Dear Crabby, How did you get started writing advice?

Dear Crabby,

I stumbled into your column recently (purely by accident, I swear) and then went back to read some of your older stuff. I’ve got to say—I’m impressed! You’re witty, wise, and just the right amount of cranky. How did you get started writing advice, and where on earth do you get all that wisdom you dish out?

Sincerely,

Kiss Up

Dear Kiss Up,

Well, I don’t usually play favorites, but for reasons I can’t quite explain, I like you a lot more than everyone else who’s ever written me. You sound smart, kind, and—let’s be honest—like someone who knows how to butter up an old man with arthritis and a typewriter.

Now, to your question about my “wisdom.” Let me start by saying wisdom is just what happens when you’ve made so many mistakes that people start asking you how not to do things. I’m basically a walking public service announcement wrapped in a bathrobe.

I’ve lived long enough to see phones go from rotary dials to little rectangles that spy on you. I remember when “streaming” meant water, “texting” meant writing a letter, and “AI” meant the kid who ruined the grade curve in math class.

You know you’re old when your grand kids call your favorite songs “classics,” and you remember when they were new releases. I remember Elvis shaking his legs for the first time on TV, and the whole country clutching their pearls. I remember Jackie Gleason shouting, “One of these days, Alice!” on The Honeymooners. And I remember the day Kennedy was shot like it was yesterday. (Although to be fair, sometimes I forget where I left my coffee mug five minutes ago.)

Now my grand kids “discover” this stuff on something called YouTube and ask if I’ve ever heard of it. Heard of it? Kid, I lived it.

As for how I got into this advice column racket—it all started when I learned to talk. My mother said I came out giving unsolicited opinions. When the doctor said, “It’s a boy,” I supposedly replied, “Well, it’s about time!”

For most of my life, I gave advice no one wanted. My family told me I was opinionated; I told them they were wrong. Eventually, a friend of mine asked if I’d ever thought of writing this stuff down—like Dear Abby, except with more sarcasm and lower blood pressure medication.

So I started answering questions from other seniors—stuff like, “Why can’t I open this jar?” or “What’s that noise my hip makes when I stand up?” But soon younger people started writing in about dating, parenting, and how to “manifest good energy.” (I told one guy to stop “manifesting” and start “showering.” He hasn’t written back.)

Before I knew it, my column was getting picked up by fancy outlets like The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. I nearly fell off my La-Z-Boy. I wanted to call everyone who told me to shut up and say, “See? You could’ve been getting this wisdom for free, but now the big papers are paying me for it!”

So here I am, still typing away—one cranky opinion at a time. I don’t know how long I’ll keep this up. At my age, I don’t even buy green bananas. But as long as people keep reading—and as long as I can find my glasses—I’ll keep doing it.

Oh, and before I forget, I’ve got a book coming out soon: Dear Crabby: Wisdom, Wrinkles, and Other Things That Sag. Look for it in stores and online—assuming I can figure out how to upload it without erasing my hard drive again.

Thanks for the kind words, Kiss Up. You’re my favorite this week. (But don’t get cocky—favorites change daily, depending on who brings me donuts.)

Crabbily yours,

Dear Crabby