The Confessions of a Curmudgeon

My name’s Thomas and I’m a curmudgeon. I admit many of my bleaker moments come when I’m uncharacteristically giddy.

But I’m working on it, one day at a time. Yet things still really piss me off. Here are two examples.

Other drivers. Each, every and all. Sure, outside their vehicles, they might be kind, decent and goodhearted, even potential friends or lovers. But not when we share the same road.

In Omaha, the worst drivers are those from across the river with Iowa plates, particularly rusting minivans emblazoned with bumper stickers like “I Stop for Garage Sales.” I proposed a citywide solution that went unadopted. It was so simple: road blocks.

Suspect calls. I don’t know how many important voicemails I’ve deleted simply because they came from 8-aught-aught numbers. A winning lottery ticket? The IRS cancels my audit? A rich relative mentions me in her will?

I’d accept such losses if my phone would stop harrumphing each time those ignored calls arrive.

And those are just two infuriating examples from this curmudgeon’s long list. But, hey, I’m working on it.