My Fantasy

I have a fantasy in which I'm walking along and am forced into a situation in which I heroically risk my life to save some guy. The guy is a master of his trade - like a top grade guitar teacher or plastic surgeon or something, and he is so grateful that he begs me to allow him to give me free guitar lessons, or free plastic surgery, you know, something useful.

Of course I know that it isn't going to happen. I'm never walking along, I'm always in the car, and I'm the type to call 911 (or 101 in our area), as I like to leave things to the experts. Also, even if I was walking and did save him myself he'd be like a tree surgeon and I have no trees.

Who Will Paint the Walls

Paint life
Paint shelf life
Paint wall life
Lenth of time between painting walls?
How long does a coat of paint last?
Is not painting walls for 4 years grounds for divorce?

No matter how I type the question, Google has not been forthcoming on this one.

Her side:

Four years seems a bit long, but Mr. O has no problem with it. He could continue with the walls being the same salmon color they were four years ago, but then the salmon was fresh like it had just jumped out of a stream and now it looks like someone clubed it and some of its brains splattered about and then it had to fight its way upstream half dead and exhausted before it could flop about on a rock dying a slow death and looking so crappy that even a starving third-rate bear wouldn't eat it if it begged.

So after about six months of me nagging, Mr. O said if I wanted the walls painted, he would not object to me painting them myself. I've painted some walls in my time but I was young at the time and did not have super glue in my joints, and told him to get someone to paint if he ever wanted to have sex that doesn't involve cash payment again.

So I've been nagging Mr. O. since Obama took office to get someone. Mr. O. does not believe in having household repairs done by people with whom he has never gone to school/played soccer/chatted up at a gas station, so he said he'd check with his out-of-work friend the electrician (heretofor "Ed") if he wants to paint our walls. (It's not like it would cost less. He'll pay Ed more than he'd pay a stranger, just so that nobody will call him cheap.)

Every day since March 9th, Mr. O has had a different reason why he didn't speak to Ed. It's not like he could call him. He claims that Ed does not have a phone. He has to meet Ed in town. He just happened to not run into Ed every day for a month, even though the previous months he ran into Ed every day.

I was forced to take the nagging up a notch, and finally, in an act of desperation, added that if he didn't speak to Ed by the end of the week, in addition to the sex which he doesn't seem to be missing, I would stop making him coffee on Friday mornings. This had some effect. He was up early and on his way to Ed's house (suddenly he knows where he lives?) at 8:00 a.m. to catch him before he left the house.

So it appears I am better at making coffee than love. But I'm gonna get my walls painted!


His side:

There's nothing wrong with the walls. Nothing wrong with the "salmon". She's sick of it, says she wants "butter" or "cream". Maybe "caramel". Seems to me she's just sick of her low carb diet. She's been nagging me up the wall for like 4 months so just to get her off my case, I agreed for her to paint the walls. What's the big deal? She pays good money to go exercise in a gym, and then gets mad at me when I suggest a way to get exercise in the comfort of home. So she got all bent out of shape and wanted to get some guy who neither of us know, and let him paint our walls!

That's when I put my foot down. No damn stranger is gonna paint my walls. I said I'd get Ed to do it, and I will. When I decide. As soon as I run into him, I'll ask him. What's her big hurry? But now she's not making my coffee. I look forward to Friday morning coffee all week and she's cut me off! I just happen to be going to Ed's neighborhood this morning, so I'll probably run into him today.

Jewish vs Chinese Chicken Soup

I never thought I'd find a food that I like better than Jewish chicken soup, especially my own. Even my father-in-law, who wouldn't touch any food I made, loved my Jewish chicken soup. He tasted it when he came in hungry one day, saw the soup, and thought my mother-in-law had made it. He could hardly believe that I was behind it. He liked the taste, and the fact that he got little cut up vegetables in every spoonfull, instead of a clear soup with whole vegetables submerged on the bottom.

So yesterday there was a sale on bean sprouts at the super and I found myself with a buickload of them and a chicken. Googling "Chinese Soup" did not produce anything that I had all the ingredients for, so I made a conglomorate. It's basically Jewish chicken soup with the addition of more garlic, bean sprouts, little green onions, soy sauce, brown sugar, vinegar, red hot chili peppers, and cilantro.

Anyway, I made a humongous pot of the soup that was supposed to last three people four days. That was one hour ago. Now half of it's gone and the other two people don't even know about it yet. It looks like I'm going to have to tell them because they are really hard to get along with when I eat all their food.

Dating and Psychology 101

Before there were movie theater complexes, there were little private movie theaters. One of these was situated on the main drag, not far near the university where my dad taught psychology. It had a bay window right out on the street where the cashier, me, sat. I was 17 and lucky to get a job, as the college kids were prefered.

One day a very cute guy bought tickets from me. Maybe I smiled at him, I don't remember, but during the movie he came out and started to talk to me and to make a long story short, invited me to go bowling. I was thrilled. He was in college, in his 20s! My friends would be so jealous.

When I casually announced it to my dad he hit the ceiling. It was as if I had announced that I'm quitting high school to become a stripper. He went on and On and ON, about it: I couldn't go, the guy was sleazy for presuming to talk to me, he was obviously a pedophile, he had a stupid major, I couldn't go, etc. etc. As my dad went on, I did the 17 year old thing: hunkered down and prepared to go out with him no matter what.

Suddenly my dad stops in mid rant and does a total U-turn: "Good grief, what am I thinking? Here I'm telling you what to do when you are a sensible, mature young woman who has shown me time and again that she can make good choices, blah blah and blah." He was so obvious. I knew he was doing the psych 101 thing on me. I knew it the minute he opened his mouth, I was disappointed that he was so transparent. I expected something better, much more subtle, from a psychologist.

Worst of all, I was caught like a fly on sticky paper, and I knew that he had check-mated me. I cancelled the date.
I have used this on my kids. It works really well.

An Elephant and a Composter

Before I begin, there is a big elephant sitting in the middle of my blogroom. I'm avoiding it like the plague, because I'm no good at politics, so I leave that to those who do it well, like Politics by Satire, whose blog I really like, and others. But I'm happy as a baby in jello because my daughter is coming home after dodging missiles for too long.

What could be better than a baby in jello? Naturally, two babies in jello: I've discovered the world of compost. Our garden is about the size of a small American master bedroom. But I realized its potential on a trip to Milan where the tiniest gardens are so well kept and full of beautiful roses.




For the past three years I've been growing things by trial and error. I found that basil and chili peppers do best in the shade during summer and in the sun during fall. Herbs such as parsley and cilantro don't do well, period. Radishes do best when you don't dig a hole and pour the entire seed packet into it. Who would've guessed? The couple seeds that missed the community hole came out big, fat, and round while the ones who had company and other radishes to hang out with came out very, very skinny.

Anyway, it seems that those few lucky people who sell composters are happy, happy people. All three guys were were incredibly pleasant and chatty. One offered to bring the composter to my house. Another told me he was going up north tomorrow and invited me along. Actually, it seemed like they had been smoking the compost. I'll find out tomorrow when I go get my composter.

One last thought if you're still with me: After Dooce, who is managing just fine without me, Mattress Police was was the first blog I followed, and unlike Dooce, Diesel actually replies to comments sometimes, so I voted for Diesel yesterday and though it doesn't look like he's been kissing the right butts, I hope he wins.

The Perfect Woman

This is going to sound perverted, but here goes:

We have a newish girl at work. She's a tiny teen, tottering about on 4 inch stilettos. Well, she has to be at least in her late 20's but she is tiny and comes to work looking perfect every day. Perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect body, and judging from her perfect position, she is intelligent, and she bakes perfect brownies. The type of person you want to drown in the toilet. But she promised to give us the recipe so we let her live.

One day when she teetered by while I was eating with my friends. I stopped in mid-sentence and just stared at her butt. No amount of exercise could give you that butt. Believe me, I tried.

My friends were all "Ora, what's up, what are you looking at, are you OK?" I couldn't believe it. Her perfect butt is the one I ordered when I was a fetus and the Power that Be was showing me the DIY Butt catalog. I know I chose that butt, I ordered it, it should have been mine!

How can one person get it all? Why am I not that one person? Maybe I was a person who kicked dogs in a previous life so I didn't deserve to get that butt. If that's how it works, she was surely Mother Theresa in her previous life.

Anyway, I'd get you a picture but there are security cameras all over and if they caught me running around with a camera, scrunching down to the level of her perfect butt and taking pictures, you know how that would go. Considering the economy, I don't want to risk it.

Of course my friends now refer to her behind her butt as "There Goes Ora's Butt". Yeah, rub it in.

The High School Marching Band

Out to lunch

Adult Onset Attention Deficit Disorder

I was recently self-diagnosed with Adult Onset Attention Deficit Disorder (AOADD). The disease presented in a session in which my boss was teaching us how to use a new software. Normally we have to figure these out on our own, but this one is a tricky little devil and my boss likes to lecture so it was the perfect opportunity for him to get attention without showing up in public sans underpants. He scheduled three consecutive all-day sessions.
An hour and 15 minutes into the session, we had theoretically learned how to check out a file. This procedure consists of 5 mouse clicks, but with my AOADD I was unable to follow the lecture. His pointer was going, his mouth was going, words were coming out, small words, English words. They floated right past me where I could almost reach out and touch them, like the monster in Young Frankenstein, trying to catch the music, but I couldn't seem to grasp them. I found myself making a grocery list and building my own Sudoku.
My coworkers seemed to be following. I hated them as they smugly blurted out their comments and questions. I hated them for having a higher boredom threshold than mine.
My husband agrees that I have a problem as I get fidgety during simple instructions such as "Do not go shopping", and cannot sit still throughout the daily lecture on topics such as Turning Out the Lights as the TV/Computer Screen Provides its Own Light Source, and Why We Don't Need Someone to Paint the House Since it Would Cost Less if I (Lady Offramp) Took a Day Off Work to Do It.

Presence of Penis Prohibits Use of Kitchen Appliances

Mr. Offramp is a old-fashioned Mediterranean Man. As such, he cannot feed himself. For our purposes, "feeding oneself" includes slapping a piece of cheese between two pieces of bread, or heating an already-cooked meal in a microwave. Since I work a 9 hour day, and since not eating puts him at the risk of loss of sight or a leg, this can make my life difficult at times.

It doesn't matter how hungry he is, if there is a woman anywhere in the area or expected to show up within 6 hours, he will wait. If you cannot pee standing up and can spread homous on a piece of bread, you qualify as a woman. The offramps daughters have been feeding their daddy since they were in first grade, and Martha Stewart had nothing on them. They know the importance of presentation.
No peanut butter sandwich was ever served without pickle eyes and a ketchup smile. A humous sandwich often included "I love Daddy" written in craisins.

As they grew up, they began to ask difficult questions about their father's inability to perform these seemingly simple tasks. How come their daddy can change a flat tire but cannot press "Start" + "1 Min" on a microwave? How is it that the presence of a penis prohibits the operation of a can opener? The kind of question for which I don't have an answer.

I begin to question myself. Is it possible that the lack of a penis is not the reason behind my inability to kill my own cockroaches? No, Virginia, a cockroach is not an animal, and if it crosses the threshold of our abode, it's every man for himself. So why can't I take a shoe and show it who is the boss? Why am I outside on the porch for two hours until Mr. Offramp gets home and zaps it with the K300?

Blogging Question: How Long?

Can any of you long-time bloggers tell me how long it takes before you get readers?

I go online every night after work for 2-3 hours just fixing up this blog and reading other peoples' blogs, but all quiet on the middle-eastern front. (Probably the only front in the entire middle-east where all is quiet.)

Got a new heading - not that too many people will notice, and certainly none of my family, who couldn't care less about my blog. Oh yes, they each went in once when I called them long distance and begged. But that's OK, I've cut them off from email. It's been two weeks already but they haven't seemed to notice.

For them, email is a BAD thing. Instead of sending me accolades and marmalades to thank me for taking the time to make sure that no good joke that passes through my mailbox goes unforwarded and that they are aware of every possible threat to their health, they actually hinted that they don't even read them all(!) When someone from the Midwest tells you that, it means that a) the mail sits in their inbox taking up space because they wouldn't want to be impolite and delete it b) they have allowed you to become an absolute pain in the enema insertion location c) they can't send you any email to ask why you haven't sent any email in two weeks because their inbox has been over its limit since 1998, a year after you started sending them email.

I'm kind of baiting them. Now I'll know if they do go in.

Prospective Son-in-Law

If I had been born two days later, I would have had to wait another year to start school. That may have been a better scenario, as I was a bit socially immature. While I was trying to encircle the playground without letting my feet touch the ground by clinging to a wire fence, my classmate who was also my next door neighbor was working her way through the boys of the class. I don't know how much sugar they were getting, but it was enough for them to mow her parents' lawn regularly. My mom would make sarcastic comments about it, but somewhere deep down, I think she wanted me to bring home a lawn mower.

As the saying goes, the nut doesn't fall far from the tree. Since my oldest daughter was four, I've been checking out future sons-in-law. Hmm, that doesn't sound too good. What I mean is that I've given careful thought to the qualities I'd like to see in a son-in-law. Since I don't have much of a lawn anymore, a boy who can merely mow lawns is not such a great catch for this family, and a doctor does not get me excited as we have socialized medicine over here, and I can go see a doctor whenever I want, and have a variety of operations free of charge. The best possible son-in-law would have to be a mechanic or IT person - what more could one hope for? I could get my tires rotated and my DVD drive installed while I watch Big Love. I know what you're thinking. How to get the kiddies to comply?

Several years ago elder Offramp daughter brought home a nice boy. He seemed OK at first. He showed up with a bouquet of flowers for her and some pastries for us, the parents. Bribe the parents, and with pastry to boot, nice touch! But that was the first and last time we saw him up close. Mr. Offramp didn't know what he had done to scare the boy silly, and neither did I, but he was so scared of her daddy that he wouldn't come into the house.

In the meantime, I've found two future sons-in-law. They are so much fun when they are here. We have a great relationship, lots of laughs, everything is smooth and comfortable, neither is afraid of Mr. Offramp, and while neither is a mechanic or IT person, I know they'd be willing to clean up my code or look under the hood if they knew what those were, and it's the thought that counts. Strangely enough, they are both studying acting. The thing is that these boys are my daughters' friends, not boyfriends, and that they may not want to convert. The thing is that they are not straight.

Our ancestors wouldn't have had a problem with that. They found an acceptable future son-in-law, and they married the daughter off at 13, before she had a chance to drive them insane by staying out till all hours and coming home with piercing and smelling like a buickload of cigarettes. They didn't concern themselves with little details like the boy wanting to be the bride.

It's too soon, really. The girls have some time before I start dropping subtle hints.

Cave Daddy

Not long ago I had the opportunity to nab some of my brother's DNA but I took the high road and didn't do it.

I needed it for the National Geographic genographic project, in which you send your spit to National Geographic and they extract the DNA and tell you who your great great great great etc. ancestors were. If you are female, you can get your mother's mother's mother's etc. line. If you are male, you can get either your father's father's father's etc. line, or your mother's. So my sister sent in her spit, which represented all of us, but since my brother is the only male, we need his spit to get my dad's line.

Since my brother is afraid that Pres. George Bush is personally after his spit and will use it for unholy purposes if obtained, he refused to part with any, even though Pres. Bush does not work for National Geographic. We made due with only half the family spit and discovered that our cave mom lived in northern Europe about 15,000 years ago and had many decendents, many of whom became French. I was excited to discover that I may be related to the amazingly hot President Sarkozy.

Ever since I found out that I'm French, I've been craving croissants.

I was kind of hoping that my cave daddy would be from Morocco because I love Moroccan food. But my brother who doesn't read my blog may rest assured that his spit is safe with him and I will never steal it even if he happens to fall asleep and drool while I'm in the same car with him.

Population Dispersal and Condoms

Survey: French Men Say They Need Bigger Condoms - I saw this on Fox. The survey also said that "...Frenchmen on average claim to need 15.48 centimeters (6.09 inches) long condoms, about 3 centimeters longer than Greeks, whose condom size requirement was the most modest.".

Tomorrows headlines: French Border Patrols Rendered Impotent in Stopping Geyser-like Gush of Greek Girls Flowing into France.

Spam and a Shared Womb

Have you ever wondered about the people now inhabiting the old family homestead or your old dorm room or whatever? Me neither, but I do wonder about the people who inhabited the womb after me. On the one hand, we share DNA, though different combinations, and share the same childhood to a large extent. On the other hand, we may be from different planets.

Two of them have already told me, in the most polite Midwestern terms, that I send too much email. I couldn’t believe they don’t even read what I send, because I send only the best top quality threads, lovingly gleaned, especially for them, from the Buickloads of shlock adorning my inbox.

My daughter, not being from the Midwest, was more direct. She called me “The Queen of Spam”. While that is debatable, as I have never sent anyone offers to enlarge their penis, I kind of like having a title. Z. sent me a link to a list of titles used on the British Airways site that was half a mile long. There must have been over one hundred titles on that site. My favorite is Air Commodore. It kind of makes the part that follows lose any significance. If someone were introduced to me as "Air Commodore Jones" the only part of that handle I'd remember is Air Commodore, and long after the original introduction. Even if I never saw Air Commodore What's His Name again.

Back to my family, I should excuse my sister because if her computer were human it would be going through puberty and giving her more trouble than it does already. The other two may not know how to comment or may be blowing my off consciously or sub-consciously because in an earlier post I gave them a list of comments to copy and paste, which included nasty ones to enable free self-expression.

But the bottom line is, I am chopped liver and since they're not reading this I can write whatever I want!

Not about the guitar, not funny

I'm learning guitar now. Someone had posted a phone number and the fact that he is a guitar teacher, so I called him up. When he knocked on the door it was such a blast from the past. He looks just like the guy that my friend was nuts over when we were 18, but better because he looks like he eats on occasion. The friend I mentioned here before, who doesn't know how to drive and doesn't pick up quickly on social clues (see current events/car impounded). I'll call her Maria.

Maria was not like my other friends. Her family had immigrated and didn't speak English, even after many years in America. Maria took care of the bills and handled the errands, and went to her brother's parent-teacher conferences, while going to school and working. Maria told me she lost her virginity at 12, to a guy who sounded almost too perfect. I still had mine.

Maria's dad hit on me, twice. The first time I was babysitting her little brother and suddenly her dad came home drunk. The second time she had to go out for a few minutes and left me playing Monopoly with another brother, and again the dad suddenly came home. Both times he argued with the brother (I didn't understand their language) and both times the brother left the room disgustedly. Then her dad tried to hit on me. He offered to buy me a watch if I would cooperate. Both times I fought him off, got out of the house, and got to a gas station to call my mom to come pick me up (no mobile phones back then). I told my mom that Maria and I had a fight.

I had to stop hanging out with Maria. I was mad at her for leaving me at her house where he could do that, and I couldn't tell her that he was doing that. And mostly because I was afraid of her dad. I wriggled out of the relationship and never saw her again.

Years later, I was doing dishes in the kitchen one night and suddenly realized that her dad had been molesting her since she was 12. That must have been why she would find reasons to leave me alone in her house. She wanted help and didn't know how to get it; maybe she thought if he did it to me I'd report him. Instead of helping her I cut her off and left her wondering why.

Fix-it Men

Before I start, I apologize about the gender bias to all the female fix-it men, who may be out there, but I've never actually seen one.
Anyway, something very strange is going on with fix-it men lately, and it has me worried. I'm sure I'm being set up for a fall. Several times now my fix it men have shown up on time (!), fixed the problem, not broken anything else, not overcharged me, and even charged less than I thought I'd have to pay.
The last one, Arkadi, came to put up an awning over my balcony. Over the phone, Arkadi gave me a quotation which was the best of the lot. We set a time (8:00 a.m.) and date, I told work I wouldn't be in as I had a fix-it man coming, and prepared to spend the day looking at my watch. But my fix-it man showed up on time. He proceded to take the required measurements—a slightly portly middle aged man, he huffed and puffed just a bit while climbing up and balancing himself precariously on the back of a plastic chair and the railing. I was sure he'd go plunging over the railing and fall several floors onto my neighbor's cat, and I begged him to let me get him a ladder but he said he was fine. I wasn't - I had to go into the house and not look. When he was done, I came back out and we talked a bit. Arkadi was an engineer in Russia, but couldn't get a job at the age of 50 when he immigrated, and went into the canopy-making business. Now, at 67, he is still doing this very physical work. Way to go, Arkadi! Anyway, Arkadi wouldn't take any money down. He said that when he comes back to install it in about two weeks time, if I like it, I should pay him then. At this point I was convinced that I was on candid camera or something. It was about 9:00 a.m. and I had an entire free day ahead of me.
One week early, Arkadi called and it was ready, installed, and beautiful. I wish I could bottle and sell Arkadi!