I could turn into an axe murderer tomorrow and I’d still get into heaven. That’s because I didn’t kill either husband when I had the chances. Maybe this seems a little extreme, but once you know the circumstances, I think you’ll agree with me. The first thing that comes to mind was when we were living in Escondido. The temperature was 115 degrees and I was driving an old relic that no longer had a functioning gas meter. I judged gas station fill-ups according to how many miles I’d driven. I kept a log. California was experiencing one of its periodic gasoline shortages, which means the gas companies conspired to store as much extra gasoline into rented silos dotting the agricultural landscape as possible and then claim some international or weather catastrophe caused a hardship to production schedules so they had to ration and charge more per gallon. Therefore, when I drove my son to preschool, I had to make certain I had enough gas in the tank to get there and back because I could only fill up on allotted rationing days. You can imagine my surprise when my old jalopy started to sputter and drift to a stop at the side of the road, miles away from home, blocks from the nearest gas station. How could this be? According to my log, there should have been more than enough gas in the tank. The alternative to hauling your three-year old down blocks of melting sidewalk to find a gas pump and then make the return trip five pounds heavier, would be to leave your child unattended in a locked car during a heat wave. Neither was a good option, but these were the days before cell phones were invented and I was too stupid to think of flagging down a passing car and asking for help. Besides, my son was so inventive, he would have figured out how to make the car run and would have driven off without me if I’d left him behind, so off the two of us went. I was in a state of heat prostration and exhaustion by the time we finally made it home. When my husband arrived, I poured out my woes and worries. How would I ever be able to drive my children to school if my mileage logs were no longer accurate? He had a simple answer. There was no problem with the car at all. When he left for work that morning, his meter showed empty so he siphoned the gas out of my car, but he forgot to mention this to me in his rush to be on time. Oops! That’s not why I’m going to heaven. It was the following week, when I peeked out the window and noticed him starting to siphon the gas out of my car again, that I lost my mind. I picked up a heavy-duty meat cleaver and ran down our driveway, brandishing it above my head, screaming “Stop!” The look on his face as he raised his head was one of totally innocent surprise. I mean clueless. The man had no idea what caused his wife to suddenly go berserk. It couldn’t have anything to do with him. Then I saw a glint of doubt enter his mind, and a quick glance over his shoulder. Perhaps he should run first and ask questions later. Fortunately, it was a long driveway and I got tired. The meat cleaver was heavy. However, I definitely had his attention by the time I reached the roadside. “Don’t. Touch. My Car!” That was all I could gasp out but apparently it was said with enough conviction that he never tried that trick again. Plus, you know, the meat cleaver, and I knew where he slept. I refrained from murder on purpose, though I thought I had just cause. That was my first ticket to heaven. The second and third tickets had to do with husband number two. You know how we’re always seeing television programs about real life murder? I never understood what went on in a person’s head to make them think this could possibly be a good option. Then I had to deal with an issue about another woman and it crossed my mind that all my problems would be solved if they were both out of the way, permanently. It was such an eye-opener! All of a sudden I had insight into the insanity that leads a person to believe that absence by death is a good idea. Of course, I never put it to the test because I knew I would botch the job and go to prison, leaving him to have all the fun. Yet for about ten seconds, I truly did consider the ramifications of arsenic. A few years later, I told this story at dinner with friends. By then, I thought it was funny but I wish you could have seen the seriously pale look on my husband’s face. He knew I wasn’t kidding and was much nicer to me after that for about two days. Aside from all this, my real passthrough to heaven was earned on the last day he left the house for good. He’d returned with hired help and a huge U-haul truck to gather up the remaining contents of the garage-slash-hoarder’s nightmare. This was supposed to be the last day of a two-year struggle to hold my breath and remain pleasant while he got around to moving out. It was once again 115 degrees, with no air conditioning. I was busy exhausting myself on a ladder, trying to paint the bathroom while he and his crew tackled the impossible dream. When it was obvious we were running out of daylight, his truck was already full and the garage was only half empty. The thought of having to hold my breath one more day stressed me to the breaking point. Yet rather than setting fire to the garage and all it contained, I went into power-thinking mode. The manager at the storage place where my hoarder already rented three spaces was still at his desk, even though it was closing time. I calmly arranged the rental of one more large unit. Husband two agreed it was a perfect solution to his possessions-hauling dilemma. This left me alone at last, sitting in the cool, solitary silence of the back yard, breathing deeply, thanking G-d for inventing storage units, cell phones, and U-hauls, and deeply grateful that I’d not once raised my voice. In a moment of perfect clarity I realized this had been my final testing ground and I’d passed with flying colors. No matter what I might do in the future, I’d earned a guaranteed, non-revocable E-ticket ride through the Pearly Gates of Heaven. And if Heaven is not an option, I’ll never need to reincarnate as an armadillo.