Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Heifering About: An Aspiring Vagrant

If frolicking in mud puddles and heckling passers-by while drinking margaritas is wrong, then I don't want to be right. Must tweak lifestyle strategic plan.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/31/us/31keywest.html

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Heiferlifestyle: The Occasional Vegetarian


I have a friend who is a vegetarian. It's insufferable. We'll be at a dinner party, having a perfectly good time, and then she'll conspicuously ask the waiter if gumbo can be made as a vegetarian dish, which immediately focuses the conversation on the intricacies of her gastronomy and the men at the table spend the rest of the evening trying to convince her to reconsider steak, and this invariably culminates in at least two invitations to Zagat rated restaurants where they will cure her. They see her as a challenge; kind of how they see lesbians.

After months of reasoning with her and calling her a communist in public, I decided that I had no option but to try it. It kind of made sense. As a vegetarian, I would be healthier. My teeth would be whiter. My skin would be more luminous. Yuppies would respect me without my having to read Ayn Rand. So I tried it, and I've learned a lot along the way.

First, you must be prepared. People will demand an explanation, and when they do, you have 4 options:

1. It's for your health. This makes you sound like a sorority girl or will lead to a discussion of your medical history, neither of which is desirable.

2. You like animals. This leaves you vulnerable to the "humans are animals and animals eat each other" argument, to which the only real rebuttal is, "then cannibalism is OK?" which makes you seem... well... creepy.

3. You are Hindu. Unless you look Indian, most people will not believe you.

4. You care about the environment. If you're willing to do a little homework, you'll be able to tailor this conversation to fit your audience. You can describe the sordid underbelly of chicken-raising, or you can brainstorm alternative ways to use the land required for cattle-ranching like a wind farm or a really big slip-n-slide.

Finally, you don't have to be a vegetarian to reap most of its benefits; you just have to act like one.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Heifervoyeur: Collyer Brother Makeover




Why is it that, in order for one to qualify for a house makeover show, one has to dress like a yeti or dumpster dive or live like a Collyer brother?*(see note) When will someone start a we-think-you're-fabulous-but-aren't-quite-reaching-your-potential-beacuse-you-chose-a-career-that's-noble-and-fulfilling-but-doesn't-allow-you-to-wear-chanel-so-we're-going-to-buy-you-presents show?


* The Collyer brothers were New York society recluses who lived in a Harlem brownstone, hoarding trash, newspapers, etc., which eventually piled so high that it fell on and killed Homer. They couldn't find Langley in all of the trash for almost a month. Eventually, his body was found 10 feet from his brother's. Just goes to show, bad things happen when people have too much money and their parents are cousins.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Heifervoyeur: On the Street

Overheard in Union Square Park: An Exchange Between Two Gentlemen

1: I am not homeless.
2: Oh yes you are.
1: I am not.
2: You don't got no home. You're homeless.
1: Nah, I got a place now.
2: You got a place? Where?
1: I got one.
2: Right.
1: **** you, man.

Heifering About in the Woods or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tofudog

My friend wanted to go camping. On purpose. She wanted to strap on a heavy backpack, spray herself with a chemical designed to kill things, refrain from showering for days while it seeps into her pores, and walk straight into the known territory of bears, wolves, mosquitoes, moose, and rapists. Voluntarily. At first, I dismissed this as a mood, but I began to worry when she showed me the wool socks she planned to wear. Wool -- like, the itchy kind that leaves itchy pink rings around your ankles. It's like signing up for middle school.

What's worse, she wanted me to go too. I told her that I had no intention of being raped by a tribe of moose wearing wool socks and that I was allergic to pesticides and that there was a higher risk of contracting an STD in Appalachia than in Manhattan. The only way I would consider going camping is if she arranged for it to look something like this:

A week went by. Then, my friend told me that she had made for the two of us to stay overnight in an Appalachian Mountain Club hut. I didn't have vast experience with huts, but I had read enough Joseph Conrad to know that they were to be avoided. When I voiced this concern, my friend said that we were unlikely to run into fictional psychotic tribal chiefs in New England. I said, "Have you never visited Yale?"

So, on a perfectly good Saturday in March, I found myself in soaking wet wool socks and polyester pants, schlepping a backpack full of water up a snow and mud trail. I had objected to carrying water, pointing out the piles of snow all around, but my friend mumbled something about microbes and walked away up the path.

A warning about hiking. Hiking is walking. Only it takes an hour and a half to walk a mile. If you think that the inch of snow on the ground will be manageable because, after all, it's almost spring, it won't be. As you go higher up the mountain, the snow gets deeper. It's like God is warning you to turn back while you still can. When the snow gets deep enough to reach your hip, you start to worry that you're going to break your ankle and then drag yourself off into the woods to live alone and unnoticed in a lean-to (which you'll have to figure out how to make) until you either contract fatal tuberculosis or a nice family from Idaho stumbles upon your annual mosquito-squeezing ritual and shields their children's eyes.

Against all odds, six hours later, we arrived at the hut in time for dinner. In the off season, there are no meals served, but a hippie oversees the kitchen while the hikers cook their own food. After debating what menu would be least likely to attract wolves or mosquitoes on the trail, we had settled on Annie's mac and cheese, mixed with sliced tofu dogs.

In a hut kitchen, one is expected to be as tidy as possible, while using as little water and power as possible, which is next to impossible. For one thing, they won't turn on any lights until the sun has set completely, so you can't see what you're cooking. For another, it's difficult to light a solar stove on a cloudy day. However, since we were being supervised by a bearded man with a notebook and tacitly by the other campers, we persevered and took turns scrubbing our utensils with natural, biodegradable, exfoliating soap and rinsed our dishes with water from a pitcher, pouring it like we were in a chemistry lab. The Beard snorted when we tucked our food wrappings into a ziploc bag and sniffed when we dumped our leftovers into the compost bin.

An hour later, as we sat in the main room listening to a group of tall women with short hair compare and contrast L.L.Bean and E.M.S. long underwear, the Beard came barreling out of the kitchen in a rage. He waved my tofudog over his head like a Somali drug lord waving a gun. "Who left THIS in the compost bin?!?!" The room stopped and watched each other.

Finally, one of the short hair ladies spoke. "Elspeth, you had tofurkey, didn't you? Could it be yours?"

"No tofurkey has more of a purple tone. That's definitely tofudog. Looks like the Whole Foods kind too. It's much fatter than the Trader Joe's one."

"Oh, yes. You're right."

The Beard circled the room, training the tofudog on each of us. I stood up. "Um... I think maybe that's mine." The Beard turned to me slowly.

"Yours?"

"Yes."

"And you put it in the compost bin?"

"Yes. I thought it was food so, you know, it was biodegradable."

In response, the Beard simply pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then, unexpectedly, one of the ladies came to my defense. "You know, if it's soy, it shouldn't have preservatives that can't be broken down. That doesn't sound healthy for one thing. For another, you'd think that Whole Foods would pay more attention to environmental concerns."

"Louise is right. Someone should do something about this."

"Let's start a letter-writing campaign."

"Oh, sure, Catherine. You know how well that worked for the Meerkat Protection Act last year. Let's picket!"

"Let's boycott!"

"Let's blog!"

"Let's make s'mores!" someone said.

And so, distracted for the moment by prospect of melted marshmallow,we all settled around the biofuel lantern and kept each other awake with stories about the horrors of poultry farming and dogfighting and the corn industry.

Ingredients:
water, isolated soy protein, vital wheat gluten, tofu (water, soybeans), natural flavors (contains autolyzed yeast, yeast extract), salt, wheat starch, evaporated cane juice powder, canola oil, spice, seasoning (spices, dehydrated onion), carrageenan, vitamins & minerals (thiamin hydrochloride, cyanocobalamin, calcium panthothenate, ferric orthophosphate, iron oxide, zinc oxide, dimagnesium phosphate, dipotassium phosphate), paprika and beet powder (for color), extractives of spices. CONTAINS: SOY and WHEAT. Manufactured in a facility that uses egg ingredients.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Strunk and White, Aristotle, and The Bachelor



I watched The Bachlor season finale last night, having never seen the show before. Normally, I avoid reality shows as doggedly as I avoid reality. Though I didn't expect to enjoy the episode, I was pleasantly surprised by the hours of self-satisfied gloating that it afforded me when I reflected upon the following statements:

"There isn't a doubt in my mind..."

The bachelor, his family, and both of the bachelorettes said this several times. While it may be more emphatic than a simple "I have no doubt," it is redundant. Where else does one keep doubts but in one's mind? This obscenely violates Strunk and White's Rule #13: "Omit needless words," and its redundancy was compounded by repetitive use throughout the show. Furthermore, it's annoying... like when people say "irregardless."

"I know my wife is here, but I still don't know which woman is right for me."

This presents an obvious logical fallacy:

Argument of Well-Balanced Person: I would like to be married to a woman. The right woman for me is here. Therefore, I will marry a woman who is here.

Argument of Mad Bachelor: I would like to be married to a woman. There are several women here. Therefore, I will marry a woman who is here.

Heifer's Solution: If you don't know which woman to marry, DON'T GET MARRIED!!! Same rule applies to other issues of import such as the selection of puppies and handbags.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Heifervoyeur: SOS to the World

I just discovered Craigslist Missed Connections, in which people can send messages into the internet abyss for someone they encountered but then lost. In the name of voyeurism, some samples:

"You walk by my stoop every afternoon. Yesterday, you were wearing a chartreuse chiffon poet's blouse with a fabulous pair of vintage eggplant Trina Turk cigarette pants (circa 1993) and cobalt snakeskin Chanel flats. Let me know if you are interested! To prove it's you, write back with the designer of the clutch you were carrying."

"I saw you on the F train at 4:23 pm on Friday. You were reading The Awakening, the Norton Critical Edition. You were on p. 79 and were averaging 3.68 minutes between page turns, which is 1.3 times the national average for Geneva 10 point typeface, which the Norton Critical Edition uses. Could you have been distracted by the dashing man in the goatee standing over you? I've always been a fan of Chopin, but didn't you think it was bizarre how she had to kill herself just because she was a woman? Would love to reconnect."