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.”