You've Got Scam

Hello Pee-oh-ples,

Okay, so there's a NEW scam out there. A variation on a theme if you will. And I'm hoping you won't. It's a twist on the oh-so-benevolent and eager president(s) of Nigeria sending emails wanting to give you millions and millions of dollars - in return for your bank account number and password. I used get them about 500 times a day - you know the drill - a "rep" of prez Magoombo Boo-loo or whatever the hell his name is that day, asking me to please take a few million off his hands. (It must be such a terrible burden for kings of starving countries to deal with all that dough.) I always write back. Always. I can't help it. I say stuff like: "Hey asshole, get a new scam! This one is OLD. Don't you guys watch Oprah in Scamland?" or "How about learning how to spell and structure a sentence before you try and ask for yes the money for to be put in account bank after your number we getting," or, the ever popular,"Eat shit and die!" if I'm in a hurry. Yet the emails kept coming and I kept answering, mostly: GET A NEW SCAM. Well, guess what? They did. And I'm on the new scam list! They probably figured if we can get past this bitch, we can get past anyone.

The new scam is they pretend they are looking for mystery shoppers - for $200 a pop. Just fill out the form (that comes with the email) which includes a provision for your bank account number, and they'll even send you the money first. Wow. How fabulous is that? So, again I write back: CONGRATULATIONS! You nimrods got a new scam! Unfortunately, it still sucks. But I have an idea. How about - are you ready? Get a legitimate job! How radical is that? Don't know what a legitimate job is? Well, just send me $5,000 USD and I'll send you a list of highly legitimate jobs that pay three million dollars a year each, part time. Funny, I haven't heard back. ***


Okay, enough of those cerebral deficients. Let's go on to something important. I'm trying to decide whether or not to cut my hair. It's way past my shoulders and this Florida weather makes it a frizz fest. Then again, if I cut it short it'll be a short frizz fest. What I'd really like to do is shave my head. Start afresh. And see what my REAL hair looks like. I've been, ahem! highlighting it for years. For all I know it could be blue. I know, wanting to shave your head is one of the first signs of insanity - unless you're a guy with alopecia areata (area balding) who thinks it makes him look cool and he might get laid if he does because it's "in." Ugh.

Why can't bald suddenly be a fashion trend for women? Not feminine enough for the neanderthals to be attracted to us. Primordially speaking, long hair gives the illusion of youth, fertility and a ripe breeding ground in a woman. Sexy, sensual hair. Frizzy, matted, sticky hair - if you live in a subtropical climate. Eh, I'll see how I feel after I arrive for my coif appointment at Super Cuts. After they're done with me, I just might want to shave my head. ***


It's official. I'm addicted to urban rebounding. It's that jumping on a mini-trampoline thing. At first when I tried it, I thought I was going to have a haht attack - now, pah! piece of cake. Sort of. But let me tell you - if you want to keep the pounds off and still eat like it's the 1950s (cake, butter, ice cream, alcohol, Cheez-whiz, breads of all kinds) then this is for you my complicated friend! The trick is though, ya gotta keep it up. Maintenance is the name of the game. As is a good support bra. ***

Well, that's it for now. Thanks for listening. I just got the new FLIP video camera so I'll be posting some videos up here in the next few weeks. And what's a good read without a good quote? Let's leave with a quote from the Spouting Frog. This one's from me:

"You're never too old to be immature."
- Anna Collins - author, comedian, time-traveler

Greek Easter and the Bechamel Sauce

Sunday, April 19, 2009 Greek Easter occurs a week after the "regular" Easter and I was invited to celebrate it with my Greek friend, Sue and her family. But there was a catch. It wasn't going to be me skipping into Sue's house in my Greek Easter bonnet, footloose and fancy free, having nothing to do but bring my lovely self and an appetite. Oh, no, no, no. I had to open my big fat mouth and ask if she needed any help. This offer was enthusiastically jumped upon.

"You can make the Pastitso," she said brightly, and then quickly looked away.
"Piece a cake," I said, having boundless confidence in my culinary skills, and falling into the trap. "By the way - what is it?"

Pastitso is a dish that is sort of the Greek version of lasagna, except made with smooth ziti, the spices are different - there's no ricotta and there's... the bechamel sauce (do I hear a harpsichord?) that goes on top. Making a bechamel sauce, I found out, is in difficulty, akin to finding a solution for the Recession. I should have known. If the word looks hard to pronounce, you can bet it ain't gonna be easy to make. Nobody ever whips up foie gras or vichyssoise. Instead, they get whipped by it.

We were due at Sue's between 3:30 and 4:00 pm. I say "we" because my Mommie-dearest was coming with me. She was making the baklava, which is not hard to make - but time consuming. It's been speculated that a pan of baklava takes as long to make as it did Einstein to figure out his theory of relativity. But then again, everything's relative. Which I just mentioned.

So my mom says, "What time are we supposed to be there?" And I say, "Three-thirty, four." And she says, "Why 3:34?"
And I say, "Why - what's wrong with 3:30 - 4:00?"
And she says, "Why 3:34? Why not 3:30 or 4:00 o'clock?"

And I say, "That's what I said."

And she says, "Well that's a weird time - 3:34!"
So I explain to her, the misunderstanding and she says, "What time should I pick you up?" And I say, 3:36. She hangs up.

So around 10:30 am, I decide to start the Pastitso. I figure I'll whip through it early and have plenty of time left for rollerblading. I do all my chopping and measuring prep work, lining up all the ingredients, nice and organized in little bowls, and ramekins for the spices, and I feel like hey! I could do a cooking show. Whats' the big deal. Of course, in my show there'd be lots of swearing and drinking.

I start the bechamel sauce. Amonsgt other ingredients, I'm to take 3/4 c butter (which equals about 3 hrs. of urban rebounding) and melt it with 3/4 c flour, in a heavy saucepan. Is there a light saucepan? And if so, why is there prejudice against it? And heavy to whom? Where's the cuttoff weight? And where do you find it? Must I carry a scale with me to Bed, Bath and Beyond next time I go to buy a pan? It's conversations like this that keep me single.

I figured I'd be real smart and get Wondra no-lump gravy flour and use that instead of regular flour. After all, I didn't want my first ever bechamel sauce to look like dumplings. What I didn't factor in is that the Wondra is so pulverized you need to add more of it to equal the regular flour. I did not know this. Until after I added six scalding cups of milk to the flour, butter and six frothy eggs (those things are a biaatchhh to add, as you hope they won't be turning into scrambled eggs) while whisking the whole shmeer within an inch of its life - and it still weren't gettin' any thicker.

Now the sweat is deluging off my head as I try to figure out what to do. Add more flour! Whoops! A little too much. Wallpaper paste. Add more milk. Better. Taste. Tastes like wallpaper paste. Add more spices. Pray. Prayer answered: Respectable bechamel sauce with no lumps and as a bonus, I may even be able to repaper my bathroom with the leftovers.

Arrive at Sue's at 4:04 pm. Sue, her father and her daughter greet us at the door. We hug and go into the kitchen. I uncover the Pastitso, which I have to admit, looks damn good. Browned on top perfectly and no evidence it was ever in trouble. Should have taken a picture. Maybe not.

“I’m impressed!” says Sue. That looks excellent. So was it hard to do?”
“Not at all - piece a cake,” I answer, and then quickly look away.

*******
Here’s the recipe for the Pastitso. Set aside about 32 hours to make it. Click on it for a large, printable version. Xanax not included. Happy Easter!

April 17, 2009

So today I decided to start a blog. Why? Because I had this really fabulous column which I loved to write, and later published as a book, called "A View from a Broad." You can buy a book of this very title at http://www.aviewfromabroad.net/. I'm only saying this because if I don't say it, invariably there will be someone who knows me that will say, "Why the hell didn't you tell us where to get the book? No wonder you're not famous, you don't know how to market!" Or there's the other group that will say, "Jesus, talk about a marketing whore - can you not talk about SELLING anything for at least two paragraphs? Christ." So pick your group. Or choose to think "out of the book."

Now, let's get down to business. I'm going to use this blog to chronicle my every day life; i.e, e.g., e.g.g. hard boiled: what happens to me in a day. That's it.

I live in South Florida so there's never a shortage of characters and incidences (or dare I say - "incidi"?) to report upon. Actually, I believe wherever you live, as a member of the human race and observing the same, there's always a unique take on any situation to be seen from different vantage points, except of course online dating, which in all areas and time zones is full of freaks, liars, and sexual perverts. Oh yes, I'm right. But I digress. So let the dame begin.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Dear Fabulous Readers,

8:00 am. Started the day by waking up and thanking God I didn't have any of my usual dreams of madness and mayhem, like: trying to outrun tsunamis, being served barbecued penis, or realizing I just washed the winning lottery ticket with my place mats.

9:30 am. Went to the gym for my Powerflex class. Our gay instructor, loves to BLAST Madonna, ad infinitum. A gay guy that blasts Madonna? Get out! I believe I have a front row seat at the Gay Cliche Concert. I take the next class from him as well - urban rebounding - also done to the tune of the Gap-Toothed One. In case you don't know - urban rebounding is basically jumping on a mini-trampoline. But it sounds like it could mean you got mugged by some guys in the hood, then you jumped your ass up and ran off really fast. Urban rebounding. Either way, it's great cardio.

10:45 am and the rest of the day After the gysim, as I fondly call it, I returned home to try and solve an issue I was having with my home Urban Rebounder. I recently purchased my own Urban Rebounder so I could continue my exercise fanaticism at any hour of the day, in the privacy of my own home. Because should I wake up at say, 3:00 am and decide - Hey! I think I need an hour of intense cardio to lull me back to sleep -viola! I'm covered.

So I get the rebounder, and set it up and all is well, until...the SMELL!!! What the Sam Hill?! The black rubber tips at the end of the rebounder's legs smelled like shit! Actually, that's wrong. They smelled like burning tires. Worse. Awful. And I had read online, during my rebounder research - which I obviously blatantly ignored - that some of the rubber tips stink. Due to chemical manufacturing. People had complained. How weird it that? But how weird is this? I had a music stand with rubber tips that also stank. It's the black rubber's chemicals. It is the grossest smell ever! I'd rather smell Brut cologne on my uncle. Or would I? Eh, it's a repulsive tie.

Long story short - I called the place where I ordered the rebounder to see if I could get this resolved, and they said, rather disbelievingly, and may I add, rather curtly - that they never heard of smelly rubber leg tips. Please! Like I would make up a stinky rubber tip story! I have better things to do. Well maybe not better - but a lot less stupid. And more fragrant.

I tried to store the rebounder under my couch, but the place started smelling so bad, I had to store it on my patio. I figure, I can just bring it in when I need it. Meanwhile, my patio smells like a pit stop at the Indy 500. I guess I'll live with it. Shipping it back will cost me $30.

On an artistic note:
I'm working on a painting of the Hemingway House in Key West. I love that place. Hemingway shot himself in the head. Maybe if he had just gone back there one more time....it might have just been his foot.

Love you,
Anna