Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Six years ago, faced with the heady prospect of being a first-time homebuyer, I made a simple, unreasonable request to the Operator: I wanted to wake up one morning in my new townhouse. Sure enough, improbably enough, she made it happen, deftly plowing through all the stressful little details normally associated with the process. I thought about the delicious symmetry today when I was knee-deep in eBay, surrounded by caches of packing material and empty boxes stacked in precarious towers, because I made a simple, unreasonable request, right then and there: I wanted to wake up in Texas.

This time, however, only I can make good on the request. You know how sometimes you reach a milestone on a project and you think to yourself, “Man, I wish I were at this point three weeks ago”? That’s precisely where I am. I’ve sold a few hundred DVDs to date, clearing a sweet two grand in cheddar just this week alone, but the finish line is nowhere in sight. During darker, defeatist moments like these, I find it helpful to take a deep breath–and then promptly recall, mid-inhalation, all the other non-eBay shit that needs to be done.

Indeed, while this garbage-to-gold alchemy must continue at full speed, there are other to-dos: renter’s insurance, for instance, and exercising stock options from my last gig. Got to close my bank accounts here, too, but not before setting up direct deposit. Mail forwarding! Can’t forget that. Get some keys made for the new tenants–but I’ll punt that a few weeks. Got to remember to pick up glasses at some point. Switch to paperless for utilities, too. And, oh! There’s the day job. That one’s pretty important. I’m thinking back to a time when I could clock in serious Xbox time, sometimes for back-to-back days, and it’s a distant memory. The scary part? I don’t really miss it.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, November 12.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Steam-cleaning Pomeranian urine from the carpet for an hour or two on a weekday night? I only wish I could tell you this was unfamiliar territory. Fixing the steam cleaner itself using knowledge gleaned from YouTube? Now, that one felt a lot more noteworthy, until I realized I basically had to watch a video clip to accomplish a wholly suburban task. Such were the pursuits that eclipsed this site on Tuesday, but we’re back now–at least for a night, because I’m abandoning you yet again when I fly to Chicago next week.

With the exception of breakfast, a routine through which I’ve markedly improved my egg-flipping ability, I’ve largely forsaken the path of paleo. Now, this isn’t to say I’ve retained nothing at all from this exercise. I’ve upped my intake of fruits and veggies, buy a lot more organic, and find smaller portions satisfying. But the prospect of observing a largely flourless existence? I can’t. I won’t.

I remember the breaking point, clear as day. It happened while I was preparing some pasta made solely from brown rice. The first alarm bell went off when my nose detected what can only be described as boiled band-aids. That’s right–adhesive bandages. It made no sense whatsoever, frankly, because brown rice itself doesn’t even smell like this. I discounted my nose, however, finished cooking the “pasta,” and then shoved a forkful in my mouth, at which point two additional senses were promptly violated. It tasted, well, exactly like it smelled, and it was soggy and completely free of texture. Smell, taste, feel–“oh for three,” as they say. There I sat, trying to send the rest of the plate down the alimentary canal, and I suddenly saw the paradox of paleo with utter clarity: its aim is ostensibly to extend your lifespan, and yet you wish for death at every mealtime.