Phishing. From Far Away.

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Hello?" I said.

No answer--but I could vaguely hear something. 

One more try. "Hello?"

"I need to talk to Andre Brown," he said, sounding like an Indian Queen. 

That's gay pride. Not royalty.

"What?"

"I need to talk to Ms. Andre Brown," he said, slightly more whiney than before.

Seeing that there was no Ms. Andre Brown, my fraud alert kicked in. Seemed like a telemarketer. From a far away land. He had clearly been instructed to sound urgent. But instead, he was sounding like a little bitch. 

I was amused.

 "It's not Ms. It's Mr. He's not home. Can I take a message?"

"Yes. I'm calling because your computer sent out a signal that there's a problem."

Here we go. Snicker.

"Why are you laughing ma'am?!"

Wait. Did he just say what I thought he said? He couldn't have. So I asked, "What?"

"Why are you laughing ma'am?!!"

Oh, no he didn't. This dude who just cold called me, in a clear attempt to rob me of something, is now verbally reprimanding me? That can't be. Can it? So I asked again.

Naturally.

"Why am I laughing?"

"Yes. Why are you laughing ma'am. This is a serious matter. Your computer is in danger."

Couple of things buddy. I'm laughing because you're clearly an international hoser. Your acting skills suck, as well as your choice of profession.

You've also called the East Coast. We're skeptics by nature. As well as street wise. You will not be receiving any personal data by me. In fact. I'm going to taunt you. I've decided my goal now is to make you hang up first.

"Really? How did you figure that out?" I asked.

"Through the internet. If you just give me a minute ma'am. I can show you."

Seriously dude. Clearly you didn't pick up on the sarcasm in my tone. Do you really think that I'm believing your story. Any piece of it?

All lost in translation. 

And now you're insulting my intelligence. Which you shouldn't do. Because this will come out of my mouth, and I will quickly become the loser at my own game. "Don't ever call here again or I will report your number to the authorities," I said. 

No worries chap. If you were a good student, you would have come away with a little somethin' somethin'. But it was a bit more subtle than my social security number, so I doubt you picked up on it.

That inflection in my voice, right before I hung up? 

That was the tone you were looking for in the first place.

 

Craigslist Translated: A Public Service

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Why do you need a writer?

To most effectively communicate your message to a target audience, of course. 

In, what surely BEGS to be only the first in a repeating series,  I've decided to take my mad editing skills, free of charge, to an occasional (Wackadoo) Craigslist ad, putting the before and after on my blog, you know, as the most public of services. (And to prove once and for all, just because you can type, does not mean that you can write.)

First up, this beaut:

Travel Writer (East Coast, Carribean, onward)

Talented travel writer, blogger, photographer needed to journal yacht adventure of couple's adventure and struggles and fun as they move instantly from modest beginnings to instant great wealth. Up to year long trip will be from east coast through the Caribbean onward (ending up who nows where) and include adventure on new luxury yacht-Mochi Dolphin 74 named Sussurus. Right person person will love the sea, enjoy snorkeling, jet skiing, island hiking, etc. One hour of yacht housekeeping duties required daily and occasional light meal making. Please send resume/cv, cover letter, link to writing sample(s), picture of self, and any questions along with salary requirements, also if you would be bringing a friend or companion. Onboard Accommodations and meals will be provided. I/we will make agreeable arrangements to meet you prior to trip to insure compatibility for everyone. I'm (37 years old) and expect deliver of yacht early May and hope to leave approx. May 15, 2013.

Clearly, at the very minimum, the author is in great need of a proofreader. Spelling. Punctuation. Grammar. Whew. What offense hasn't been committed? (And really? You've come into great wealth, are in need of a ghostwriter to inhabit your personal space for a year--and you're starting your hunt on Craigslist?)  The only thing I know for sure is writing just ain't your thang. In fact, I'd argue that what you said, isn't what you mean.

So I reworked it for you. Ta-DA!

Travel Whore (East Coast)

Desperate, starving, naive artist-type needed for frequent threesome on high seas. Right person will love the feel of the sea on their skin, enjoy snorkeling in their birthday suit, jet skiing in the buff and island hiking au natural. One hour of housekeeping duties daily include cleaning of the pipes. Please send picture of self, as well as that of your identical buxom twin. Onboard master suite accommodations provided. I'm 37. You should be half that. By the way: There's no yacht.

You're welcome.

​

You're In The Army Now

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High and tight.

Now really, how hard could that be?

Granted, I was sorta learning on the job. There was no clipping experience on my resume. No Barbie dolls. No little brother. No dog. But, even with this full disclosure, my husband Andre wanted me to cut his hair. In true Rhode Island fashion, he was tired of making the trip from our West Side home to his East Side barber.

Yup. Those ten minutes on the road were killing him.

Andre sports a skin fade. Translation: it's a haircut that's one step away from, well, bald. It's not an afro. Not dreads. Not a boxtop. I've been telling him for years that I could handle it. When his old barber drew blood, I told him. When he got a horrible cut in Charleston, SC, I told him.

When he got mistaken for guest of honor, ex-Patriot Troy Brown, by the organizers of a charity event two years ago, I didn't tell him. But for some reason, that night was THE night Andre looked deep inside himself and decided to give my mad skillz a shot.

Perhaps he thought a fresh cut would better help differentiate him from, say, a retired pro football player, next time 'round. Regardless, on the way home, we hit up the personal care aisle of Walgreens.

Duh. Where else would a barber go?
 
Back at the ranch, I set up shop in the middle of the kitchen, using a dining room chair, then set the overhead lights to blazing. After carefully draping Andre's shoulders with a tiny dishtowel, I got to work. Forty long minutes of work. This, as you'll see, was a precision cut.

I broke the process down into two parts, just in case you want to recreate this look at home. Step one: Eyeball an imaginary line near the top of the head, then straight up shave everything below. Step two: Attach a .5 guard to the clippers and bring the hair on top down to 1/16 of an inch.

Unfortunately, for Andre, on night number one, we had no speciality .5 guard in our possession. So I improvised with the next best thing: a 1 guard, which I can now say, with all certainty, is the same tool used by military barbers.

The next day, Andre got saluted.

Not once. But twice. By two different people. And just to be clear, he was not in uniform.

Apparently, on my first time out, I had perfectly recreated a standard issue cut.

God Bless America.

But more importantly, God Bless Andre's Chrome Dome.

The Evolution of a Turkey Chef

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Numero uno was Cubano style.

Really, I mean, is there any other way to prepare your first turkey? Especially when no one in the house is Latin. Luckily we were months away from any major holiday. Just two losers, a free turkey, a gas stove and a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Oh, we had a recipe too.

Only the bird in our freezer was much smaller than it required. By at least a quarter.

I might not be a great cook. But I do understand equations.

"Um, don't you think that you should cut the garlic, because of the size of the bird?"

"Oh, yes, dear, you are absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. If I inserted ALL of the garlic cloves underneath the skin, we would certainly have a turkey on our hands with a disgustingly strong garlic flavor that we probably wouldn't be able to eat," said Andre. "Although I do believe that we would be safe from any vampire attacks."

"And, my darling, I also think it might be best for your gag reflex and mine, if I abandon my ambitious plan to boil the bones for soup," continued Andre. "The smell of death, permeating our small apartment and entire being for weeks, isn't nearly worth the trade-off for that cup of broth."

Needless to say, we were cured from making turkey for a long time. Until last year, when we hosted Thanksgiving at our crib. You can't quite pass that task off.

Round two: another recipe. This one for high heat over a really short period of time.

"Um, don't you think that you should ask me how to set the oven? You've really never used it."

"Oh, yes, dear, you are absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. If I just push some buttons and try to set it myself, I may actually program the timer to go on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off, over the period of two hours that we're supposed to be cooking the bird on high heat," said Andre.

"And then, my sweetness, when your father tries to cut into the bird, he will be moderately appalled, because three cuts will reveal the pinkest bird that he's ever seen, thanks to the pulsating heating method I've just created," said Andre.  "But truly, that won't even be the most horrible part, because while I've told the story about fifteen times about my co-worker and how they cooked the plastic bags inside the turkey, I'll somehow manage to do the same."

Round three is on Thursday. What'll it be? Third times a charm? Three strikes and you're out?

You've still got time to cancel.