There's nothing funny about grumpy old men

As a wife, I've had only one deal-breaker all these years: hitting.

Abuse is the only non-negotiable issue and, so far, Husband has never laid an unwanted hand on me. I say so far , and really have to chuckle. During our college years, when most girls went out dancing, I went out arguing – all while wearing patchouli oil, big liberal T-shirts, and no makeup. If we made it through those years of growth and irritation without resorting to violence, I think we're safe now.

Still, "hitting" remains a one-way ticket to the divorce lawyer.

Recently I noticed a trend among older guys and quickly added No. 2 to my list: unacceptable levels of grumpiness. I won't tolerate this development as a wife or a friend.

There's nothing wrong with reasonable annoyances. I can't blame anyone for complaining when their favorite daytime talk show is canceled or the morning paper doesn't show up on the driveway. I even understand when one gets angry after accidentally stepping on a misplaced lawn ornament.

But what about permanent bad moods? Is it OK for a man to hit 60 and grow an aversion to smiles, laughter, and housework? You know the type: He complains about dinner, doesn't feel like talking, leaves the table while everyone else is eating, sits in his favorite chair and yells at whoever is nearby to pipe down because he's trying to watch television.

That's when I turn to Husband and whisper, "If you ever want to get rid of me, stop clipping your nose hairs and turn into that guy."

For the most part, grumpy old men are tolerated and that's the problem. They are monsters their wives have created. I remember with fondness the way my grandmother and her sisters had little patience for the grumpsters in their lives. These proud Irish women ran the show and, as a result, their husbands, my grandpa and uncles, chipped in around the house and were fairly enjoyable to be around.

My mother's generation isn't so iron-handed. They're tolerant and understanding. They smile and shrug their shoulders.

"What can I do?" they say.

Let's see – they can go on strike. How's that for an idea? They can refuse to be maid, cook, sounding board, and scapegoat for men who want to blame everything on everyone. If Grumpa won't get off their couches, Nana or Grandma can leave the house without him. Go exercise, walk around the block, join a social club, see a movie, and attend an exhibit. I'd even go so far as to suggest that these lovely ladies date around. Leave the jerk to fend for himself and maybe then he'd be encouraged to find his smile.

If he needs help, he should try following his wife's advice: Lose a few pounds, visit a doctor and fill that prescription. Then maybe he wouldn't be so angry.

Don't get me wrong – I'm glad for grumpy men and their long-suffering wives. They remind the rest of us of what we don't ever want to become.

And that's more than a threat. That's a promise.