Tuesday, May 4, 2010

You know the drill.

Pay attention. Directions to follow.

O.K. internets, I leave for the hospital in half an hour. First of all, I had a great post planned for today. I was going to stick googly eyes on my pannus and make it sing "So Long, Farewell" from The Sound of Music and post the video. Alas, time just didn't permit it. Just try imagining how awesome it would have been, though.

Anyway, you won't be hearing from me for a few days. I'll have Will post whether or not I died on the table in the comments of this post tonight.

Speaking of dying on the table, you've got my back, right? We've been over this before. Will wants to play dreary hymns at my funeral and bury me in freakin' Evanston, Wyoming. I need to know you won't let that happen.

So to remind you of my wishes:
  • I want to be buried in my family plot in Georgetown, Maine.
  • I want a pink casket.
  • I want my friends to get up and tell dirty jokes and inappropriate stories at my funeral.
  • I want Kathy Griffin to give my eulogy (and let her know she's totally welcome to film it for The D List).
  • I want there to be a rollicking after party with pizza, a build your own sundae bar, nerd games and karaoke.
And now I have an addendum. If I'm going to die getting a tummy tuck, I want to get some use out of it. I want to be buried in the bathing suit pictured above, complete with heels. And of course, an open casket.

I know, I know. Good Mormons are buried in their temple clothes. But you know what? What I'm buried in will not affect my eternal salvation, and damn it all, I've waited 35 years for a tight tummy and I'm going to have a chance to flaunt the thing, even if only in death.

I can hear some of you saying, "But Brandi, don't you want to be resurrected in your temple clothes?" Umm, no. If I die before I get to see the results of the tummy tuck, then that's the first thing on my list on resurrection day. The kids and Will...eh, I've been looking at them for years. They can wait. I want wake up on that morning, emerge from the grave (or however it's going to work, because I have a hard time believing we'll all be clawing our way out of our graves zombie style) look down at my swim suit clad self and think, "Damn, Dr. Lopez did a good job! Too bad he killed me."

So there you have it, internets. I'm counting on you.

Here I go.

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