same reaction you get in a record shop when you request “White Christmas” by Clyde McPhatter. “The Mac Platters?” I was asked. And did you know there’s no such thing as a record shop anymore?)

            This isn’t a new concern, but what is one’s reaction supposed to be to all the young male shoppers who have to hold their pants up with one hand while carrying their packages with the other?  Barb tends to laugh at them (always behind their backs, of course), and I tend to frown at them because—let’s face it—there’s something not really bright in walking around with your pants falling down.  I have to think they’re practicing this magic feat of suspending their pants in midair just to get a reaction, and I’m not sure what my reaction is supposed to be.  I wish someone would let me know, but I can tell you now that admiration is not a possibility.

            Did you know Ben Franklin is not a dime store anymore? Did you know you can get very, very cold shopping at Short Pump?  Did you know that you might as well park at City Stadium if you plan to shop in Carytown at Christmastime?

            Have you observed that Americans don’t queue up very well? We haven’t quite caught the knack of the queue yet, except at the post office where people from one big line go in turn upon hearing the call, “Next in line, please.”  That’s the way lines are supposed to work, but everywhere but the post office, people will insist of forming a line in front of each cash register, where one person with 12 items can force a dozen people to miss lunch. And dinner.

            What do the think the odds are that a bag of groceries left in a car overnight on an evening when the temperature sinks into the teens will be the bag that contains the milk, the fresh fruit, and at least one item in a glass jar?

            Why is it that, as you head east on Broad, all the gas stations you pass up on the west end of Broad (hoping for better) turn out to have had far cheaper gas prices than the ones closer to town—unless you’re heading west on Broad, in which case the ones you pass up near town are cheaper than the ones farther west?

            There’s nothing wrong with the four-way stop on Alverser Drive that an on-site, 24/7 traffic cop couldn’t fix. Actually a traffic light might be helpful, too.

And since when should a Christmas tree cost $85?

            What is the new practice at certain stores that you can’t get your money back when you exchange an item, even if you bought it yourself only a couple of days earlier, have a receipt, and just want your charge card credited? I bought something for my daughter at a store at Regency, and apparently even though she doesn’t live in town, she’ll have to make a special trip to find something in that store that she wants (even though she’s already found something at another store she wants) because I can’t get a refund.

            Why is it that, if you’re going to get a cold in December, it arrives in force two days before Christmas?

            Finally, why does someone like me, who has so little to complain about, start off the New Year by complaining?  Point well taken.  After this one little outburst, I’m going back to remembering what a great Christmas I actually had, and I’ll happily return this curmudgeon role to Andy Rooney.