Over the last few days, I have suffered through some pretty painful esophageal discomfort.
COB greeted me today with, “you look horrible!”
Gee, thanks, COB. At least he doesn’t mince words. By 4:30pm, he was yelling at me to go home.
“Really, you look terrible and are obviously in pain. Go home. Blog or something. Just leave!”
Smart man, that COB. Not only could I blog, but I could lie in bed, moan and groan to POB and inadvertently make her sad that her cooking might cause my intestinal issues. And, then, unknowingly (of course), milk that guilt for all it is worth. (Don’t worry, POB is not so easily manipulated.)
Yesterday was a hot, hot, hot, day in the City. The kind of day that is dangerous for elderly or infirm. Dad, who is almost 92, was going a little stir-crazy in his apartment waiting for Sunday night dinner. So, he arrived at 3:45pm.
By 4:15pm, I was struggling for conversation (we had lunch with him the day before) and I couldn’t get us off DOB’s describing his reflux which was only exacerbating mine. Also, SOS was having a little melt-down about DOB’s having interrupted his quiet time so early. And I was not at all sympathetic to SOS’s prince-like behavior. So, what do I do?
I call SOB who had just returned from a week in Paris.
“Hello?”
“Dad’s here. 30 minutes already.”
“[Blogger]! Good to hear your voice. Everything ok?”
“Dad’s here. 30 minutes already.” Did I hear an echo?
“Ok ok ok ok ok. I’ll drag my little jet-lagged self off the couch. But [HOSOB] needs to get dressed, so it won’t be for a while.”
“[HOSOB] can come later. So, you’ll take a cab?”
“Ok, you really ought to see what [HOSOB] is painting——–”
“Tell me when you get here. In five minutes. A cab is probably waiting downstairs for you.”
Because SOB is a hero, she arrives with pillow head. Strong work, SOB. She hands me this card:
Now, this is a boy who doesn’t need to win a Nobel Prize for his mother. She hit a tri-fecta. (It is a joke card, but my sister goes to Paris and all I get is something she got in the mail? Seriously?)
All is fine now that SOB is back in control of the family. HOSOB comes with flowers and dessert. Since HOSOB’s birthday is coming up, I put a candle in the pie and we sang happy birthday. It was really the least I could do, in keeping with our family motto:
[Translated: “we do the least we can do”].
Even SOB marveled, “Wow, putting a candle in a cake we brought. There really is nothing less that you could have done.”
I was proud.
