MY HUSBAND HAS A CRISIS

My husband is one of the most easygoing, untroubled men in the universe. Few things worry him or upset him or cause him to experience a moment’s anxiety. In fact, if you were to x-ray his brain to see what he is thinking about at any given moment, you would find the equivalent of an empty speech bubble. This is something I have always envied, since a scan of my brain would reveal a flock of panic-stricken loony birds.

Recently, though, something happened that shook him to his core. The crisis occurred just a couple weeks ago, triggered by the weekly Hearts game that he and his card buddies had just started up again after a year of social distancing. My husband left the house happily, eager to return to a game that he had played every Wednesday evening for the last thirty-some years. 

When he returned home a few hours later, though, I could tell something was wrong. He looked shaken, and he collapsed in a chair across from me, eyes unfocused.

Alarmed, I paused Firefly Lane, despite the fact that Tully was in the middle of proposing to Max.

“You okay, Hon?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Ohmigod. Did someone—” (This is the kind of question that springs to mind when a card game has been going on for thirty-some years.) 

“No. No.” 

“Then what?“ 

He looked at me. “They want to change the time of the game.” 

“That’s it?”

"Well..."

“But you’ve done that a couple times before. First, because Steve kept falling asleep with his eyes open. And then because Rob started getting cranky after 9:30 if he hadn’t had a bowel movement that day. And later, because after a certain number of hands, Frank wasn’t able to track whether he was supposed to be passing left, right, or across and you were afraid you might have to kill him.”

“This is different.” 

“How?” 

“They want to start playing in the afternoon.” 

“Oh.” 

The unspoken hovered between us. Because it is a true fact that men who play cards in the afternoon are retired, between jobs, or… 

My husband looked at me sadly. “I’m officially old, Hon.” 

I leaped forward and grabbed his shoulders. “Now you listen to me. First of all, you are NOT old. You’re lots younger than the other Hearts guys. And second of all, what’s the big deal? Why shouldn’t you play in the afternoon? You’ve cut down your office hours, and if you play in the afternoon, you'll have more time at night to start chipping away at the twenty-some Walking Dead episodes that are still backed up on the DVR."

He nodded slowly. "I guess."

"Plus, I’ll bet some of the other Hearts guys are ROMEOs, which you definitely are not.” 

“Romeos?” 

“Retired Old Men Eating Out. The ones who meet every morning at Continental or some other deli for breakfast. My mom says some of her friends like to play mah-jongg at a nearby table just so they can eavesdrop and find out if one of the guys has suddenly become available.” 

My husband took a breath. “So I shouldn’t worry?” 

“No, you should not. You are not old. And you will not be old until you stop bouncing up and down on the couch and giggling every time you see a commercial for the new Loki series on Disney Plus.” 

He kissed me, relieved. And the next Wednesday, he walked out the door, head held high, to play cards at 2:00 in the afternoon. 

He returned about 30 minutes later. 

“What happened?” I asked.  

He closed his eyes. “Two of the guys forgot we were switching to afternoons. We had to cancel the game."

I tried to figure out how to put a positive spin on all this. But then I shrugged. 

“Sorry, hon. I got nothing.” 

And in case you’re wondering, yes, this is a true story. So if you know anyone who wants to start up a new Hearts game, or needs an extra player or an occasional replacement, PLEASE have them contact my husband as soon as possible. 

As long as it's a game where everyone can stay up past 9.

BONNIE AFTER SURGERY

As pretty much anyone who knows me, reads this blog, or has recently talked to my mother is aware, I had spinal fusion surgery a few weeks ago. First, I want to thank all of you for your good wishes, messages of love and support, and emergency shipments of chocolate. There could be no better medicine, and they all meant the world to me. 

Anyhow, I’m happy to report I’m healing quite nicely. And before I get back to my normal posts, I wanted to share a few fusion-related observations I’ve made over the past few weeks. 

Pain Killers Make Me Funny. Apparently, I am unintentionally hilarious when on strong drugs. The following is a conversation that I actually recall having. 
 

Friend: Has your husband been taking good care of you? 

Me: He has! Well, he was. But then they took him away. 

 

Friend: Who? 

 

Me: The people. 

Friend: What people? 

Me: The people who are painting him gold. They said they’ll have him back soon. 

I am happy to report that my husband is indeed back and does not appear to have been gilded. And then there was the conversation I had with my hairdresser, whom my husband took me to see when my head began resembling Medusa’s. 

Me: Why did you only cut half my hair? 

Stylist: I didn’t. I cut all of it. 

Me: No, you only cut the right side. 

Stylist: I cut both sides. 

Me: Are you sure? I didn’t see you do it. 

Stylist: That’s because you were asleep. 

Me (suddenly noticing that my chin is damp): Was I also drooling? 

Stylist: I’m afraid so. 

Physical Therapy Can Be Depressing. I don’t mean the actual therapy. That can be kind of exhilarating and lead to feelings of tremendous achievement, like when I first got up from a couch without falling over. I’m talking about the illustrations in the PT booklet that Maggie, my perky blond therapist, gave me. Apparently, if you are at the age when you’re having certain types of surgeries, this is what the authors and illustrators assume you look like. 

Note the sleek hairstyles on both the man and the woman, which nicely frame the wattles on their necks. And of course, the belted polo shirt and oversized shorts on the man are sexy as hell, accentuating his toned chicken legs. (I’m trying to ignore the mystery bulge in his abdomen, although, except for the placement, it implies he’s happy to see the woman to his left). As for the woman’s clothing, I now feel compelled to run over to Marshalls and purchase a loose t-shirt and baggy capris. Although, I admit, I think I already have several of each.

I Still Feel Guilty Parking in Handicapped Parking Spots. I now have an official temporary parking placard that lets me park in all those close-up spaces at Jewel or Portillos. At first, it was exciting, like having a superpower. But thanks to perky Maggie, I’m actually starting to walk pretty well, which means I can traverse the short distance from my car to the door in less than twenty minutes and without a cane. 

Unfortunately, this means that people immediately start giving me the why-are-you-parking-in-a-handicap-spot-you-selfish-jerk stink eye. So I have taken to getting out of my car while hunched over, moaning slightly, and holding my lower back. 

Walkers Make Good Race Cars! For major excursions, I was given a four-wheeled walker with a pull-down seat. It’s fire-engine red, and if you sit in it and push backwards real hard with your legs, you can zoom around the main floor of the Shedd Aquarium like Mario Andretti, something I discovered this past Mother’s Day. It’s even more fun when you accidentally run into people and they feel obligated to apologize to you! I did, however, embarrass my family, and my grandson refused to acknowledge me. 

So, that’s the update. I’m hoping to be back to normal pretty soon, so perhaps I’ll see you when I’m back walking my dog in the prairie or pretending to exercise. I’ll be the one in the baggy capris.

BON'S ANATOMY

One of the really fun things about being on the far side of middle age is that you and your friends get to recreate episodes of Grey’s Anatomy on a regular basis. 

For example, one of my friends has an upcoming knee replacement. A guy my husband plays cards with is looking forward to some rotator cuff repair. And then there's me.

After years of cortisone shots and physical therapy, I finally decided to have back surgery. I was a little concerned, of course. I’ve seen enough TV shows to know that if you check into Grey-Sloane or St. Egregious or Generic County General with an infected hangnail, you will likely end up on a table with Dr. House calling for a crash-cart. 

Ok

Eventually, though, my growing resemblance to Quasimodo made me believe it was time to do something. So I did my research, spoke to friends who’d had similar procedures, interviewed several surgeons, and scheduled the surgery. I was really feeling quite confident about my choices, but then I made a huge mistake. 

I started talking to people. 

This is when I learned that “think before you speak” is a saying that is unfamiliar to many of my acquaintances. My internal responses to their comments also confirmed my suspicion that I am, in reality, a deeply snarky person. For example...

TOP COMMENTS FROM FRIENDS BEFORE SURGERY

(in no particular order)

• You’re having spinal fusion? That sounds awful. (It does? I thought it sounded kind of fun.)

• Did you buy something nice to wear while you’re in the hospital? (Yes! In fact, my first priority was to find a cute little Natori robe with a bright floral pattern.) 

• My friends and I swear by Dr. Schmendrick. What made you choose that doctor? (I dunno. Someone told me he got good reviews on yelp*.) 

•  Oh, I had that surgery and (choose one)— 
• I had to get it redone the next year. 
• My kidneys shut down about 3 days later. 
• A screw came loose from the site and eventually lodged in my pelvis. (Yes, I can easily believe you have a screw loose somewhere.) 

• I’ve never heard of that hospital. Is it any good? (I hope not. I tried to avoid the reputable ones.) 

• Any chance you could be paralyzed? (Any chance I could punch you in the nose?) 

• I always worry about the anesthesia. Like, that maybe I won’t wake up again. (To remove the uncertainty, I could make certain you don’t wake up again.)

• Hope you won’t be in too much pain. I tripped over a curb last week and twisted my ankle and it’s still hurting. (And did it give you a concussion, as well?) 

• Aren’t you worried about getting COVID in the hospital? (I wasn't, but if I do, will you promise to come see me?

Now, I know all these comments actually came from a place of genuine caring and deep love, so I didn’t really take any offense. That said, I don’t plan to publish this article and my snarky thoughts until AFTER my surgery, cause hey, why tempt fate?

So if you’re reading this, I’ve had the procedure and I’m feeling fine. In fact, look who just came into my hospital room:

Or maybe it’s just my husband and the drugs are really good.

MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY PLAN

No, I’m not talking about a Verizon contract or something that Flo from the Progressive commercials is all excited about. I’m referring to the plan I think each of us needs in order to determine which of our friends and family we want to start seeing again in a post-vaccine world. Because, if we’re being totally honest, there are probably some we haven’t missed a whole lot this past year.

Now, when deciding whom to reconnect with, there’s a benefit/cost ratio that must be considered. This concept was introduced to me by my brother, who is a Quintuple Z High-Level Executive Person. The benefit/cost thing, he once explained to me, is used to make sure that the cost of achieving or maintaining something is not disproportionate to the benefits. (He also explained this to our mother, who immediately made sure I’m the one designated to make any decisions concerning her and life support.) 

Anyhow, as we all return to society, we have a chance to re-examine our friends and relatives and determine which ones provide more benefit than cost. It allows us to “set the bar,” so to speak, for the future. 

The problem for me is, my bar is very, very low. As a result, most people I know are constantly soaring above it, which in the past has made me feel extremely insecure and inadequate. So, in an attempt to maintain some level of self-esteem moving forward, I have devised a simple system to determine which people I will invite back into my life. 

It’s easy to qualify, really. You just have to be able to relate to five or more of the following statements: 

• When you look at other people’s Facebook and Instagram posts, it confirms your suspicion that you have accomplished nothing interesting, amusing, or worthwhile in your entire life. 

• You feel that anyone who shows up early for a date or appointment is just showing off. 

• You have lots of to-do lists that never get to-done. 

• In terms of fine dining, you believe that the distinction between a Portillo’s hot dog and a Vienna hot dog is critically important. 

• You also understand that if you find a single M&M at the bottom of your purse or coat pocket, possibly dating back to the Obama administration, it’s perfectly okay to eat it.

• You have no problem with the fact that all the shoes in your closet appear to be either Skechers or New Balance. 

• You believe that there’s no reason to straighten the house too often because five minutes after you do, the things you put away will come to life and start creeping out of the drawers and off of shelves. 

• For similar reasons, it is impossible for you to recall with any certainty the color of the floor mats in your car. 

• Because you dislike exercise, the loose skin on your upper arms could qualify you to be a flying squirrel. 

• Related to the last item, your idea of a successful workout routine is pulling on your jeans without falling over. 

If you scored fewer than five, it does not bode well for you in my benefit/cost analysis. Sadly, this means that my brother probably won’t make the cut. 

I’ll miss him.

THE GREAT CHILI SAUCE DISASTER OF 2021

In the Jewish culture, one of the most sacred of holiday meals is the Passover beef brisket made with Bennetts Original Chili Sauce, as recorded by ancient scribes in the ORT Portals to Good Cooking, Third Edition. 

The problem is, the company that made Bennetts for 50 years went out of business a little over a year ago. Jewish women across the country rent their clothes, put on sackcloth, and went into deep mourning. (“I used it for my sweet and sour meatballs, too,” one wailed. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”) At first, we all tried substituting Heinz Chili Sauce, but quickly decided the resulting brisket should be added to the list of plagues discussed at the Passover meal. 

And then: a miracle! I walked into Sunset Foods two weeks ago and there, next to the deli counter, was a beautiful, gleaming tower of Bennetts Chili Sauce! (Cue celestial choir.) 

I gasped and immediately texted my friends. Apparently, the same miracle was occurring at Jewel and Woodman’s and other local stores. Women were buying and hoarding bottles with the same frenzy that a year ago had been reserved for toilet paper. 

I grabbed eight bottles, hurried home, and gleefully waved one in front of my husband. “Look what I found!!” 

He teared up. “Bennetts? You found Bennetts?” 

I grinned, then opened a bottle and dipped my finger in for a celebratory taste of the sauce. A second later, I spat it out. 

“What’s wrong?” asked my husband, wiping the stain from his shirt. 

“They changed the recipe,” I whispered. “It tastes like…like chopped pickles.” 

My husband went pale. “So what are you going to do?” 

I shook my head, then looked at him in desperation. “I’ll go back to Sunset tomorrow. Maybe it was a bad batch?” 

So the next day, I found myself gazing once more at the miraculous tower and reaching tentatively for another bottle of Bennetts. 

“WAIT! STOP!” I looked over to see a woman rushing toward me, arms waving frantically. 

“Don’t do it!” she said in a strangled voice. “It’s not the same recipe. it’s some kind of disgusting pickle relish.” 

I slammed my hand down on the shopping cart. “I KNEW IT!” 

“Shhh,” she said. “It’s okay. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” She then guided me gently toward the condiments aisle. 

“Okay,” she said. “You can start with Heinz or maybe that Homade brand, but then add in some Welch’s Grape Jelly and THEN…” She pulled down a jar reverentially. “You add this.”

“Bless you,” I said, tears streaming down my face. I hurried home with the precious ingredients, sat down at the kitchen table, and began mixing different combinations and quantities with the focus and dedication of a Moderna scientist. I put the results in my grandson’s segmented purple food dish, and handed the plate to my husband so he could do a blind taste test. 

After thoughtfully tasting each sample, he pronounced judgement. “This one,” he said decisively. “Not too sweet or too bland, and no pickle taste. So…what combination did you use?” 

I stared at him. “I have no idea,” I said. “I forgot to write it down.” 

For some reason, this statement did not surprise him. He just reached out and gently patted my arm. 

“It’s okay, hon,” he said. “There’s always next year.”

FITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM

A few days ago I had a very disturbing experience. 

Having scored two vaccines, and realizing I would soon have to go out into the world again, I decided it was finally time to take on my mortal enemy: the Covid 15. (It may actually be the COVID 20 or 30 at this point. I honestly have no idea.) The impulse became even stronger when I caught Willy Wonka on TV and realized I was identifying with Augustus Gloop.

There were two obvious methods of attacking the enemy. One was to execute a search-and-destroy mission to rid my house of all of the chocolate that, as I've previously explained, my husband hides from me. This seemed both extreme and unnecessary. The other was to unfreeze my health club membership. 

I chose the latter. I figured that a horde of the recently vaccinated would also be waddling in the direction of the fitness center. I imagined feeling a warm, supportive camaraderie as we heaved ourselves onto the machines or belly-flopped into the pool. So the next day, for the first time in a year, I packed the red mesh Costco shopping bag that passes as my gym bag and headed over to LA Fitness. I marched up to the welcome counter, proudly poised to swipe my card. 

But then I made the mistake of looking around. 

To my horror, the fitness club was filled with women--young and old(er)-- who were actually fit. Women who were skinny. Women who could wear sports bras or those half t-shirts that float over bare midriffs. Women who had obviously dealt with lockdown by joining the Cult of the Peloton People or entering into an S&M relationship with those scary trainers that live in The Mirror. 

I froze in mid-swipe and began hyperventilating. 

“Are you okay, ma’am?” asked the girl behind the counter. 

“No, I am NOT okay.” I scanned the gym again.” Where are all the flabby, pasty-skinned people?”

“Excuse me?" 

“The women like me. The ones who have been sitting on the couch binge-watching Outlander and eating stuff.” 

“I'm sorry, I--" 

“DON"T YOU GET IT? I CAN’T EXERCISE HERE!!” 

I raced back home and bullied my husband into handing over the Oreos. But once the sugar rush hit, and because at one time I was considered an excellent problem solver, I became determined to develop a solution for women who, like me, are afraid to return to the health club.  

I call it THE FITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM. Like the government’s similarly named Witness Protection Program, it will be for those of us who have been very bad and need to go where no one will recognize us. 

The Fitness Protection Program would be offered at participating gyms 3 mornings a week. To be admitted, you must have gained at least 15 pounds over the last year and be unable to climb a flight of stairs without wheezing. There will be a small additional fee, but the benefits, presented below, will be well worth it. 

 

I plan to start sending the proposal to local gyms next week. I’ll let you know how it goes. Until then, I’m going back into lockdown.

TOY STORY 3.5

Remember the end of Toy Story 3? When Andy gives all his toys to an adorable curly-headed little girl who believes they are real? Because Andy knows she will love them forever and ever and ever? 

Okay. Well, that little girl's name was Bonnie, which means I'm pretty sure someone from Pixar knows about me. 

As a former adorable, curly-headed little girl myself, I too believed that my toys were alive. The problem is, I am now a decidedly less adorable adult who still retains that belief. (That is why, to this day, I never put dolls or stuffed animals in a box without air holes.) 

This quirk is something my husband is aware of, but he has accepted it and tries not to comment on it. In return, I continue to pretend that the Marvel Universe really exists. This arrangement has worked quite well for both of us. 

Until recently, when my cover was blown. 

Here’s what happened. My husband and I were home, babysitting our grandson who was napping in another room. Our son arrived and, after a cheerful hello, went to peek in on his little buddy. He reappeared a few moments later, somewhat pale and notably less cheerful, with something dangling between his thumb and forefinger. (Not my grandson.) 

“Ma. What the hell?” 

Now, before we go any further, you need to know that I happen to have a treasured 62-year-old stuffed lamb, with the inspired name of Lamby, who is normally tucked away on the shelf of my bedroom closet. Lamby no longer has anything resembling fur, his ears are the thickness of tissue paper, and one of his legs is literally hanging on by a thread. He also has a disturbing odor. He is, in other words, the nursery school equivalent of Norman Bates’s mother. 

And that’s what my son was holding. 

“What was this doing in the crib with my child?” he asked. 

 

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” I said, cringing. “I mean, I meant to take him out this morning.” 

“Okay. But why was he there in the first place?” 

I remained silent, so my son turned to my husband. 

“Dad? Do you know?” 

“I do.” 

“Well?” 

“Mom was worried that Lamby was lonely.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Well there used to be a stuffed cat up there, too, but then Mom gave the cat to your little guy to play with one day and he fell in love with it and took it home.” 

“So…Mom started putting Lamby in the crib with the other stuffed animals so he’d have someone to talk to?” 

“Yes. Blue Bunny and Big Bear and Fluffy Puppy.” 

(This is not the complete story, by the way. When I first put Lamby in the crib, my husband, displaying a sadistic streak I didn’t know he possessed, decided to torture me by asking if I thought the other stuffed animals might beat up on him. I immediately checked on them to make sure no one’s position in the crib had changed. For a glimpse inside my head, see below.)

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I know I’m not a well person.” 

My son, now speechless, returned to the bedroom to retrieve his son. I turned to my husband. 

“Do you think he’ll ever let us babysit again?” 

“Well, maybe not you…”

ARGUMENTS WITH THE DOG

My dog Cassie is undeniably adorable. You can ask anyone. She is skilled at snuggling, thoughtfully warms the bed for us at night, and has mastered the art of the tilty-head ear pop. 

See what I mean?

But despite these attributes, she has some flaws. More specifically, she is not always reasonable, has next to no short-term memory, and likes my husband way better than she likes me. This has led to moments of great tension between us. 

Just yesterday, for example, I took her on a walk in the nearby prairie. I congratulated myself on being an incredibly loving and selfless dog mom, especially since a polar vortex has been hanging around the neighborhood and I was quickly losing all feeling in my extremities. But as I watched Cassie flounce happily though snow drifts, I told myself it was worth it.

I was wrong.

The conflict began shortly after we got home. I took off Cass's leash, cracked the icicles from my nose, and turned to find her looking at me expectantly. I steeled myself, knowing exactly what was coming. 

Mom. 

"What?" 

When are you taking me for a walk? 

(In case you're wondering about this conversation, I can only tell you that a famous author once wrote "Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen." This, of course, has nothing to do with me. I am simply not a well person.) 

"What do you mean, when am I taking you for a walk? We just got back from a walk."

Did not. 

"We DID! We got in the car. We went to the prairie. You said hi to a terrier, sniffed his butt, and then we most definitely started walking."

Did not. 

"Are you kidding me? I took you off-leash and let you do zoomies across the bridge. I endured verbal abuse from other people who screamed leash laws at me. I kept walking long after my feet had turned into blocks of ice."

Did not. 

"Did so!"

"Did not. And I know you're taking me on a walk because you have your big poofy jacket on and your going-out boots and my leash is hanging from the bannister.

"It's hanging there because we JUST GOT BACK FROM A FRICKIN' WALK!!"

Mom.

"What?"

When are we going for a walk?

At that, I pointedly removed my big poofy jacket and my going-out boots and marched into the kitchen. Cassie trailed behind me, muttering. Then she planted herself by the patio doors. 

Mom. I need to go out. 

"No, you do not. I just disposed of several poop-filled bags that would indicate otherwise."

I need to go out. Now. 

"Cass—" 

Now, Mom. 

"Okay, fine!" I yanked the door open and she leaped out onto the deck. Less than one minute later, she was scratching at the glass. 

Mom. I need to come in. 

"I just let you out two seconds ago." 

Mom. I've been out here ALL DAY! I think you are trying to kill me. 

I gritted my teeth and opened the door. Cassie gave me an aggrieved look and bulleted off in search of my husband. By the time I reached them, she was already in his lap. He was scratching her tummy and seemed to be listening intently.

"Mommy did what to you? Yes, yes. Of course I believe you." 

And the dog sneered at me in triumph.

THE VACCINATION GAME!

Hey, everyone! Are you ready to play that exciting new online game that's sweeping the country? That's right. I'm talking about...FIND THE VACCINE!

I know you've heard of it. You may already be playing it! This game has captured the imagination of everyone who enjoys spending endless hours hunched in front of a computer, swearing like that kid in The Exorcist, and slowly going mad. It is basically a combination of The Amazing Race and The Hunger Games, but there is no affable host and the odds are never, ever in your favor. 

If you haven't yet joined in the fun, the first thing you need to do is familiarize yourself with the some of the game's standard catch-phrases. These include 

• For vaccination sites in your area, click here. (That's right. The link doesn't work.)
• More vaccines coming soon. 
• No appointments available at this time. 
• Try another location/date/country/decade. 
• Check back soon. 
• Please be patient. 

Once you've got the lingo down, it's time to check out the exciting challenges that you may find yourself participating in: 

EMAIL MADNESS This challenge requires both vigilance and speed. At any time of the day or night, you may receive an email telling you that new doses have been delivered to your preferred location. Don't delay! You will have approximately 3 seconds to click on the pharmacy link before a buzzer sounds and all of the doses disappear. 

TRUTH OR DARE Healthy players must decide whether to be honest during the screening process or pretend to have, say, a chronic lung disease in order to scootch up on the priority list. But beware! If you're caught, you will immediately be eliminated from the game as a whomp-whomp sound plays in the background. 

GUESS THE PHARMACY! After completing the screening process, players are shown a list of approximately eighty providers that are dispensing the vaccine within a 50-mile radius. But there's a twist: only ten of them really have the vaccine! Your challenge is not only to pick one that does, but also to find one that has open slots. Choose wisely. If you guess wrong, you'll receive a penalty and have to start the process all over again. 

BELIEVE IT OR NOT For this challenge, players must use their wits to decide which, if any, tips from friends are worth listening to. For example, should you go online at 3 AM, or use the weird ZIP code someone gave you, or try that super-secret phone number that only your very best friend knows, or show up at your local Walgreens or Jewel at the end of the day and look for leftover doses in the trash bin? Some of the tips will work, and some won't. It will be up to you to determine which is which!

So now you're ready. And the best thing about this game is that you can play it all day, every day, for weeks. Of course, the worst thing about this game is that you can play it all day, every day, for weeks. 

But don't give up! Real winners do exist, and there's no reason you can't be the next one. If you DO win, you will get one of the coveted vaccine appointments, major bragging rights, and perhaps even the Grand Prize: immediate scheduling of your second dose! Which reminds me...

Special Note to Winners: Do not, under any circumstances, broadcast your success or post selfies of yourself being inoculated. If you do, you are certain to become a victim of Vaccine Envy. This is a very real condition where other people congratulate you and say how happy they are for you, but they are secretly muttering "b*tch" and hoping that you can't raise your arm for a week.

SUPER BOWL LV FOR (REALLY STUPID) DUMMIES

So, Super Bowl Sunday is just a few days away, and it is not, obviously, going to be like other Super Bowl Sundays. No parties. No bottomless bowls of snacks or steaming pots of chili. No Budweiser ads. In short, a truly tragic day for all hardcore football fans. 

But the ones I feel worst for are people like my husband. They will be trapped in the house with someone like me who, despite years of effort, just doesn't get football. 

I used to tell myself that football was a guy thing, but I know this isn't true. Two of my girlfriends are walking stat machines, and my daughter-in-law recently commented, "Well, the Chiefs went big last time, but Tom Brady almost pulled it off for the Bucs in the fourth quarter." And then I excitedly said something like, "Wait, I know Tom Brady! Isn't he the one who's married to a supermodel?" 

Oh, I've tried to learn. I once purchased Football for Dummies but it was far too advanced for me. I tried perching next to my husband on the couch, hoping to soak up pearls of football wisdom as we watched. Unfortunately, he doesn't talk during the game and threatens me with bodily harm when I do. When we used to watch games with friends, I tried faking interest by sitting in an intense forward-leaning position and cheering and groaning when everyone else did. But then I'd blow it by asking, "Oh, no! Was he tailgating?" 

So I've decided to find my own way to enjoy the game this Sunday. Like, I'll try to figure out which lines on the field are real and which are the magic ones that disappear. I will see if I can finally decide what all the numbers on the bottom of the screen mean. I will make up definitions for all of the terms the announcers use that are complete gibberish to me. I will also see how many of my own terms and/or definitions I can come up with while watching. 

Here, for instance, are some I invented last week: 

• Illegal clumping: when too many players jump on another player and you can't see him. 

• Offensive crotch scratching: when a player does that, I find it kind of disgusting so I figured it needed a penalty. 

• Personal fowl: when a player runs around in the end zone like a crazy chicken. 

• Creative zig-zagging: when a player runs down the field and doesn't bump into any of the other players.

• Intentional confusion: when the quarterback guy makes you think he's gonna throw the ball but he gives it to someone instead and they run away with it and you sit there wondering, "Where'd the ball go?"

• Up-downs: this, according to my two-year-old grandson, is the appropriate term for tackles. I see no reason to doubt him. 

• Impressive tight end: a close camera shot of really firm butt cheeks. 

All that said, I'm pretty confident that this Sunday will be more enjoyable for me than other Super Bowls have been. That's because I heard my husband saying something about how there'd be two goats playing, one from each team.

This excited me tremendously. I mean, I've never seen animals on the field! My husband tried to explain something about the goats being the Greatest Of All Time, which puzzled me for a minute, but then made perfect sense. I mean, come on—they're not going to let just any old goat play in the Super Bowl!

THE PROBLEM WITH EDIBLES

You've probably noticed that over the past year, cheerful little shops with names like Nature's Care, Sunnyside, and the Greenhouse have popped up all over Chicago and the suburbs. These brightly-lit stores have black and white walls, gleaming teak floors, sparkling glass cases, and displays as colorful as a Disneyland gift shop. Yes, we're talking about cannabis dispensaries. 

Our friends, like most Boomers, have been heading to the shops in droves. Even my 88-year-old mother has been seen marching through the doors of her local dispensary, merrily waving her medical marijuana card. 

My husband and I have been a bit more hesitant. See, a little over a year ago, my oldest son thought it would be cute to gift his dear old mom and dad with a small batch of special brownies. He warned us that they might be a little stronger than they'd been back when we were in school. Now, I'd never really done that kind of thing in college because I am a spectacularly boring individual. My husband HAD done that kind of thing, but then he married me. The brownies sat in our refrigerator for weeks. 

One night, though, we decided that--what the heck--we'd try them. We positioned ourselves on the family room couch, took a few bites, and waited nervously. Time passed.

"You feeling anything?" asked my husband. 

"Nope. You?" 

"Nothing." 

We waited a little longer. Then my husband ventured a theory. 

"Maybe we've gotten immune or something." 

"Maybe. Should we have one more?" 

My husband shrugged. "Why not?" 

A short time later, I found myself in the kitchen, convinced that the counters needed to be wiped down immediately. This, despite the fact that I have a superhuman ability to ignore crumbs and spills for days at a time. Anyhow, I got out a sponge and moved it along each granite surface with the dedication of a forensics specialist dusting for fingerprints. Then I went around the entire kitchen again. And again. And again. Because I wasn't sure where the countertop ended. 

After a while, I put the sponge away…somewhere…and opened a drawer. There I found a pair of cheese spreaders that we'd been given as gifts about ten years before, but that still had two twisty-ties holding them onto a piece of cardboard. I decided that it was very important that I finally undo the twisty-ties.

 

Twenty minutes later I was still undoing the twisty-ties. That's when my husband wandered into the room. I use the word "wandered" very literally. 

"Where'd you go?" he asked. 

"I went here." 

"Why?" 

I paused. "I don't know." 

"So what are you doing now?" 

"I'm trying to undo these twisty-ties, but they just keep staying twisted." 

My husband leaned over and stared intently at the ties. 

"Let me try." 

Twenty more minutes passed. We were no closer to our goal. 

"I think you retwisted them," I said, after careful analysis. "Want me to try again?" 

My husband nodded and went back to wandering. Shortly afterwards, I heard a thunk. I turned around to see him bent over the kitchen island, his forehead on the granite counter. 

"What's wrong?"
 

"My head fell down and I can't pick it up." 

At that point, he started giggling. And then I started giggling. And then we collapsed on the floor and continued giggling until we decided it was time to eat a whole bag of Doritos. Along with a package of Chips Ahoy cookies. I believe whipped cream and a bottle of Hershey's syrup may also have been involved. 

Anyhow, that's why we're not racing to the Greenhouse or Sunnyside or any of those other places. Next time we might hurt ourselves.

  

DON'T GO IN THE KITCHEN!!

I’m frightened. I’m frightened because I've realized my kitchen is evil and sometimes comes to life. At night. In the dark. 

Even worse, I'm powerless against it. Because (clever thing that it is) the Kitchen knows when I am at my most vulnerable. It's when my rear makes contact with the family room couch, and my thumb pushes the remote, and the TV begins to glow. This fatal combination awakens whatever is haunting the next room. 

“My dearest friend,” the Kitchen begins, its seductive voice containing more than a trace of an English accent, kind of like the guy who played Lucifer on TV. “I fear for your health. You know you didn’t have enough to eat for dinner tonight.” 

I think about the mountain of Mongolian Beef, fried rice, egg rolls, and egg foo young that were on my plate less than an hour before. And yet, perhaps because of that irresistible English voice, I find myself saying, “You’re right, Kitchen. I didn’t.” 

“Well, there is no need to suffer. Come. Come to me.” And I find myself pressing pause on the remote, rising to my feet, and moving blindly into the Kitchen, where I am soon scarfing down a half carton of fried rice. 

Eventually I head back to the couch, determined not to be tempted again. But the Kitchen is not satisfied. As soon as the next commercial comes on, the voice whispers, “There's still some egg foo young.” 

“Saving it for lunch tomorrow,” I mutter. 

“No need,” says Kitchen. “I’ll provide you with something else at that time.” 

A few minutes later, the container is empty, and I’m back on the couch. But then… 

“Popcorn,” says the Kitchen. 

“What?” 

“There is a bag of popcorn in one of my cabinets.” 

“No. Can’t do it. If I open it, I’ll eat it all.” 

“And that’s fine. It’s Skinny Pop. It doesn’t count.” 

I give this some thought. 

“You're right. It doesn’t." And I return. 

Soon there are disfigured popcorn crumbs dotting the floor and filling the cowl of my turtleneck, and I’m feeling pretty sick. But that doesn't matter. Not to...him.

“This Is Us is a rerun tonight, isn't it?” says the Kitchen sympathetically. 

“Yeah, it is.” 

“I know that must disappoint you. But I can help. I'm quite sure there are some Jello pudding cups left in the refrigerator.” 

“No, there aren’t. I looked this afternoon.” 

“Let me just check.” There’s a hum from the other room. “Even better! I found little containers of peach yogurt at the back of the bottom shelf. So healthy. I care about you, you see." 

“Yes, I know you do,” I say, smiling. And I’m off for the yogurt. And that’s when the Kitchen becomes even more diabolical, but somehow I don’t realize it. 

“You know, I don't think you had anything for dessert. I’m sure there must be some Double-Stuf Oreos in one of my cabinets. Perhaps hidden away by your husband?” 

“But the Oreos are bad for me, Kitchen. That's why he hides them.” 

“Are they truly bad, though? Are they any worse than, say, a combination of fried rice, egg foo young, popcorn, and yogurt?” 

“You may have a point.” 

“Good. Then come. Come search for the Oreos.” The voice becomes impish. “Think of it as a game. Look in the ice buckets. The casserole dishes. The cereal boxes. I'm sure you'll find them.” (Note to my husband: if you're reading this, you now know how I figure out all of your hiding places. The Kitchen tells me.) 

And it's not over. I know that, in just a bit, the Kitchen will tell me to have some cereal before bed. He'll say that cereal is healthy, and the milk will help me sleep. And I’ll believe him. I’ll believe him. 

So apparently, we need to move from this place. It’s my only hope. That, or we hire an exorcist.

THE BEAR AND I:TWENTY YEARS FROM NOW

So, my husband and I recently celebrated our wedding anniversary. And since we've been married over forty years and have been told we're kind of adorable together--I mean, I still call him Fuzzy Bear--we decided that it might be really, really nice if we could be together for at least twenty more!

But then I had a dream. It was 20 years in the future. Only…we weren't in the little villa we'd talked about buying. Or in a condo in the city soaking up culture. Or even in Denver, where the kids keep threatening to move with the grandkids.

Nope. We were at Sedgebrook Senior Living Community. 

In my dream, we were in the dining room. I have gray hair--after all, Why the hell should I waste good money on a dye job every six weeks?--and I’m wearing a pink jogging suit. My husband has NO hair, except for what’s sprouting from his ears and nose, and he's wearing a pajama top he's convinced is a shirt.  (Though, to be fair, that happens a lot now, too.) And we’re talking in big print because we’re old. 

ME: Hmmm. So, what are we gonna have to eat? 

 

HIM: We’re having beets? I don’t like beets. 

No. Eat. What do you want to eat? 

You can smell my feet? 

Turn up your damn hearing aid! 

You lost an earring? 

NO, I DIDN’T…. Never mind. Just look at the menu. Wait. Where are my glasses? 

Who has nice asses? Hold on, I need to turn up this damn hearing aid. Okay, so who has nice asses? 

No, I said, where are my glasses? 

On your head. 

How long have they been there? Oh, wait, I meant to tell you! They’re going to be showing Godfather in the social hall tonight. 

Godfather was last month.

No, I don’t think so. Wait, look over there. Isn't that... 

Yeah, it’s Laren and Marlene. 

They look nice. We should try to meet them. 

It’s Laren and Marlene! We’ve known them for 60 years. Laren was best man at our wedding. 

Oh, Laren and Marlene! Maybe if I could see them better… I’ll put on my glasses. Hmmm. Where are my glasses? 

Still on your head. 

Oh, okay, that’s better. Now, who are those people? 

Laren and Marlene, gah-dammit!! 

Don’t yell! You know I've never been good with faces. Maybe they’d like to see a movie with us tonight. Did I tell you they’re showing Godfather in the social hall? 

Yeah, and I told you, that was LAST MONTH! 

I don’t think so. Now, where are my glasses? 

You’re wearing them!!!!! Look, I don’t want any dinner. I got a poker game in a few minutes. 

You always have a poker game! Morning, noon, and night you have a poker game. You can skip this one. 

I can’t. They can’t have a game without me. 

You always say that, and yes they can. They’ll find someone in two seconds. This place is crawling with old farts playing poker. 

I DON'T CARE. I WANNA PLAY POKER!! 

You’re not going. 

Yes I am! 

No, you're not.

I’M GONNA PLAY POKER AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME!  

Oh yes, I can! I have the key to your scooter. 

GAH-DAMMIT!

That's when I woke up. I told my husband about the dream. And we've decided to see how the next few years go before committing to another twenty.