Rapturous To-Do List

As all intelligent, logical, free-thinking people are well aware, this Saturday is the day. THE day. Judgement day. THE RAPTURE. That's right. Say goodbye to everything you know because come Saturday, you are relocating. I am not going to venture a guess as to which direction you are heading, my loyal readers, but I hope to see you on the other side.

With THE RAPTURE in mind—I feel an event this life-altering deserves to be typed in all caps—I find myself thinking about the ultimate to-do list. I have daily, weekly, monthly, and five-year-out to-do lists. I have not, however, made a RAPTURE to-do list. Perhaps, since the big day is a mere two days away, it is time. So here it goes...my RAPTURE To-Do List.

1. Buy new underwear. Most of the underwear I own now are pre-pregnancy underwear. As a matter of fact, several are pre-Lucas, and I wouldn't be surprised if I have a pair or two that are pre-Minnesota. Umm...yea...I moved here fourteen years ago. That's some pretty ancient undies. As you can imagine, many of them are stretched out. Thin to the point of practically being translucent. When I stand before my Creator, I think I would like to do so in fresh skivvies.

2. Wash the windows in my house. I have lived in this house for five years and have yet to ever wash the windows. They are pretty funky and I feel a bit guilty about leaving them that way.

3. Shave my legs. This one could take a while. I may need a few razors. Perhaps some heavy lawn equipment. I should really get started on it tonight.

4. Find a sinner to take my cat. My cat is evil, plain and simple. I am pretty certain that when THE RAPTURE comes, she is going to be left behind. Despite being pure, unadulterated evil, I can't help but feel a bit of affection for her. So I need to find someone with mortal sin on their soul—someone who will most certainly not be taken to heaven—to care for my wicked cat when I am flying around with my new gilded wings. Maybe Arnold Schwarzenegger? Or Bill O'Reilly?

5. Buy an iPad, a NOOK Color, and a new laptop. On credit, of course, since I don't plan on being around to have to pay the bill.

6. Cut Sophie's bangs. I want the girl to be able to see when we head through those pearly gates.

7. Eat an entire Godiva cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. That's right. I'm not sharing. I am going to eat the entire chocolatey, indulgent, whipped-cream-covered dessert all by myself. Calories be damned. It won't really matter how big my ass is when I am a celestial being floating around weightless in the heavens. Right?

8. Skip the mortgage payment this month and go to Vegas instead. Do I really need a house in the afterlife? The bank can have it. And I am, I am fairly certain, the only adult in this country who has never been to Vegas. I can think of worse ways to meet my maker than stuffed full of hotel buffet food, drunk on gin and tonics and the thrill of gambling, and lounging on a blackjack table. I better book a flight quickly. Perhaps a red-eye flight tonight?

9. Ignore the baskets full of laundry sitting in my living room. As I type this, there are two baskets of clean clothes piled sky high in my living room. They are wrinkling while they wait for me to find the time (and the inclination) to fold them and put them away. Every time I look at them, I feel a twinge of guilt. But no more! Come Saturday, laundry will have no meaning to me anymore. Clothes will be unnecessary (I assume celestial robes are self-cleaning).

10. Catch up on Grey's Anatomy. And Modern Family. And Saturday Night Live. And all of the other shows I enjoy but tend to forget to watch. I better get my television watching in right now. I am not entirely sure there will be DVR's in the afterlife.

By the way, does anyone know what time I should plan on being enraptured on Saturday? And are we talking Central Standard Time? I need to know these things. The devil is in the details, you know?