Thursday, March 11, 2010

The Three Accessories I'll Have in Heaven

I can already hear the snorts of derisive laughter from those of you who know me well, but I imagine that I've got a pretty good shot at getting into heaven.  Assuming that the afterlife will be somewhat like this one, I'm hoping that Who You Know will matter, and if it does, I'm a lock.  With that whole Last Will Be First thing coming into play, my best friend -- the special education teacher, the foster mother to a disabled child, and the person who has endured me patiently since we were 15 -- well, she'll be the Madonna of Heaven, figuratively speaking, complete with a limo and an entourage.

I am hoping, also, that heaven looks exactly like a New Yorker cartoon, complete with fluffy clouds and robes.  I'm willing to go through eternity as a black-and-white line drawing just to close the loop on the joke. 

So I'm next in line and I see St. Peter do that little eye squint and head shake thing, like, Girl, No Way are you Crashing this Gig, but then he types my name into his computer and a big "Free Pass" Screen comes up, courtesy of Debra Gail Buxton,  Humble-Shall-Be-Exalted Superstar.  I'm in, and what can he do?  He sighs and issues me my heavenly accessories, then presses a little button under the counter to open the Pearly Gates.

My Accessories

Playbill.  Every good experience of my life has started with someone handing me a Playbill.  (The bad ones have usually begun with someone handing me a paper gown to change into, but that's another story.)  There will be comfy seating and adequate stalls in the ladies' room.  Heaven will mean that I won't have to hop on one foot and hope I don't miss the entr'acte.

Clipboard.  Personality-wise, I am more of a border collie than a golden retriever.  Specifically, I'm the kind of border collie who deconstructs the sofa if not kept sufficiently busy.  So I'll be happy to have a job in heaven, even if it's just part-time.  I could try a little guardian angel work, maybe keep kids from running into traffic, that sort of thing, and then radioing up "Roger That" when they're saved. But really, I'd be happy just to pick up God's dry cleaning.
Leash.  If there aren't dogs in heaven, I don't want to be there anyway.  I'm hoping we get assigned a dog, rather than picking out one for ourselves.  At the shelter, I always select the three-legged diabetic ones, and I'd like to spend eternity with a pet who's a little more upbeat.

So there I am, going to shows, working, walking my dog.  Heaven.  I suppose I'll see God from time to time.  He'll be wearing a beautiful tuxedo, of course, and maybe have a long cigarette holder.  He'll be very short, since everyone always says, "He's much shorter than I expected" when they meet someone famous.  Perhaps he'll look a little like Cole Porter, with a sad face and buggy eyes.  I'm hoping that Debbie will use her influence to get me past the bodyguards, and then I'll ask Him to sign my Playbill.

But I won't stay to chat, because the show will be about to start. In heaven, the show will always be about to start.

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