The New York Heckle Index

Anyone who’s read this site for awhile knows that one of my greatest pet peeves is being harassed about my looks by random, horny assholes on the streets of New York. On bad days when the hooting seems ceaseless, it sends me into tailspins of fury that prompt detailed revenge fantasies in which I slowly carve out the offending hecklers’ testicles with a spoon. On good days when I’m left more or less alone, I still walk around wishing persistent and grueling bouts of priaprism on these obnoxious cretins.

My first instinct when heckled is to plant my knee firmly into the offender’s groin, but that just seems like asking for more trouble and possibly a trip to the pokey on assault charges. Others have suggested that I wear a sign to scare away potential hecklers, something like “I have gonorrhea,” (which I don’t), or, “Actually, I’m a man!” (which, I’m not).

But from now on I’m going to try something new: channeling my frustration into mathematics via the newly christened New York Heckle Index.

Now, I’m no John Nash so you’re going to have to cut me some slack if the algebra behind the index is simplistic. I haven’t given five seconds of thought to math since I necessarily cheated my way through eleventh grade pre-calc. However, on days when the index approaches the “red zone” – i.e., the number of heckles is high – it will serve as a warning to my fellow female New Yorkers that they may want to lengthen the hemline a bit or possibly carry a tazer gun. I think I serve as a pretty decent stand-in for measuring the number of heckles an average New York woman has to endure on any given day, since I think I fall in a fairly average attractiveness range for New York women. That is, I am not one of those giraffe-necked models who teeter around on stilettos and hang out at Bungalow, but neither am I someone who has ever been asked to wear a bag over her head whilst hooking up.

So here’s how it works:

(relative perceived hotness)(number of heckles a day) – hours spent on the streets = New York Heckle Index

For those of you who haven’t taken math in awhile, that means my relative hotness times the number of heckles a day, minus hours spent on the streets, equals the Heckle Number.

The index goes from 1-10; 1 is a day that’s relatively heckle-free, while 10 is a day during which I’m compelled to remove testicles with a spoon.

Relative hotness levels range from one to three. One is a day where I’m hungover, unshowered, sporting chipped-up toenails and may be seen eating sausage McGriddles in an attempt to soak up the booze-induced bile volcano in my stomach. A two is a normal day – jeans, cute top maybe -- although nothing special. Three is the apex of hotness – my hair is silky, the fishnets have no snags, and I’m in a gown headed to the opera. The number of heckles explains itself – each laughable “Yo, MAMI, come get a taste of THIS!” every peeving “You’re too beautiful not to smile!” and all the insufferable “Did anyone ever tell you you look like Julianne Moore?s” each count as one. Any day where more than three heckles are endured, regardless of relative hotness, the index will automatically be adjusted to 10.

How did I come to this equation you ask? Well, relative hotness and the number of heckles a day can be inversely proportional (at least I think that’s how you describe it – any math wizards out there care to contribute?). Meaning, if my relative hotness is a one but I get heckled three times, it’s just as bad of a heckle day as if my relative hotness is a three but I only get heckled once. The more time you spend on the street, the likelier you are to get heckled, so that must be subtracted from the equation. Other vagaries such as locations heckled (it’s less surprising to be heckled near a construction site in Midtown than it is at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Carroll Gardens) could somehow be factored in, I suppose, but frankly that kind of math is just too sophisticated for this girl.

So, as an example, today’s heckle index: My relative perceived hotness stands at a 2.4 – my hair turned out, I’m wearing cute new open-toed heels, and showing a little cleavage, but I’m not showing any leg. Number of heckles so far: 1 (“MMMmmmmm, hey beautiful!” – man with a hand truck). Hours on street: .5. Currently, the heckle index stands at a 1.9, but that could exponentially increase when I go for a 20-minute walk at lunch.

I’ll keep you posted. And catcallers of New York beware: The Heckle Index is tracking you.

Fat Bottoms, Skinny Pants

I come from a place where "fashion" allows for Christmas-themed sweatshirts with blinkie lights and reindeers, where women regularly shop at Lane Bryant, and where pleats aren't sneezed at. I was always slightly more fashion-forward than that; however, there's no way I could ever keep up with the Mach-3 pace at which the fashion whims change in New York. It's just not possible (financially or time-wise), so I just try to stick with classic looks that don't make me look inherently uncool (although I probably still look that way sometimes) or unduly chunkier than I actually am. That's challenge enough in itself. Of course, it means that I have a clothing crisis every time I have to go out in Williamsburg or the Lower East Side, so I try to be fashionable enough that I have one or two items a season that will allow me to "pass" when I go out with my blogger and/or hipster pals.

When skinnypants started coming back last year, I cringed -- and dug my heels in. I just can't, and won't, wear them. They don't work with my body and frankly, I think I'm just too old. I mean, it's skinnypants today, but what's next, for fuck's sake. PEG ROLLING?

With that in mind, please make your way over to my friend Todd's site today. I'm so glad there's someone in the world who understands the fashion plights of fat-bottom girls. May the House of Pies bless you. An excerpt:

"Somewhere out there in a couple weeks, some poor lemming of a girl is going to slather herself in Crisco and spend three hours yogaing herself into a pair of skinny jeans so that she can ask her boyfriend one simple question: "Do I look fat in these?"

"If she doesn't look fat, the proper response should be "No, you just look retarded." If on the 98 percent chance she does look a tad a chunky side, I want that fella to sac up and tell her she probably shouldn't be wearing those pants out in public because yes, those pants make her legs look like a couple tubes of Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls that are ready to explode.

"I know it's a cardinal rule that's been passed down from the stoneage that no matter what she's wearing and regardless of body type a girl doesn't ever look fat. That has to stop now before fashion starts trending even further into uncharted yet highly ridiculous waters. I know it will be a crushing blow when ladies around America start learning the truth that, yes those pants make your butt look like a flattened pumpkin. It must be done."

Latest Statcounter Amusement

Someone in France is looking for a "Neighborhood Nympho" and it somehow led them to me. Awwwwww......Erin, the nympho of Carroll Gardens, and Pierre-Louis -- together forever!

The Post in Which Eduardo Confirms That the Government Is Going to Take All My Money

So last night I endured every freelancer's greatest sorrow: filing my taxes. Let me state first that I think, if anything, we should actually be paying HIGHER taxes if we want all the programs we say we want the government to provide, and want to send our troops overseas to kill people in Iraq (not that that's what *I* want), so I'm not against taxes per se.

But, last year, more than half of my income was classified as miscellaneous. It's true -- I did all kinds of miscellaneous things last year. I wrote about the bastard children of rock stars for Maxim, I wrote about insurance for Consumer Reports, I wrote about bajillionaire Wilbur Ross for the Post and I wrote about drinking ice wine in Niagara Falls for Modern Bride, just to name a few. (At least I think all those things were last year; it's become such a blur.) If that's not miscellaneous, I don't know what is.

The problem with miscellaneous income is that it's not immediately taxed. I knew I was about to pay, and pay big as I stared down at a five-inch-thick pile of 1099 forms, a lump growing in my throat. I recently completed a huge job for my former employer that paid in the high four figures, but I knew I would have to fork over most -- if not all -- of that to the IRS. Certainly there are many other ways I would have liked to have spent my money than to help fund a war I don't believe in and pay into a social security system that will fail by the time I'm eligible to collect. I could have cut my limp locks, which have gone untouched and unloved for five months. I could have bought some clothes to replace the ones that literally have holes in them. I could have donated more money to my church, or bought a bunch of kegs of beer and thrown a party on my roof. But, it was not to be. Indeed, nearly every cent of my last windfall is going to Sam.

This realization was only made more depressing by the "exchange" I had with H&R Block "customer service" when I ran into some problems with their online filing program (which, to be fair, I've used for several years and have had few problems with). This year they have a new "talk to a customer service agent -- LIVE!" IM feature that I was happy to try out, though I was quickly -- and sorely -- disappointed by what followed. Although, it did add a certain amount of levity to the tax-filing situation, which is something you normally can't say about any sort of interaction with the IRS.

Here's is my exchange with an H&R Block "agent" named "Eduardo E."

You have been connected to Eduardo E.
Eduardo E: Hello Erin, welcome to H & R Block's Live Technical Support
Chat! How can we assist you today?
ERIN: hi. i can't fix my errors. it keeps bringing me back to
marital status page.
ERIN: and those are correct. I can't click the "next error" button.
Eduardo E: I understand that you are getting an error that needs to be fixed.
ERIN: yeah, and obviously you are not a real person.
Eduardo E: I can help you with that, Erin.
ERIN: You can help me with you not being a real person?
Eduardo E: Erin, may I place you on hold while I research some information here?
ERIN: sure, taxbot.
ERIN: they need to imbue taxbots with a sense of humor if
they're going to make us believe we're IMing with an actual service
agent. just a suggestion.
Eduardo E: We appreciate your comment here!
ERIN: You're welcome, eduardo! Make sure you pass that along to your "supervisor!"
Eduardo E: Thanks, Erin.
ERIN: Uh, sure.
Eduardo E: Thank you Erin, for holding.
ERIN: When you use my first name over and over like that, it makes my thighs warm, Eduardo.
Eduardo E: When you fix your errors, sometimes you may not be taken to
the exact page where the error or missing entry occurs. Most often
this happens when you're taken to a page with the Edit and Delete
buttons.......

And so on and so forth. No amount of needling would bring a real person on the line. It feels extremely futile to make fun of a computer, I learned. So, I'm not really sure why I'm telling YOU about it, but whatever.

Blisters on My Sisters

According to New York Magazine, Shopsin's is moving from the Village to Carroll Gardens. OH MY! Sooner rather than later, my days will be filled with Slutty Cakes, pan-fried spaghetti, moonpie meatloaf and taco-fried chicken. This is terribly exciting news, and represents enough good karma to make up for all the Dunkin' Donuts and Eckerd outposts spreading like a plague throughout our streets. I can feel my thighs getting bigger already.

Weird Shit in a Bag

The phrase "Shit in a Bag" first crossed my radar yesterday thanks to a plumbing problem in my apartment. I was emailing with my roommates about the problem. One of them said, "What if they can't fix the problem today?" to which the other responded, "Well, then you'll just have to shit in a bag." (Alternately, she could spend the night at her boyfriend's house, but whatever....)

Anyway, I was thinking about it again today for some reason, namely because the image is wholly disgusting and funny, and it somehow sparked a memory of a show I used to watch when I was a kid (it must have been Sesame Street, or Mister Rogers). In this segment, a witch would pull a bunch of random items (weird shit) from a sack (bag), toss it all in a cauldron, and tell a story that wove together the disparate items. Anyone remember which show that was?

I suppose it's no great surprise that this was one of my favorite parts of TV as a kid, considering that I grew up to become a writer. Because what is writing if not weaving together a bunch of weird shit and making it mean something?

Which led me to thinking about what kind of story someone would put together about ME if they looked through all the weird shit I carry around in MY bag. It's kind of scary. To wit, items currently in my purse:

Forty seven dollars
A spoon
A broken hair brush
A quarter pint of egg salad
23 empty bubbles from Nicorette gum
22 pieces of Nicorette gum
Two lighters
Hangnail cream
A bottle of perfume
100 Colones from Belize
Seven birth control pills (oops, two o'clock, make that six!)
Three packets of iodized salt
Nine ponytail holders
Five euros
Two bubbles of Advanced Imodium
Dental floss

A Call to Standardize New York Kissing

I've lived in New York for seven years now and pretty much know my way around all the idiosyncracies that make it different from the Midwest, where I grew up. You know: that coffee with milk and sugar is "light and sweet," that trading sexual partners as often as you change your socks is not frowned upon, that crosswalks are merely suggestions.

But one thing I've never quite acclimated to is the East Coast greeting kiss. Where I grew up ("Puritanland," or "Stoic Lutheranville"), if you ran into an old friend or relative you'd perhaps acknowledge them with fleeting and embarassed touch to the elbow, or maybe an awkward one-armed hug. Males greet each other with downcast eyes and a shuffle of the feet, or in more boisterous (i.e., drunken) situations a hearty punch to the upper arm or a noogie.

But here in New York, most people greet one another with a kiss. I remember the first time I brought a New York boyfriend back to South Dakota to meet the folks. My handsome boyfriend descended upon my sweet, sweet mother with an affectionate smack on the cheek, and my father -- unaccustomed to such behavior -- looked as though he were about to throttle the poor guy for moving in on his woman. My dad still talks about it: "I can't BELIEVE he kissed your mother! Is that how you DO things out there? Really??!" (That being said, my father kind of has an issue with kissing -- to this day, he refuses to stay out until midnight on New Year's Eve because 20 years ago someone planted a smooch on my mom as the ball dropped, and he can't stand the thought of it happening again. This is the cause of much eye-rolling in my family.)

I guess the kiss-greeting must be something we've co-opted from all the eager-lipped Europeans in our midst because it sure as hell isn't common in most of the country (I've visited 44 of the 50 states, which is probably far more than most New Yorkers have explored, so I feel secure in this proclomation). But even here, where the kissing is common, everyone seems confused. Because of the mish-mash of cultural backgrounds that coexist in New York, no one seems to know whether they should always kiss, and, when kissing, where and how many times to kiss. Some go for the one-cheek kiss, Europeans sometimes kiss on each side (two kisses total) and the ambitious (or are they just ITALIAN?) go for broke and want THREE smacks just for saying hello. SWAK indeed.

Personally, this has resulted in some really awkward situations. I've kissed Europeans I assumed were two-cheek kissers that turned out to be one-cheek wonders, and ended up smashing my puckered mug against their rapidly retreating nose. This is how I once ended up half-planting a smooch on the chin of the South African who co-leads my Bible study. Talk about embarassing -- "Hi, let's discuss Jesus, and then I'll christen your face with my saliva." We both just kind of turned and ran, and now we know to stick to the one-cheek kiss.

To further avoid embarassing kiss-haps, I propose we STANDARDIZE the New York greeting kiss. One kiss, on the other person's left cheek (or, the kisser leans to the normally dominant right to plant the kiss).

This will create a city of confident kissers, and the rules are such that even my father could understand.

How the Pill REALLY Works

(Warning: this post may include too much information for my more delicate male readers.)

Allegedly, birth control pills work by screwing with your hormone levels and tricking your uterus to think it can't nurture a fetus, or something. But I have a new theory: Birth control pills work by wreaking such havoc on your body that no one could possibly ever want to make sweet love to you.

A few months ago I was without health insurance, and in need of a female-type checkup. So I did what any uninsured person does and grudgingly made an appointment at the Planned Parenthood in downtown Brooklyn. As I took a seat in the waiting room next to what appeared to be a small army of unemployed, freaked out sixteen-year-olds getting abortions, I felt depressed and vowed to go through the paperwork hassle of renewing my insurance.

An hour later I was sent on my way with a clean bill of health and enough birth control pills to reverse population growth in the slums of India. I haven't been on the pill in years, but I thought maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea just in case I accidentally came too close to a random splash of sperm. Somehow, in the sixteen years since I've been able to spawn children, one fear of mine has never abated: having to call my father and tell him he'd be the grandfather to a bouncing bastard baby sired by someone whose last name I may or may not remember. Better safe than sorry, I figured, as I ripped open the first packet of pills.

It's now a month later and I'm not one, not three, but TEN pounds heavier. Sure, this has something to do with my consumption of ButterBurgers and cheese curds and the recent spate of work that's kept me chained to my desk and away from the treadmill. However, our friends over at Planned Parenthood only hand out ghetto pills -- the kind with enough estrogen in them to give a sixteen year old boy tits (ortho tricyclene) -- and I know they're screwing with my system.

Every day at three, I want to take a nap and then eat a huge slab of Eli Zabar carrot cake from Pret. That never happened when I wasn't popping. I'm crabby, I'm crampy, I have headaches and heartburn; I'm probably growing vericose veins as we speak. I look like I'm four months pregnant and I'm so bloated I feel like some kind of exotic camel whose fluid-filled hump sloshes around just below its belly button.

The only benefit of this devilpill is that my tits are enormous! I actually had to go up a bra size, and when I walk around topless, I feel like the prow of a ship! OK, fine, they're not "enormous," but they are at least a half a size bigger, which bumps them up from the "small" category to possibly, "smallish, but a nice, squeezable handful."

I kind of can't stop looking at them. I'm a tad obsessed with big boobs, probably because I never had any (perhaps this is why guys are obsessed with tits, too). OK, off to fondle my own, (sort of) pendulous chest in front of a mirror somewhere. Hurray/Boo for the Pill.

Study Shows Republicans Were Whiney Babies as Children

If I were to mention this report to my father, it would be the equivalent of lobbing a rotten tomato across the kitchen and preparing for an ugly food fight. But I just can't help myself:

From a UC Berkley study:

The whiny kids tended to grow up conservative, and turned into rigid young adults who hewed closely to traditional gender roles and were uncomfortable with ambiguity.The confident kids turned out liberal and were still hanging loose, turning into bright, non-conforming adults with wide interests. The girls were still outgoing, but the young men tended to turn a little introspective.

Beware the ButterBurger

I spent this weekend in Madison, Wisconsin, at a friend’s wedding. It was a real nice time, although my enthusiastic consumption of such Wisconsin delicacies as ButterBurgers, fried cheese curds, and chocolate custard (thank God we don’t have any Culver’s in NYC) have now pushed my three-week weight gain to a whopping 10 pounds. I am going to have to go on some kind of Pellegrino fast; climbing season is fast approaching.

I flew to Milwaukee with a group of former coworkers of mine from the WSJ, and there we rented a car to make the one-hour drive to Madison. These were people with whom I spent a shell-shocked nine months or so back in 2001 and 2002, commuting four hours a day or, alternately, living in a shitty hotel off of Route 1 in New Jersey close to company headquarters, thanks to the terrorists who blew up our office building in NYC. During that time, we drank a LOT of Scotch on the company dime at the hotel bar, and ate a lot of steaks since we were often stranded without cars in a Radisson that was home to a Gallagher’s. We bonded during this time and they became something like my East Coast family – the people I could count on when the entire world was going apeshit and I had no one, my family being in the Midwest and my boyfriend being in Colorado at the time.

ANYWAY, one of these old WSJ friends, T., is probably the most unflappable person I’ve ever met. The very definition of Steady Eddie. He’s the type of guy who could walk down a street where there was a gang shootout, a parade, and a mass Moonie wedding going on simultaneously and not miss a beat. Exhibit A: On Sept. 11, another coworker called into the office to find out what the hell was going on down there (since we were right across the street), and T. answered the phone. “What in Sam Hell is going ON down there,” coworker 1 screamed. T. answered: “Oh, you know, international terrorism. Talk to you later.” He is the antithesis of excitable.

Which is why one of the highlights of the entire trip, which left me laughing sporadically for hours, happened as me and my four WSJ friends were driving down a road near the airport in Milwaukee looking for a place at which we could procure one of the aforementioned ButterBurgers. There was a sub shop on this road, and outside of it, near the highway, stood a mascot dressed as a sandwich (more specifically, a sub with what appeared to be ham and lettuce).

This delighted T. to no end (maybe because they tend to do less of this kitschy crap in the Northeast, where he’s from), causing him to scream like a little girl, “OH MY GOD, IT’S A MAN DRESSED AS A GIANT SANDWICH!!!” Never having heard such an outburst from the mild-mannered T., our driver jumped a mile out of her seat and slammed on the brakes as though we were about to run over a troop of Girl Scouts.

Once everyone stopped laughing and calmed down, we decided the mascot should probably move farther back from the road so as to prevent any sandwich-related car accidents, and I was happy I have friends who make me laugh so hard – even if it does make chocolate custard come out my nose.

Coming Soon to a Bedford Stop Near You

So tonight I had some Stilton fritters in the East Village with my friend D., and afterward we were walking down Second Avenue. We spotted a bar called "Urge." How subtle, we thought: "I have the *urge* to get wasted, pick up a stranger, and fuck. Where should we go? URGE!"

Somehow this segued into creating a list of bars that currently do not exist in Williamsburg, but should:

1) Regret
2) Ennui
3) Pose
4) Hangnail
5) Hygiene
6) Trust Fund
7) The Liver Spot
8) Pleather
9) Angst
10) Sclerosis

Alessandra Stanley Has a Bug Up Her Ass

Apparently the Times's TV critic had a bad date recently. Maybe she wanted to go out on and eat lobster at a place with nice tablecloths and flatware, but her 20-something date wanted instead to sit at home on his couch and stick his hand up her blouse. Because in today's review of the new WB series "Modern Men," about men in their 20s in Chicago who are looking for love, she has this to say:

"...It caters to the Elle Girl fantasy that young men have feelings, and with proper tutoring can be trained to explore and express them. It's sweet, if naïve: when they are a little older, these viewers will learn that in his 20's, the only feeling a man wants to feel is a feel."

Now, isn't that a little unfair, cliche, and...I don't know, somehow letting men off the hook? I mean, are our expectations really this low? And if so, why would anyone with a Y chromosome waste their time trying to convince us that they're anything other than a grunting, mindless caveman?

Personally, most of the men I know are plenty in touch with their feelings (even if I don't always like what those feelings are), and in some cases are seemingly even better equipped to express them than I am. Validly expressing emotions is a hard task for most people, especially if one is somewhat confused about what exactly it is they're feeling in the first place. So lay off, Stanley.

Don't Kiss Me, I'm Not Irish

'KungFu' Lepricorn
Originally uploaded by eDJäDe.

A lot of people mistake me for an Irishwoman. I can't imagine why, given my red hair, and that my name is Erin. In fact, I'm Norweigan, Swedish, Danish and German.

At any rate, a necessary and unfortunate jaunt through midtown Manhattan today during the St. Patrick's Day Parade only made me MORE glad I'm not Irish, since celebrating my heritage would apparently entail donning an undignified green top hat, breaking open container laws, and screaming "WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO" at the top of my lungs while drunkenly weaving down Fifth Avenue (something I usually save for Saturday afternoons).

Sorry. Those people were VERY annoying, and everywhere. However, I did see some bagpipers in kilts, those guys were cool.

Bivalve Enthusiasm

So when I got home tonight to do my laundry and pack all the fleece and goose feathers I can find in anticipation of my trip to Badger Country, I did get a nice surprise. In my mail was a book entitled "Oysters: A Culinary Celebration." While the oyster porn going on inside is enough to make me want to dive into the Hudson in search of mollusks, it doesn't have something I want: a description of the taste/size/brineyness/sweetness of the more than 300 varieties of edible oysters that exist. It's nice to have recipes and all, but I need to know what to order when I go to some kind of Manhattan oyster emporium. Does this exist? I can't find it. Has R.W. Apple done a compilation, or something? Damn! I need a guide to eating every oyster available in New York.

Scary Sitemeter Stats

You can do all kinds of freaky crap with Sitemeter (which tracks your blog's hits), like figure out who's reading your site even if all you know about them is the color of their hair and their IP address. One of the funnest things you can do with Sitemeter is see what Google searches lead people to your site. You think when you use Google to search for pictures or information about all your depraved ideas about "candy cane in monkey ass" or "bicycle toe clip penis" that you're totally anonymous. Well, you're not.

With that in mind, I would like to tell my friendly reader in South Africa that "women want to be caned" is an inaccurate statement. We do not want to be caned, no matter how naughty we are. A light love tap? Perhaps. A caning? No thanks. And to the guy in California who's thinking of making a "handmade parachute," I'd advise against it unless you have several years of embroidery work under your belt and are certain you can tie some pretty fool-proof knots.

The weird thing is, tomorrow I'll probably actually get a Google hit for "candy cane in monkey ass." This is only going to get weirder.

Happy caning/skydiving,
Erin

Creative Solutions to Catcalling, part deux

Regarding the thorny catcalling situation, I like the way this guy, who apparently is in Kuwait, thinks:

"Some T-shirts declare "Princess," "Cleavland", or something really high class like "High Class" but I'm sure you could find or make one stating 'Look fucker, I have Encephalo-Herpes and I will fucking spit blood on you if you don't mind your own!' The only drawback is where do you post that kind of message? On your chest? Your back? Does New York have gun laws?"

I told him maybe I'd get it tattooed on my forehead. Badass! Problem is, sometimes I don't think catcallers know how to read.

Who Tapped Into My Brain and Wrote This Letter?

This is a portion of a letter to Cary Tennis in Salon that I could have written, many times, in the two years since I turned 28:

"On paper I want the whole family thing: husband, house, kids and a dog. I also realize that while 28 is not exactly old, it is probably a good time to start approaching relationships and life choices more seriously....I identify closely with the meticulously cultivated hipster life I have worked at achieving over the last 10 years. It is full of poet and musician friends, seeing new bands and obscure movies, and going to gallery openings.

"When I am faced with a decent man with a decent job I imagine his khaki pants might get off the floor at night and bind my wrists, forcing me to march lock step into a subdivision full of minivans where I will never buy a new CD again. At the same time I look at my friends' attractive, witty and well-read boyfriends and wonder why a woman in her late 20s would cohabit with a man whose career entails working in a coffee shop 20 hours a week and riding a skateboard to get there. I mean, what are they thinking? And then I remember that I am not exactly in a position to dole out advice."

The whole idea of "people in khakis suck, people with nose rings are awesome" is totally cliche and I don't buy into that part of it. But I think the overarching theme is that while the idea of commitment and love might seem appealing, the reality of it scares the shit out of you. Or, in this case, me.

Awesome.

I'm trying to get to the point where that's not true anymore, but what I'm wondering is this: Am I freaked out because I don't want to be with the wrong person and these are my sixth senses, or whatever, telling me that this guy or that guy isn't right? Or am I freaked out because I had a bad experience, and I'm not healed enough yet? Or, am I freaked out because I just don't want anyone to really know who I am, and therefore won't give anyone a chance?

Maybe I should go back to my crappy therapist and see if he can clue me in. Ha.

Wide Wide Fatties, Eating Sausage Patties

So the work insanity that has kept my ass firmly planted on a chair 18 hours a day for the past two weeks has finally blown over. Unfortunately, the area in which my ass has been planted has forcibly expanded by about two since my schedule has put a total and complete kibosh on me going to the gym. Considering I had to undertake a grueling, months-long schedule of four hours of cardio a week to simply drop a few pounds, it’s no surprise that I have managed to somehow gain five pounds during this time. I’m going to have to trade in my belt for a hula hoop pretty soon.

Of course, this is probably just as much about my love for cheese as it is my recently insane work schedule. I probably need to develop a quick case of lactose intolerance or become an anticheesitarian (or whatever) if I am going to have any hope of losing weight; I mean, for goodness’ sake, last night I ate a huge bowl of Stouffer’s mac and cheese and today I had a slab of cheesecake the size of a tortoise. Heaven to me looks like the aging room at Murray’s Cheese and unfortunately this weekend I am headed to the domestic cheese mecca of Madison, Wisconsin, for a wedding. The number one priority for my time there is to consume as many fried cheese curds as possible; it’s quite likely that I’ll have to ask for a seatbelt expander on the way back.

Not going to the gym has sapped my endorphins, and watching my belly slowly spread over the waist of my pants hasn’t done a whole lot for my mood either. I snapped at my Mom today on the phone. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple weeks (which is unusual); I guess the volume on my phone was up too loud when I called and she was like, “Erin, you’re blowing my ear out!” and I was like, “Well, shit I am SORRY I have five fucking free minutes in the last two weeks and now I am calling you during the time I walk to my second job from my first job and gee I’m sorry if I’m hurting your stupid EARDRUM!” Luckily my mother is sweet as can be and knows my moods don’t really mean anything except that I’m blowing off steam, so she just laughed at me lovingly and we went on to have a nice chat. The woman is a friggin’ saint.

Whatever. I’m hoping my moods (and waistline) will be back to normal soon. I’ve been a crabby McCrabberson lately, and I’m getting sick of it. I guess I’ve also been in a weird place because of some stuff going on in my personal life, and feeling like I let someone else down. But who wants to hear about bloating and mood swings, you might as well go somewhere else and watch a Midol commercial, am I right? I’m right, so I’ll sign off until I come up with something more productive to say.

Creative Solutions to New York Catcalling

Last week, my friend T. was in town. We used to work together at the newspaper in Little Rock, and now he’s at the WSJ. He’s getting married this weekend in New Orleans and I had been given the duty of helping him pick out a vest to go with his tux, as his fiancée has her hands full.

As we walked up to Saks, he caught me up on some mutual acquaintances I hadn’t heard from in a few years. Brian? Married. Jeff? Married. Mark? Married. That mousy girl who covered NASA? Married. And now it was T.’s turn. I said something to the effect of, “Wow, I’m feeling a little left out here.” And T. said, “It’s just that you’re too picky!”

Sure, I’m particular about finding someone to spend the rest of my dadgum life with; shouldn’t we all be? But am I really PICKY?

As I mulled over this possibility, I realized he might be right. I’ve dumped people or dismissed them before it even got to that point for various “offenses” such as: not smelling right (not bad, just not right), having body hair (fine, blond, wispy) that weirded me out, being a bad email correspondent, and having picky eating habits. Then again, I’ve seriously dated gay men and pathological liars, so apparently I’m just picky about the wrong things. Like to bang guys? No problem. Don’t like Malaysian food, or have poor punctuation skills? See ya.

I was thinking about all of this again as I walked down 48th Street – otherwise known as New York’s Diamond District – this afternoon. It’s hard not to think about marriage or proposals or engagements when you’re being assaulted by an avenue-long assortment of 600 million carats or so.

Just as I was pondering my propensity for pickiness and, apparently, my aptitude for alliteration, some chap sidled up to me and started serenading me with “Uptown Girl.” This was not someone I wanted to be sidled by, never mind that I am a Brooklyn girl, motherfucker, and wouldn’t be caught dead living on the Upper East Side.

Maybe the problem isn't that I'm picky. Maybe it's that instead of attracting the type of guys who want to express their adoration for me by buying one of those nice fat solitaires in the diamond district, I attract the type of people who want to sing off-key to me in the street and ask me about the color of my pubic hair. Because while I managed to shake the Billy Joel wannabe, I was verbally harassed not once, not twice, but FOUR more times before I made it the length of the block to Sixth Avenue.

I feel like catcalling is becoming a running theme here in No Parachute land, although I truly wish it weren’t. I’m sick of hearing what every rude, loud, leering asshole thinks about my luscious booty or my fiery hair or my smile (or lack thereof). Admire my booty all you want -- silently. But please spare me the commentary on how the very sight of it is causing funny things to happen in your oversexed groin. Don’t honk at me from your car; I am not going to run over and stick my number under your windshield wiper so you can call me later and I can come over and pleasure you. I don’t want to hear about which celebrity you think I resemble, and I don’t want to tell you whether the curtains match the drapes. You are a stranger, and your comments make me feel threatened, belittled, objectified and, most importantly, pissed off.

Now, I know this can’t just be happening to me; certainly there are more desirable women in New York than I. Exacerbating the problem, it’s been springlike in New York and apparently that means the skirts are coming out and the sap is rising. Ladies, I think collectively we need to come up with creative solutions to rampant catcalling.

Beyond the knee-to-the-groin option – which, mark my words, someone is going to get if this happens ONE more time today – I’m kind of at a loss as to how to handle these fuckers. Eyerolling, glares, stony silences, muttering "fuck off" under one's breath and trying to have a sense of humor regarding the horniness don’t seem to be working.

Any ideas beyond ballbreaking or hiring a bodyguard?

Death by Chalk

So this morning as I was headed to work I saw this obviously loony chap somewhere around Grand Central. He was standing just off the curb writing something with a piece of white chalk on the pavement of the street. Traffic was kind of swerving around him. When I got closer, I saw that the letters, which were about three feet high, spelled out, "Go Home Arabs!"

If that's not just asking to get run over by a cabbie, I don't know what is.

Doing What I Ought Not Do

One of the passages in the Bible that resonates most truly with me is found in Romans 7: "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do...For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing." Kind of tongue-twistery, no?

Oh, don't worry, I"m not going to run off and flog myself with a cat o' nine tails, it's just that it applies to a few things that happened and that I was thinking about on this lovely blue-sky morning in New York.

First, I woke up with an intense hankering for doughnuts (which is unusual, since the aroma of my real, true love -- bacon -- was wafting in through my open window from my neighbors' house downstairs). Lacking a Krispy Kreme in the neighborhood, we've never really had doughnut options so normally I wouldn't have given it a thought. Except -- the evil pink-striped Dunkin' Donuts just set up its wretched, ugly shop a block away, closing down a lovely little local sit-down pizza place. Bastards.

This presented something of an ethical quandary. I really wanted the doughnuts, and I was feeling self-indulgent because, save for a nice but quick dinner out with my friend P., I worked like a 16-hour day yesterday thanks to the WSJ doubling the word count on the story they assigned me to four thousand. With two days' notice. (A note on dinner: If you ever think of going to Frank in the East Village, do not go if you're a person who cannot tolerate getting bumped. I LOATH feeling jostled and bumped during dinner and it's enough to send me over the edge and distract me completely from any kind of conversation I'm supposed to be having with my dining companion. Luckily, P. was sitting in the "bumping spot" and it didn't seem to bother him a bit; he's a better man than I. Oh, also, get the creamed spinach. It's heavenly, salty and not gooily viscous in the way that creamed spinach sometimes is.). I posited that the words "Viscous Vegetables" would make for an interesting band name, although P. disagreed. Then he thought a bit and said, "Then again, the Viscous Vegetables are probably playing, at this very moment, at Galapagos. Who knows!"

But back to the doughnuts. I quickly realized (and I don't know why it took a doughnut to realize this) that I am an ethically weak person. Not to mention a hypocrite. Part of the reason I love New York and Brooklyn is that it affords me so many great, independent, local choices that I never HAVE to eat at a DD or a BK or a McDonald's. I show my support for this culinary diversity by giving my hard earned dollars to the independent restaurants. And STILL, I knew RIGHT AWAY this morning that I was going to DD even though their doughnuts aren't any good. Upon exiting the store, Boston Creme and jelly in hand, I saw this chap sitting on Court Street smoking a cigarette. He works at a coffee shop on Court that, while I'm 98.7% convinced it's a mob front, still opens earlier than Bagels on the Park and therefore sometimes if I go to the gym REALLY early, I'll go there to get a coffee. I was so embarassed about my DD bag that I turned on my heel and walked the long way around the block to get to my house so I wouldn't have to weather his deserved glare. I knew I was wrong, because of the shame I felt. Damn you, Dunkin!

I was also thinking this morning about my propensity to flee in pursuit of adventure, versus comfort, and whether it's entirely self destructive or a good thing, or what. Whether this impulse (which did have a hand in my last, atomically damaging breakup) is one that will always stalk me. Like, when I woke up this morning, the birds were singing, a nice breeze was coming in my window, and I found it somehow reminiscent of the crisp, sunny mornings a few Decembers ago when I'd wake up inside my tent in Mexico, throw on a turtleneck and flip flops, and zip open the window to see two thousand foot cliffs towering over me. "Good morning, I'll be over to climb you shortly." That was probably one of the free-est and best times of my life, and I often find myself longing for it when my feet get itchy.

I keep having fantasies of buying a Westie, picking up a dog from a pound and being a nomad for awhile. And I'm realizing this is something I probably should have done in my early 20s when I first entertained the possibility of doing a summer on the road climbing with Noah. But, I was trying to establish my career, had no money, had just started a new job, barely knew how to climb, and we had only been dating a short while. So a summer-long adventure that most certainly would have altered the arc of my life was compacted into a couple of weeks. Of course, five years later, when I rashly quit my job at the WSJ, I was *also* trying to establish my career and had no money. I think my capacity for trusting myself has grown; I only wish I had taken that weird leap those years ago. It's one of those forks in the road that I will always wonder about -- what would have happened had I taken the other direction. I wish life were more like a choose your own adventure book so if I don't like the way things are going now, I could go back and take the other path for awhile and see what happens.

That these ideas are floating around in my head now, at a time when I'm probably happier and more settled in New York than I've ever been, is strange. Maybe I just haven't had a real (i.e., adventurous and longer than a week somewhere new) vacation in long enough, because I this morning I once again had that overwhelming urge to chuck it all, get in my car, and move out West.

I guess it's a good thing that that's a little harder to do than just ordering a doughnut. Because as I exhibit time and time again, I am a slave to my impulses.

We'll Walk by Night

I've been working really hard lately, and even at that, not as hard as I should be, especially on the piece I'm supposed to be doing for the WSJ. It feels as though there just aren't enough hours in the day. So I'll have to make this quick.

I just wanted to alert all the other ladies out there who are still pining away for David Addison that Moonlighting: Season 3 is now out on DVD. I went and ordered myself a copy today and I'm very excited for its arrival. My life hasn't had enough smarm or Booger (as Miss Dipesto's boyfriend) in it lately.

Hm. "Smarm and Booger" sounds like some English dish, doesn't it? Like "Bangers and Mash," "Bubble and Squeak," or "Black and White Pudding" (which, I might add, is made of pig's blood. I had it one time at the Half King).

OK, back to work.

How to Survive Salt Lake

I had an awesome time in Salt Lake, but there are some things you should know about it if you're planning to visit.

First, if you are coming from New York, where gin martinis flow free from our sink taps, you better have a game plan so as to prevent what could become a serious case of the delirium tremors. The arcane liquor laws there are designed by happy, teetotaling, apple-cheeked Mormons to "protect your liver" but could just cause a hard drinker to have withdrawal convulsions. To wit: all the beer there is 3-2 beer, even the beer you buy in the state liquor store (which is open for about seven minutes a day, five days a week). If you want "grown up beer," meaning beer with more than a drop of alcohol in it that won't leave you with the blazing 3-2 headache, you must smuggle it in from out of state.

Luckily, my friend Kristi has become quite the little rumrunner and somehow managed to buy up half of Colorado's supply of Fat Tire, which I promptly drained over the course of three days; if there are any bums in the University district where she lives who'd like to head over to her place and collect the empties from the back porch, please note that you will probably net about $437 at the recycling center.

If you order liquor at the rare bar or restaurant that serves it (and many don't), know that you will be served ONE OUNCE of alcohol with a mixer; the state mandates an automatic one-ounce pourer be attached to all liquor bottles. So, you should know about the sidecar. It is legal to order an extra shot on the side (but only one!) which you may add to your weak-ass drink once they bring it to your table. And whatever you do, don't order a martini. They are not allowed to be bigger than one ounce. Oh, and if you want a shot with a chaser? The waitress has to come around the bar, hold your beer for you while you take the shot, and only then will hand the beer back to you. Why? Because only the DEVIL two-fists.

The best solution? Bring a couple of flasks with you to Salt Lake. Or stick to wine once you're there. Hey, Jesus made it, so I guess they can't water that down. Or, do as I did and find a friend who has some Xanax. Pop one of those babies and your cravings for booze will be but a distant memory as you drift off on a happy cloud of sleep, oblivious to your quads still aching from the slopes.

OK, on to Snowbird (http://www.snowbird.com/). The Wasatch Mountains are toothy, steep and imposing in a way that the Colorado mountains are not, and even though Colorado is having an epic year for snow, I can see why Utah resorts are superior. (Don't worry, Vail, you'll always be my first love!) The mountains in Little Cottonwood Canyon, as one of my friends explained, get around 500 inches of snow a year. Clouds build up over the Great Salt Lake, suck up a ton of moisture, move into the mountains, and just dump it all on top. Plus, it's the desert so there's no humidity, so it's the nice, dry powder that's fantastic for boarding or sking.

Even though there were only about six fresh inches while I was there (which, incidentally, is like more than Vermont got all year, or something, at least it seemed that way), it was so good that I actually had one of those weird experiences where you MAGICALLY GET BETTER, which is always very exciting. Also, we got two straight bluebird days, which will be enough to lift my spirits for like a whole week. I will warn potential visitors that Snowbird does not have fantastic beginner or intermediate terrain for boarders, thanks to lots of traversey uphill type of stuff. IT's better to be more advanced, able to handle the bowls in Mineral Basin and have enough confidence to build up type of speed required to get you through the uphills if you're going to go there. Otherewise, Solitude is a better choice, I hear. As for magically getting better, it didn't happen until my second day. Magically getting better on a board means it gets less physically demanding, and since I was exerting myself pretty heartily the first day, my legs still feel as though I spent the last few weeks crushing a Thighmaster between my knees 24/7.

I met my first real Mormon (one who hasn't fallen away from the church, anyway), a sweet, chunky kid full of candor, on a chairlift. I asked him about his upcoming mission, and he told me a bit about it, and his nervousness surrounding it and mixed feelings toward it, lamenting for instance the fact that he wouldn't be able to snowboard for two years while overseas, because it was expensive and because the LDS Church thinks "evil exists" at the resorts. I had a good laugh about that, since evil exists everywhere, and it seems like it'd be easier to have a conversation with someone about the LDS church if you strike up a normal conversation about why you're in their country, while on a chairlift, rather than assaulting them on their doorstep. Anyway, it was an enlightening experience and it did a lot toward humanizing the much-derided Mormon missionary in my mind, even if I think Joseph Smith is a bunch of hooey.

Finally, if you're in Salt Lake, make sure you check out Takashi, voted Best New Restaurant in 2005. Kristi recommended it, and I was not disappointed. It's sleek, modern, and has tasty, fresh and creative sushi preparations. I admit I was nervous for my intestinal tract to be eating sushi so far away from the coast, but it was some of the best raw fish anyone has slapped down in front of me in a good long while. I had been craving raw fish and oysters intensely for some time, and luckily I was with one of my friends who has approximately two thousand times my disposable income ("Oh, this weekend I'm just heli-skiing up in Alaska, then next week I'll be down in Chile, and then I'm off to my house in Vail for awhile...." must be rough) and kind of owed me a dinner, so I got to pig out on his dime, on top of it. Thanks J! He even offered to sate my yearning for oysters on Sunday at the Oyster Bar, but instead I inhaled a few dozen bowls of $7 all you can eat mussels apres board at Snowbird and then went home and got drunk in Kristi's hot tub and was too lazy to go. I suck.

Anyway, a huge thanks to John for carting me from the SLC to the lovely mountains of Utah, to Kristi for showing me a fantastic time and letting me crash at her place and play her piano, and to her boyfriend Scott for chaufering me around when I needed it, and treating my girl Kristi nice. If I had a lawn, I'd zero-scape it in your honor. Although the flora-loving residents of Carroll Gardens would be horrified.

Swamped

I'm so busy today, I haven't even had time to read Gawker, go to the gym, or do the crossword puzzle on the train. So you're not gettin' anything outta me till later!

However, I hope to post a bit about snowboarding in Utah this evening. So if you're dying to know what I've been up to, never fear, my knuckles have not been broken and I shall post again shortly.

Sorry for the lameness.

Things I Did Today in Utah That I Could Not Have Done in New York

1) I went to Hatch Family Chocolates, a chocolate shop entirely owned and operated by midgets. My friend Kristi was driving me around, showing me some sights before she had to go back and save more babies at the hospital. Offhandedly, she said, "Oh, do you want to go to a chocolate shop owned by little people?" "HELL YES!" I said, not so offhandedly. So she screeched on her brakes and in we walked, and two extremely nice midgets helped us picked out dark-chocolate handmade caramels. Lesson: If you want to increase your walk-in business, hire midgets.

2) I had lunch with a friend I've known for more than 20 years, outside in the blazing sun, letting my face freckle up while eating some really scrumptious Greek food. Apparently, there's a healthy Greek population leftover here from the railroad boom years.

3) I was seriously underwhelmed by the Mormon Tabernacle and Temple. The LDS Church is outrageously wealthy, thanks to their mandatory 10% tithe, and I was expecting something awe-inspiring for the Mormon's version of Mecca. I was expecting to feel the way I felt when I first stood in St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. They're not offering tours right now, since Salt Lake sits on a fault line and they're making the temple quake-proof. But my quick tour around the outside of Tabernacle/Temple brought nothing more than an incredulous "That's IT?" Seriously, I think my church in New York is bigger than this thing. Uninspiring.

4) I sat in a white room in an old house with high ceilings and lots of dapply sunlight, playing the Moonlight Sonata on the piano.

5) We have plenty of hipsters in New York, but far fewer hippies. Today, I saw a guy sitting on his front steps playing a BONGO DRUM. Without a shred of irony.

6) Later, I am going to go run up a huge hill and watch the sun set over the mountains.

Happiness!

A Doubly Stolen Thought About Greatness

The Amateur Gourmet dishes up this quote today: "Greatness and genius--like love and compassion and joy and God, and most of the supremely important things in life--are vague and indefinable, more complex than we will ever be able to fathom, acting in mysterious ways spread tenuously across history and measureless numbers of people."

Amen brother.

Martinis and Mountains

Folks, I wish I had time to post some of the highlights from last night with Gay and Nan Talese, but I have to catch a plane to Utah soon. I'm off to enjoy some of the fresh powder they're getting out there at Snowbird with my girl Kristi. I'll drink a 3-2 beer in your honor while I'm gone.

I will say this: Gay Talese is 74, he held my hand, and that man can suck down a martini faster than I can. He's truly a dapper wonder to behold.

World Famous Research Skills Get Nod

I had to spend seven years as a real journalist before I was able to build up $73 in my savings account, thus allowing me to quit my day job and commit to the life of luxury slash frantic job-juggling that I fret over today.

Thus, everyone knows that I have all kinds of snoopy, sneaky tricks up my sleeve when it comes to Google and Nexis or any other "real reporter" type resource. Give me your first initial and your favorite color and in five minutes I'll be telling you your own life story. I'll be telling you stuff about yourself that YOU didn't even know.

Still, it was an honor when the quirky yet sophisticated TAN, Gawker's special correspondent for brown people, asked me to help him dig up some authentic Wigger poses to help illustrate his piece today about why February should be rechristened Wigger History month, and blacks should enjoy more time in the sun.

Thanks, TAN!

The Transformation is Nearly Complete

So yesterday a friend of mine told me I was “un- New York” because I tend to wear my seat belt in cabs. I know it’s kind of weird, but I also like to avoid whiplash when I can, and my brother-in-law Mike was nearly killed in a cab accident coming back to Brooklyn from the airport, so whatever.

But today – nearly seven years since I moved to New York -- I think I have attained the status of naturalized New Yorker. Why?

Because today I became a CONSULTANT.

Ahhh, the consultant. The consultant to a new New Yorker is a mysterious beast. When I first moved here, I’d meet them all the time. What do you do? “I work on Wall Street.” Oh really, what do you do? “I’m a consultant.” Um, what does that mean? “I consult.” Hoooo-kaaaaay…

Knowledge of the consulting business is nothing you can learn from a book. You can’t train to be a consultant, or get a degree in consulting. It’s one of those things about the New York business you just have to learn about through osmosis, until it becomes an ingrained part of your big city self that you don’t even actively think about anymore, like pre-walking on the subway platform or knowing where to find a public bathroom.

Anyway, apparently I've been here long enough to understand how to be a consultant. My first day as a media consultant at a policy think tank went something like this:

Genius man with PhDs: “Erin, what do you think we should do?”
Erin: “Blah blah blah, media strategy, blah blah blah, press, blah blah…”
Genius man with PhDs: “Oh my god, you are BRILLIANT! We LOVE you! We would have NEVER thought of that. Can we throw some money at you? Do you want a foot massage?”
Erin: “Um. OK?”

I don’t really know what to think about all this adoration and fiscal largesse coming from an employer; I’m certainly not used to it.

I’m just hoping that once they implement my “brilliant” strategies that they have the desired effect. Because if they don’t, I’m going to feel like a real dolt.