FD Disorder

FD = Fuddy Duddy. I've developed a bad case. How is it that you turn 50 and instantly become what we used to refer to as THE ESTABLISHMENT.

Ok, I've never really liked kids all that much. It's just that I used to be able to ignore them. Now I want to go out and grab their skateboard riding little bodies and strangle them. All day long on the weekends is the constant sound of metal wheels grating against blacktop. And of all the long stretches of our street that are bounded on both sides by vacant lots, where do you think the little urchins decide to squat and trade lies? Smack dab in front of my house. And we all know that kids are getting deaf early, thanks to mp3 players, so their lie-swapping is conducted in LOUD voices that bricks and morter do not block.

I think I'll have a little amaretto splashed across ice. I'm okay. Really.

Now the folks across the street are actually pretty nice folks. I like them. I visit with them when we both happen to be outside. But they have one serious flaw. They love motorized toys. Riding lawnmowers. Ok, I have one of those myself. No problem. But the leaf blower, ATV, mopeds, electric bikes, and I don't know what-all else whine constantly during the daylight hours. And I can't blame their kids entirely. The two grownups are hopping on the ATV and running up and down the street, too. AND, to make it worse, there appears to be a huge magnet in their garage that pulls other motor-loving kids and grownups from all over the neighborhood to their house where they all idle their motors and talk at the top of their lungs until they all rev up their motors and proceed to careen all over the neighborhood. God help us all.

Maybe a little Jack Daniel's in my Coke. Ah. Where was I?

I've always had an eclectic taste in music. Real eclectic. But I'm sensing a sudden strong attraction to music that is in the easy listening section of the store. My DJ Ditty is loaded up with Barry Manilow, Anne Murray, and Bette Midler. And not their own stuff, but their tribute albums to Broadway, Rosemary Clooney, Big Bands and the Fifties. I must not be alone, because a week or so ago the Doonesbury strip covered the new release of Jimmy Thudpucker's album of traditional songs. Mark the DJ was appalled that the hip singer had lowered himself to sing standards.

Excuse me while I put on a Tijuana Brass cd and get a little Bailey's for my coffee.

I guess I've hit the top of the hill and am proceeding slowly over the top and down the other side. I want peace and quiet when I'm home. I want to go to bed at 8PM. I want people who come and take care of Mother to put things back where they got them and not in some new place that takes me a half-hour to locate. I want all the kids to get off the road until they learn how to drive a car.

I want a Craftmatic bed with memory foam and an unending supply of Ambien or somesuch sleep aid.

God, I'm getting old.

LSW