Remains to be seen

Warning: This post may be considered by some to be beyond the pale of decency. If you suspect that you may be someone who is easily appalled by borderline indecency, click here to be redirected to something more innoucous.

You have been warned.

Death is a natural part of life, so I'm told; thus far, personal experience has confirmed this notion-- I have never met a centenarian (though Willard Scott assures me that they exist). Thus, from a very early age, I have braced myself for the eventuality that I will someday cease to exist in the manner to which I am currently accustomed. I know that some people think a lot about their funerals... who will be there, which people will be crying or laughing, what they will say about the dearly departed... Some wonder about the after party: Will the attendees be somber or jovial? What will they serve? Will there be assigned seating?

These are interesting questions, but, to be honest, I am most concerned with the after-after-party. I am preoccupied with what will happen to my body once my soul has, umm, left it for dead. For some time, I have been torn between the options of cremation and burial. Despite my multiple close calls with fire (see this entry for an example and a Christmas remembrance soon to be posted), the idea of being condensed to a few pounds of calcium phosphate and minerals sort of freaks me out. I know that I will no longer be inhabiting this ultimately temporary structure of oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, and hydrogen, and that burial only postpones the inevitable decomposition of this organic container of soul and mind and blog... but I have a deeply rooted visceral opposition to being reduced to an urnfull of ashen remains.

The only problem I have with burial, however-- in addition to the impending cemetery space crisis-- is that I am sort of in love with the romantic idea of having my remains scattered over places that mean a lot to me. I've heard lovely stories about the charred remains of loved ones being redistributed (downwind, hopefully) by family and friends in the mountains, rivers, trails, and foreign lands they once held dear-- becoming one with nature in the truest possible sense. I find this idea to be truly beautiful.

While beard trimming a few weeks back, I found myself pondering my ostensibly incompatible desires for corporeal integrity and decorating nature with ashen yajeev remains. As my shavings drifted to the saran wrap trap I had rigged for their easy disposal (to prevent their clogging our bathroom sink drain), I had an epiphany. As if by angelic courier, the solomonic solution punctured my awareness with the perfect cadaveric remedy. My body could be preserved for burial (or taxidermic treatment if anyone would like a lifesize Land of Yajeev souvenir in their living room) and a certain portion of my remains could be scattered amongst the locations dearest to my heart: rather than prepare my ashes post mortem, my loved ones could collect dispensible parts of my organism while I walk and breathe. Previously trash-bound personal components such as excess hair, fingernail clippings, and dry skin-- all legitimate members of my cellular composition-- will hereby be preserved for their future distribution. My body will remain at peace, and I will be eternally connected with my favorite locales: Chick Fil A, cyberspace, the yeast lab, and movie theater.

May I rest in peace.

Guess I'll just have to stick around

I was recently making a mortgage payment when I had something of a morbid thought: If I were to pass on, my wife would have to pay the bills and take care of the paperwork that I normally do. In our division of household labor, it has fallen on me to be the keeper and organizer of all things paper: paying bills, managing our homeowners’ insurance, keeping our birth certificates and passports in a safe place, maintaining the order of our filing cabinet, balancing the checkbook, and so on...

Thinking of my wife having to deal with all of our paperwork after my untimely demise made me sad. However, I couldn’t decide which would be sadder: her having to take over these duties and being totally overwhelmed and confused and wishing I was there to sort things out OR her having to take over the bills and realizing that, hey, this is pretty easy, and after all this time I’d complained about our confusing paperwork, it turns out that my chores had been way less demanding than hers had ever been.

Meep meep!

I can't be sure, but I think my wife may be trying to kill me.

I have suffered too many near-death mishaps at her hands in the past two weeks for this to be a coincidence.

First, I was descending our staircase with a basket of laundry (which she must have known I would wash), my computer, and a bowl of dog food. On the penultimate stair was a well-placed grocery store bag filled with stuff she had been 'meaning' to take upstairs. My normally steady foot landed on the bag, and I slid as if on a banana peel. In the air flew towels, underwear, hundreds of kibbles, my computer, and my otherwise nimble body. And with a thud, both I and the computer fell to the tile floor, rained upon by a gentle shower of dog food. I survived, and so did my computer, but barely. This crash resulted in a $341 repair which may have been death for my wallet if not for myself.

Second, seven days later, she had us pulling up our carpet so that we could install laminate flooring. There I was, on my hands and knees, prying out staples from the underlying flooring so that we would have a nice, smooth surface on which to overlay the laminate planks. I looked up just in time to see our stand-alone corner dish cabinet falling towards my head. And, somehow, someway, I had the presence of mind to reach out my hands and stop the plummeting hazard mere inches from crushing my head like a melon. And, who was behind the cabinet? You guessed it. She claims she was just trying to move the piece of furniture to tear out what was the conveniently placed final piece of old carpet remaining on the floor.

Third, same day. On the shopping list she gave me was a pre-mixed bag of salad, which I compliantly purchased. I mentioned three days later, when she was cooking corn for herself for dinner, that we still had the salad. She replied that she could not eat it, but that I should. When I examined the sald bag I discovered that the salad had expired! I pointed this critical fact out to her, and she shrugged her shoulders, unphased. Look, I may not have a PhD in biochemistry or molecular genetics, but I am fully aware of the dangers lurking in leafy appetizers--E. coli, salmonella, ebola... and the risk must increase exponentially with each day after the expiration date. I did not eat the salad.

Finally, two days ago, after she claimed to have lost her cell phone, I found it that same night face down in the toilet, dead. The next day she was leading a field trip on which she simply had to have a cell phone. So, she borrowed mine. As my faithful and discerning readers will recognize, my cell phone represents more to me than the freedom to hear and be heard by millions on my nationwide network. My cell phone represents the addiction with which I struggle daily: cell phone Yahtzee Deluxe. And removing my phone for a full day at a time forces me to cease digital dice rolling cold turkey. The withdrawal symptoms were intense. Fortunately, I found a replacement phone for her last night. Were I forced to endure another Yahtzee Deluxe-free day, the tremors might well have done me in.

Ever vigilant, I will not succomb to her devices (though I may to crippling paranoia). Like Gloria Gayner (and Diana Ross after her), I will survive. I will be the Road Runner to her Wile E. Coyote. The Bugs Bunny to her Elmer Fudd. The Osama bin Laden to her American led multinational coalition of armed forces. I will dodge her blows and live to tell the stories. Probably in my blog.


Originally Posted: Tuesday, March 1, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: scared
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