Day Off

sorbet tubular hangers

The Crankies experienced a regularly scheduled school holiday on Monday. Sadly, Meta Cranky's clutter meter simultaneously pegged into red zone.

MC's clutter meter is an unscheduled annoyance with an inconsistent trigger. Does it scream abuse at unattractive piles of work-related papers and mismatched socks? Frequently, no. Yet on this day, it howled like a air-raid siren at the sight of a few half-finished art projects lounging on the stair landing. The clutter meter lacks a breaker box; neither can you whack out its batteries with a broom handle as you can with the smoke alarm. There was no recourse for small Crankies except to perform compulsory acts of housework. Startled and unnerved by the meter's intensity, they peeled back layers of effluvia from flat surfaces until readings retreated to safe levels.

tubular hangers, primary colors

The Crankies' clutter meter functions a bit like a high colonic: after purging their collective toxins, the refreshed and clutter-diminished household sailed off to find amusing pursuits. Cranky #1 and her pal visited the local mega-plex for the latest installment of Goofy High School Comedy starring Talent-Challenged Cute Boy. Meanwhile, MC and Cranky #2 took a victory lap at OCD Gadget Store to get just one more clutter-fighting tool.

tubular hangers, ocean

C2 would happily acquire the store's entire obsessive inventory of keychains with light-up dolphins and pink magazine organizers with kitties on the top. Also the non-functional telephone and computer from the modular desk section. MC struck a compromise: pick six brightly colored tubular hangers from the Unnaturally Organized closet section. Don't sniff, skeptical readers: these are 52-gram plastic hangers, much sturdier and satisfying than the usual 34-gram numbers. While C2 made her color choices, a fellow organizer stopped to offer the benefit of his organizing experience. He gave high praise to the OCD tubular hangers, noting that he dedicates the orange sherbet-colored ones to his dress shirts.  MC nodded in admiration. But there was more. Hanger Guy had developed an entire closet system built around color-coded tubular hangers: royal blue hangers for jeans; yellow ones for t-shirts with paint splatters. MC was walking slowly backward and didn't catch what he does with the frosty greens or neon pinks

C2 has installed her cheerful hangers in a tidy yet casual way. C1 continues to enjoy seeing most of her bedroom floor. MC has seen household surfaces reappear, like the terrain left by a melting glacier. The household has been temporarily recalibrated.
--MC

No Satisfaction

Some months back, Meta Cranky learned that an ancient essay of hers had been plagiarized. More specifically, someone named Dr. Shyam Prasad Swain lifted her essay from Studies in the Novel, twiddled with some prepositions, and republished it under his own name in a collection of essays. MC's stony heart was warmed watching placid English major types turn apoplectic on the subject of plagiarism, and she was heartily gratified by the expressions of concern and outrage that came her way.

Apparently, friends' heart-warming concern is the only satisfaction that MC can hope to receive from this theft of her intellectual property. MC is informed that the statute of limitations for prosecuting copyright infringement is three years; that deadline expired back in the George W. Bush administration. So the legal team representing the journal where her essay appeared will send a letter to the fraudulent book's publisher requesting that it cease publishing this particular title. The salient verb would be request, since the journal concedes, "we have no legal recourse at this stage."

MC has sighed heavily. Then she recollected that she was in good company: Stanley Fish was ripped off, too, and his legal satisfaction was as thin as hers. Professor Fish, though, got to air his grievance in the New York Times and proclaim that "the two scholars who began their concluding chapter by reproducing two of my pages are professionally culpable. They took something from me without asking and without acknowledgment, and they profited — if only in the currency of academic reputation — from work that I had done and signed."

Here, here. But there's also a question of degree. Professor Fish's plagiarists are into him for two pages. Dr. Shyam Prasad Swain lifted MC's entire essay. So, short of naming the offender in the pages of the New York Times, what satisfaction can MC manufacture for herself? She recalls a successful campaign waged by her Youngest Older Brother that he called Feed the Bitch. A co-worker got the best of him in office politics; however, her sweet tooth left her utterly vulnerable to the two pounds of M&Ms (plain and peanut) that he purchased each day for office consumption. As Bitchy Co-worker's ass grew, so did Youngest Older Brother's satisfaction.

MC is confident that her friends and acquaintances possess the creative genius to effectively modify Feed the Bitch for her purposes. Let's work the problem, people.
--MC

The Shallow End

Years ago, a place called Atomic City sold MC the perfect t-shirt for Herr Cranky. On the front was a bare-chested man with the words "Victor Mature lives" written across his pecs and abs. The anguished dude's thought bubble read: "I wish I was deep instead of just macho." The Crankies were never quite sure why deep and macho were mutually exclusive, but ambiguity about Victor Mature's character didn't get in the way of their sartorial pleasure.

So now MC's enjoyment of contemporary memoirs has left her feeling that her own character is about an inch deep. David Sedaris and Rhoda Janzen's rip-roaring tales of substance abuse, emotional apocalypse,  and entertainingly wacko relatives didn't encourage self-doubt. Anne Lamott's essays, however, always leave MC scuffling her shoes in the dirt thinking, I could be a better person if I just meditated more. I should ask my neighbors to share their reflective personal insights. I should swim with seals more often.

Extra helpings of meditation could only improve MC's operating system, true enough. But her neighbors are already sufficiently sage. And on the whole, she doesn't see herself snorkeling with seals. Aquatic mammals can be plenty profound, but MC, sadly, is much too distracted to appreciate their offerings unless they come with English subtitles. Compared to Lamott's thoughtful spirituality, MC is decidedly swimming in the shallow end.

People who make their living writing sensitively about single motherhood really should have zen-master-type moments in the middle of traffic. The rest of us, however, show our breeding and character by not bringing firearms to the pediatrician's waiting room. Cranky 2 recently reactivated her strep throat, and MC repeated the familiar routine of doctor's office, pharmacy, and frozen fruit bars. In a waiting room of children dripping with viruses and bacteria, the selection of pregnant-mommy magazines and Fox News broadcasts creates an atmosphere that the CIA could productively use to extract information from suspected terrorists. And yet the parental units of these little petri dishes purposefully douse themselves with hand sanitizer and exit with scripts for Amoxicillin. MC thinks that germ-encrusted politeness is perhaps the height of civil discourse.

There's a time and a place for depth of character. The Richard Nixon impeachment hearings, for example. And happily, Barbara Jordan knew just what to say:

My faith in the Constitution is whole, it is complete, it is total. I am not going to sit here and be an idle spectator to the diminution, the subversion, the destruction of the Constitution.

MC wishes she could manufacture pithy, quotable verbage like that on demand. Delivering stirring oratory is probably not in the cards for MC; however, a recently installed statue of Representative Jordan at Big State University invites one to reflect on depth of character, statesmanship, and why flawless enunciation and a baritone register sounds so, well, deep. C2 demonstrates what you can do after all that thoughtful reflection.
--MC

Greenish

Locally famous for being green, Cranky Elementary School showcases shiny awards it has received for recycling. And composting. And installing a rainwater harvesting system in the backyard. Cranky Elementary has been recognized, repeatedly, for its environmental mojo. Last Tuesday, you could have seen Cranky Elementary sixth graders on a local television station demonstrating their classroom worm composting and the playground's vegetable gardens. Name a product produced in China, and Cranky kindergarteners are recycling it. Styrofoam? Check. Capri Sun pouches? They get paid for it. Sneakers? Well, doesn't everybody? Batteries, computer parts, used plastic gift cards. It's kind of a competitive green vibe they've got going on.

So it was completely not weird that Meta Cranky spent multiple e-mails and phone calls today discussing some serious Cranky Elementary business: the 2010 Halloween pumpkin composting situation. Halloween 2009's  composting was fabulous, if a little frightening. MC herself had never seen that many dead pumpkins in one place. But there they were, piled in front of Cranky Elementary. Approximately the mass of a VW. Meta Cranky was sustained by the confidence and enthusiasm of Our Al Gore, the resident composting guru, who could compost anything that had ever formed carbohydrates from CO2 and water. Our Al enthusiastically guided MC and Herr Cranky to whack up hundreds of pounds of pumpkins with axes and machetes. Then, he provided instruction as the Crankies helped layer Dead Pumpkins with bags of leaves, like a massive jello salad. Sprinkle with a little rainwater from your rainwater collection system, and presto! One ginormous mass of carbon and nitrogen. Our Al was an animal when it came to decomposition.

Meta Cranky will never be as talented, compost-wise, as Our Al, whose child has happily moved on to middle school. So Cranky Elementary is leaving Dead Pumpkin 2010 to the professionals. No, seriously. The professional compost company that services Cranky Elementary's lunches will send a special truck for its post- Halloween offerings. This landfill diversion is all as it should be, and Meta Cranky can't believe that any thinking person would let a pumpkin get oozy and smelly in his/her garbage can. Please. But she understands the folks in Cranky Home Town might be scratching their heads over Dead Pumpkin 2010 as part of somebody's business plan. That's because it's much simpler in Cranky Hometown. You start with a pumpkin, like the one pictured above. From Cranky Girls' Farm, 2008 vintage. Thanks for asking. Then you add a varmint. Raccoon. Possum. Skunk? Ok, that'll work.

After that, it's pretty much low impact. No signage. No organized collection system. No whacking with machetes. In Cranky Hometown, Compost Happens, just like the bumper sticker says. Cranky Hometown may be in a red state, but don't say it's not green.--MC

*photo credits to Oldest Older Brother

Urban Tranquility

Meta Cranky's unplanned hiatus from her blogging duties has left several of the Crankies' narrative threads awkwardly dangling. So, let's review, shall we?

The Crankies migrated back to their not-farm space and Crankies 1 and 2 have been begun receiving state-sponsored educations at their respective schools. C1 can now hold forth on the difference between specific heat and latent heat. C2 has helped make a city out of popsicle sticks, toilet paper tubes, and oatmeal boxes. Herr Cranky has attended a very great many committee meetings while retaining his good humor. Meta Cranky has begun a textbook project that requires rifling through reams of paper and seemingly limitless files from ftp sites. In the scrum of back-to-school hoo-haw, the Crankies have remained as serene and graceful as the Yellow Show, pictured at left, that is determined to bloom despite our city's ungodly heat. Pretty much, anyway.

Cranky Girls' Farm continues to put forth an exuberant crop of alfalfa and angus cattle in the Crankies' absence. Second Older Brother, the keeper of this alfalfa and livestock, has introduced a glitch by, uncharacteristically, requiring maintenance of his physical person. He has educated the entire Cranky extended family with his tales of the Medical Industrial Complex, which apparently demands $23,000 of people who are careless enough to develop kidney stones.

Second Brother's discomfort is not to be made light of, and the Crankies have every expectation that medical science will bring him relief. The Crankies have, however, watched with appreciation as the Medical Industrial Complex entered Second Brother's "I Can't Believe You're So Effing Stupid" Zone. Meta Cranky first learned of the Zone when Oldest Brother reported on Second Brother's hospital admission process: "I think the hospital is calling security to deal with Second Brother." The hospital that services Cranky Girls' Farm apparently requires full payment in advance of services rendered. Second Brother, who seriously wanted to say farewell to his kidney stones, habitually sees itemized invoices for his major purchases. Second Brother has never had a problem being billed by his tractor guy, his air conditioner guy, or his diesel mechanic, but Idiocracy General was unable to produce a document that told him what his first $11,000 payment was, um, paying for. Hence the specter for hospital security. The Crankies can't wait to see how he deals with his insurance company.

Long story short: The Crankies are city girls again. They appreciate the patience of their Cranky Readers and will be more timely in their updates. No need to call security.

--MC

High Functioning

For weeks, guests have entered Chez Cranky by stepping over a rivulet of water and asking, "Do you know your dishwasher leaks?" Then, usually, they serve themselves a glass of water and observe, "Ice maker not working yet, huh." Alright, already. The Crankies' appliances were put to rights today by Mr. Ice-T, a man with a tres exciting skill set. As he totted up his bill, Mr. Ice-T observed the quart of apple butter resting on the Crankies' counter. Turns out that Son of Mr. Ice-T just loves the stuff. "He's got Asperger's; he's high functioning, but he can't stand to waste food." Ice-T pere and fils have jammed, relished, and jellied their way through a bountiful summer, and father Ice-T proudly recited their production in quarts, pints, and pounds.

Meta Cranky sent fix-it savant out the door with a small offering of apple product. Only upon reflection did she observe that Son of Ice-T might not care about the Crankies' product; he would be more obsessed about preserving the food coming out of his own garden patch. Then it dawned on MC that Ice-T and his son might be the only people who could bring order to Cranky Farm in its present state.

There's the apple tree. The Crankies have been slogging through their apple inventory for days. Not complaining! Apple butter is infinitely more forgiving than those hellish peaches, and producing apple smoosh with the smoosh gadget sends C1 and C2 to their happy place. MC was strategizing about what to do with Gardening Friend's gift of some groovy Armenian cucumbers when she noticed the squash bed. Jesus Mary and Joseph. A girl takes a day off to file her nails and look what happens.

MC is a little sketchy about what she planted back in June, but she's confident that her concept included pumpkins and three kinds of squash. But for all she knows, Jimmy Hoffa could be in the patch now. It's feral. The Shepherd's Seed envelope showed darling watercolors that made these squash look like epicurean dainties. Wrong-O. They're botanical sumo wrestlers. Shoppers never see these mega vegetables in the grocery store for a very good reason: they're freaking scary.

It's a small step from one zucchini-on-steroids to a full-blown food storage and distribution obsession. Why can't the Cranky Hometown gardeners bear to waste any of this bounty? Because if you anger the zucchini gods, next summer's garden might squeeze out only three worm-eaten tomatoes and two cups of shriveled okra. Meta Cranky's neighbors aren't going to risk it.
--MC

Unbidden

Perfect gifts come in different flavors. There's the gift that's perfect because the recipient laid in the specs to remove all doubt. Herr Cranky's gift of a phone with a map program fits this category; this phone gave the Crankies the logistical umph they needed to navigate unfamiliar cities on their recent roadtrip. In addition, it sent Crankies 1 and 2 into paroxysms of joy as they discovered apps, games, and wallpaper-selection opportunities. C2 found a notes function in which she writes diary entries such as, "I went to the plum patch. We picked a lot of good plums." In her euphoria, C2 raised up an encomium of praise for technology:

I just love this phone.
WHO KNEW that a phone could give you a map? 
WHO KNEW that a phone would let you write notes? 
WHO KNEW that a phone had games on it? 
WHO KNEW that a phone could still let you talk on the phone, like la, la, la.

Steve Jobs, want some PR to provide a diversion from that iPhone 4 kerfluffle? The Crankies are available.

The other perfect gift is the one you didn't know you needed. When friend Zia pressed a thumb drive upon the not-techie Meta Cranky, it was as if the angel choirs were singing. How long had this technological miracle been available to the rest of the planet? That long, really?

Comes now Mr. High Security, who not only studies antique hardware but also can identify individuals who are least likely to accomplish simple tasks on their own. As a result, the talented Mr. High Security not only fixed the beloved, broken, ancient hardware at Cranky Farm, he also installed it. Can we mention that he lives in another state? Sure, Meta Cranky put the repaired lock back in the door, but did she notice that door frame had no hole for the deadbolt? Um. Rather no. The Crankies now enjoy fully operational 90-year-old locks and more working keys than your average janitor--the impressive, skeleton-type keys you'd use to lock Mr. Rochester's crazy wife in the attic. And MC gets to savor the perfect gift of unforeseen, unbounded generosity.

MC's chi is running particularly strong this week, because she also received a unexpected gift for someone else's birthday. Paying her respects on the natal day of friend I'm Adorable, but Don't Piss Me Off, she received a perfectly pressed set of tea towels embroidered by I'm Adorable's mother. Meta Cranky remembers Mother of Adorable's house as cool island of domesticity in a dusty, sandburr-filled sea. Small MC would tumble out of Major Cranky's Chevy pickup, in which the day's only refreshment would have been a bag of Red Man chewing tobacco. Stopping to see Mother of Adorable, with her hospitality, air conditioning, and cold water, always gave MC hope that Major Cranky was going to evoke closure and eventually head home to lunch. I'm Adorable's perfect gift reminds MC that small gestures can bring moments of glad grace yea even into a hot Chevy. Why embroider seven tea towels with days of the week and amusing animal figures? Because looking at them might make you smile when you otherwise wouldn't. Perfect.
--MC

(Photo to come)