Category Archives: SOB — sister of blogger

more scenes from my honeymoon

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SOB sent the last of the pictures of POB’s and my honeymoon.  (You remember, the one she and HOSOB took for us, because it was the least they could do to celebrate our wedding.)

Mais, revenons à notre voyage de noces en France.

1. Police demonstration about safety and what a crashed car looks like. This was in front of the Opera. SOB noted that MOB would have enjoyed it and been proud of the public service message.  MOB would have taken a picture of it.  So if MOB had been alive, SOB would have taken a picture of MOB’s taking a picture of this scene.  And, thus, SOB needed to take this picture.  Genes, they cannot be denied their expression.  It is almost mathematical in that quod erat demonstrandum type of way.  The origins of whatever “osis” I have (as in neurosis, psychosis, etc.) is becoming clearer. . . .

2. French people waiting in line at what has a remarkable resemblance to anyone of those gross food trucks roaming New York City, except that they are chic people waiting to eat their croissants.  Chacun à son goût, mais: a roach coach is a roach coach is a roach coach (with apologies — maybe not — to Nazi collaborator Gertrude Stein)

What an awesome honeymoon.  Thanks, SOB and HOSOB.  We couldn’t have had it without you . . . .

A Week in Paris

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SOB and HOSOB decided to have a honeymoon in Paris last week. 

Wait, you say, they have been married for 4 years.  Why did they wait so long?

In fact, they did go on a honeymoon after their were married. 

This time, they went on OUR honeymoon. 

SOB probably felt bad because POB and I were not immediately going away to celebrate our marriage (after 12 years, one child, and a mortgage).  SOS had to return to 4th grade the next day.

So, they had one for us.  The least they could do — for us that is.

But when SOB showed us the two photos they took — yes, TWO — I felt like I was there.

Here are all of the people crammed in like sardines around the Mona Lisa — an itty-bitty painting — flaunting the “no photos” rule:

And here is the picture of the sign to the left of the Mona Lisa:

(Beware of pickpockets.)

The rest of Paris?   Breath-taking pictures are Googlable.  This is why SOB can go on my honeymoon anytime.

Hard of hearing? Well. . . .

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Dad has always been an optimistic and happy man.  So, he forgets the bad stuff, which is great for him and us.

Except when it comes to filling out forms about medical history.  And Dad needed to complete one as part of his Life Alert system service.  So, voila, instant family activity helping Dad recreate his past and present issues.  Some families go to museums for outings; we go over past illnesses, trials and tribulations.  Usually, right before a meal.

Sidebar:  For the record, today we went to a museum en famille.

Last Sunday, right before dinner, Dr. SOB (with SOS as her helper) did what she does “at the office”; she took a patient’s medical history.  This time it was Dad’s.  (Actually, she keeps a detailed one on each of us, but it was a good memory exercise for Dad.)  SOB helped SOS pronounce the words, like “emphysema,” etc.  Dad responded with the answers.  Then we corrected him on relevant issues.

But sometimes he didn’t hear that well.  SOS said “neurological” and Dad asked “urological?”  (I guess he does know his issues.)  In the middle of the recitation of possible respiratory ailments, I interjected, “hard of hearing?”  Even though I was on the other side of the room, Dad turned and said, “No, dear,” with a watch-yourself look.  Then, SOS was asking about skin ailments, and Dad (for whom none of these words is new) needed SOS and SOB to repeat them a few times.  So, I interjected, “hard of hearing?”  Dad shot me another look.  Ok, I don’t know when to stop.

The medical history was more arduous because my Dad was having trouble hearing or understanding.  So, from even farther away from him, I interjected, “some wine, anyone?”  “Yes, please,” Dad quickly responded.

He isn’t really hard of hearing.  Sometimes, he is practically deaf.  But, mostly, he is just tired of listening.

Life Imitating Art

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Life Alert.  Remember when the company roared onto the home health care scene with the commercial about an old woman on the ground and yelling in a very nasal grandma voice, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”?

That commercial went viral — as much as it could in the 1980s before YouTube.  The Company went so far as to copyright that line.  Today their commercials are more respectable and less kitschy.  Still, they are morbidly amusing until you have to send away for information on the product.

In order to keep Dad in his home on his own, we needed to get Dad the life alert system.   Because we absolutely want him to have a hands-free intercom into which he can yell if HE has fallen and can’t get up.

Life Alert still has its quirks.  One of the selling points for the product is that there is a total refund if the person dies within 3 years of signing-up for the service.  No questions asked. Other than maybe, “may we see the death certificate?”  So, actually, at least one question asked.

Sounds like a stupid business model, since people who get Life Alert are not in the best of shape when signing-up for the service.  What will that person need with the money?  The person is DEAD.  Maybe the company banks on the fact that no one will remember about the money-back guarantee.  I guess it is a shrewd calculation about the probability of dementia afflicting the survivors rather than the probability of an aged, infirm person surviving another three years.

I went to Dad’s house today to have lunch and to try to reintroduce him to the Internet.  About once a month, we try this.  He doesn’t type well, so he is unlikely to send an email.  He can’t get the hang of the left click/right click, one-click/two-click protocols even though he was previously able to navigate them.

We spent an hour practicing getting in and out of Google, getting in and out of email, etc.  He would set up the email and I would type for him.  Then he would click send a few extra times.  We sent (mostly unintentionally) multiple emails to SOB and BOB.  They responded.  Uh oh.  Now what?  “Dad, do you remember which is the reply icon?”  He nodded.  “Great, now click.”  “Dad, click once.  ONCE.  only ONCE.  Ok Ok ok ok ok ok ok. Let me get us back to the right screen.”  And so it went.

SOB emailed me, “I am plunking down a cool million that by tomorrow he will be blaming something about the computer that is not allowing him to send or pick up his emails.”  So, I called Dad and said, “remember to try again a few times tonight to make sure you have the email and Google thing down.”  Either he will declare defeat tonight (and then I win the bet) or he will make it work and not try again until Monday (in which case I win the bet).  Insider information.   SOB uses her powers for good.  Me, not so much.

Time for a nap.  Tomorrow, POB, SOS and I are taking Dad to the Met to look at the new American Wing.  More bloggable moments.