Thursday, August 8, 2013
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, August 15.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Given my predilection for processed foods, I couldn’t blame you for believing my very body may have come from the deep vaults of Monsanto, my veins coursing with mild buffalo sauce, my skin coated in a delightful, limited edition Spicy Ranchero seasoning. It’s highly likely I’m immune to insecticides as well and may, indeed, be actively rejuvenated by them–it’s how I move so quickly. Or that’s how I used to be, at least.
Since moving to Charlotte, I’ve been more attuned to the unprocessed lifestyle. My education began, during the earlier days of my tenure here, with the teachings of Earth Chick, who revealed the ill effects of Centrum, the twisted machinations of flu shots, and the hushed procurement of raw milk. In recent years, the Sheriff has broadened my knowledge of sourcing, the hidden agenda of corn, and how motherfuckin’ ginger can really make a plate of scones.
In what was perhaps a culmination of all this learning, I switched organic multivitamins recently, upon discovering the manufacturer had been acquired by Monsanto. But it doesn’t just stop there. I’ve managed to steer clear of fries–my thick-cut kryptonite–for the most part. I’m even vetting athletic pursuits beyond tennis, which I’ve been faithfully playing for months. I’ve heard about P90X, but I honestly doubt I can bring enough of the X to the table at the moment, so I’ve been considering the regular P90. The product shot is bewildering–DVDs filled with exercise, rather than teevee drama, and what appears to be a garrote made of rubber.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
On any other day such as this one, I would’ve thrown up the “we’ll be back” message and gone completely ghost, but I’m trying a different tack tonight for posterity’s sake. I told you about the general state of affairs a while back, and little has changed. My mother will undergo spinal fusion surgery in just over a week. That’s the most imminent thing. Success rate is high, according to what I’ve read, and yet it still weighs on my mind, after witnessing no fewer than four parental deaths recently with friends and acquaintances. It’s a reality we all must face, I realize, and yet you always hope you are spared–for another time, another place.
A few days ago, I signed for a registered letter from my old man. Plain yellow envelope. Neat handwriting on its face. I finally got around to opening it yesterday evening, and a single line in the first paragraph jolted me to the core. Tried to assess the information quickly and compartmentalize it, but ultimately had to confide in Cheshire. “It’s a bombshell,” she said. No argument there.
But where we differed was how I’m going to respond to this letter. She believes in being completely genuine in both the response and sharing with immediate family members. I’m not so sure. When I play out these conversations in a totally honest, come-to-Jesus context, they simply don’t end well, as relieving as it would be to unburden myself. Sometimes, I think, you have to take what you’re told and bury it deep down for reasons larger than yourself–to spare other people heartache. Bury it. Make your peace with it. Bury it some more.