Heaven or Las Vegas

I woke myself up snoring last night by way of what I am convinced was the loudest snore on record, if such things could be measured. Of course, I woke up everyone else, too, and when I opened my eyes with horror, wondering what, exactly that goddamn noise was and can’t people keep it DOWN in here? I noticed that there were three sets of eyes staring at me with a general air of pissed-offedness — for the record, the cat was the most peeved.

Snoring is not new, of course, as I have tonsils the size of meatballs, but a chest cold and congestion takes the existing snoring and cranks it up to 11 — Adam has been sleeping with ear plugs for most of the years we’ve been together out of sheer necessity. I’m told I was snoring in infancy, and I’m shamed to admit that it hasn’t let up. It was great fun to hesitantly warn new boyfriends when we would be in the first throes of staying over together.

Anywho, I’ve been wildly distracted lately by the never-ending year-end wrap-ups (Hi hyphens! Nice of you to come!) of people who died in 2007, and for some reason I’m riveted. I mean, I’m not riveted by death, per se, but I can’t get past the fact that I seem to be morbidly obsessed with how they died. I can’t even read the whole tribute to who they were, why they mattered, blah blah blah, without knowing HOW DID THEY DIE FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST TELL ME. I don’t know why it matters, for certainly it offers no prophylactic benefit for how I live my life, unless of course, they all died from eating too many chocolate chip cookies, in which case please prepare my portion of the multimedia presentation for Boston.com for 2008 at your leisure.

What is this, this weird desire to know this? (Incidentally, this section was edited later to remove suicide references of family members, because though yes, they were illustrative of the issue at hand, they were also … coming across a little nuts and ah, SERIOUSLY, it took a dangerously sad turn, and that’s really not how I was feeling, I was just trying to make a point. Sometimes I can be remarkably eloquent, and sometimes I can just ramble incoherently and sound like some kind of suicide bride).

I wonder why that is. I’m guessing I’m not alone here — although certainly feel free to tell me if this is some sort of deep, dark warning side of a truly tormented soul. Or you know, don’t, because I don’t think I’d believe you. Part of me wonders if it’s the logical side of us that can rationalize the mechanics of it all, the physical whys of how a life just ends, in the absence of emotional understanding. Although that doesn’t really explain my desire to know exactly what “natural causes” means in the case of Lady Bird Johnson. (NATURAL CAUSES? That’s the best you can do? I get that it’s a euphemism for old age, but cancer is, in theory, a natural cause. Sheesh. Some of us want actual information.)

I think that’s plenty of that kind of death talk, not only for today, but maybe ever. Unless sometime next week you want to talk about estate planning, and if that doesn’t really make you stare death in the face in the most practical sense of the concept, I don’t know what does.

So hey! Guess what? It’s Sunny’s birthday, and she turned two today. And I, ah, bought her presents. Yes, yes, I know, I know, I need a baby or something, I KNOW. But she loved them, and she’s now sacked out with her face buried in her brand-new stuffed pheasant that she “killed” all by her little self, and is gleefully stuffed with chewy bones.

*Cocteau Twins.

13 comments December 12th, 2007