Yes, I am the kind of person who indulges in inappropriate humor for the sake of shock value. Yes, I am perversely obsessed with euphemisms for genitalia. Yes, I know that writing about vagina will likely mean that I can still keep some lesbian cred. But I earnestly reviewed my new doctor because she was that good. After taking what looked like a miniaturized toilet brush to my cervix I still wanted to sing her praises. After five different doctors looking at my nether region over the span of six months, I’ve learned that not all OBGYNs are the same. Granted, I never spat at the ones who freaked me out, or wrote angry letters to the ones who neglected to ask me questions, or keyed the cars of those who gave me backward advice. I happen to think that looking at labia all day can probably fry a brain pretty quickly, similar to pornography editors or swim coaches.

The main reason why this doc had me clicking a five star rating on a website is because of what other doctors fail to do. The average primary care doctor spends less than eighteen rushed minutes with their patient. This seems like a ton of time to me, considering that I’ve often been in and out of an office with an exchange that amounted to a two-word description – "it hurts," "it’s swollen," "can’t breathe." I’ve always been prescribed antibiotics, but I’ve rarely understood what was wrong with me when I left. I don’t blame the doctors. They have to spend the majority of their day filling out paperwork and micromanaging bureaucratic nonsense due to the insurance debacle of this country. So for this woman to sit down with me both before the exam and after, and for her to take the time to ask me about my history, it was a welcome change from the harried gyno visits from the past, most of which seemed more like unwilling one night stands.

Gynecologists probably have to deal with more paperwork than other doctors, too. This is an assumption I’ve come to after reading that their insurance premiums are among the highest in all specializations. Being sued for malpractice is one thing when a scar doesn’t heal correctly or a boob implant leaks, it’s something completely different when the health of a baby is involved. Although the majority of malpractice claims end with the ruling in favor of the gyno, this risk of being sued left and right comes with a high price. Moreover, the possibility of being sued lasts long beyond the initial cord cutting, since many problems only show up once the child starts to develop. If my dad is reading this, I don’t think you can sue after your kid turns twenty-five.

Dr. Gershowitz was like a hip version of my grandmother, only a little younger. She buzzed around at the speed of an NBA referee, smiling and chatting with everyone as she made her way from the examination room to the office and back again. This was a change for me. Usually, an exam was sort of like a visit to the DMV. I’d wait for an hour or so, grinding my teeth, and when my name was finally mispronounced, I was treated with the sort of brusque, cranky service that you expect from people who would rather be anywhere but at work. The sun-soaked waiting room and proficient, good humored staff were a change. I had to double-check that I was in the right sort of doctor’s office, as this sort of contentment in a doctor’s office I only associated with nitrous oxide.

Another difference was the exam itself. I’m a hypochondriac by nature, so I naturally approach the examination table as though it were an electric chair. Unsuccessful evasive tactics I have used while in the stirrups include straightening my legs until my vagina was as far away from the doctor as possible, folding my knees towards one another in order to prevent speculum insertion, and holding my breath. I also clench every muscle and orifice in my body once the doctor peeks under the hood, a ridiculous and self-defeating tactic that only makes the whole thing that much more difficult. Like a Bergman film, there’s never much in the way of sensible dialog, simply wincing and doom. It’s not as if I’m so obtuse that I don’t realize that, as with all things, my approach is probably a large part of my problem. But every tactic – from yoga-inspired deep breathing, to visualizing a peaceful forest, to trying to find the humor in the situation – does nothing to sway my screaming brain away from the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable to the point of whimpering. I feel nauseated, sweaty, and as though they’re probing a literal open wound as opposed to a metaphoric one. I just know that I want it to be over and done with, and no relaxation technique that doesn’t come inside of a prescription bottle is going to change that.

In case you believe I’m being glib, my psychiatrist wrote me two prescriptions for anti-anxiety medications for the last visit. Although I didn’t take them due to fierce paranoia when it comes to my sobriety, I had ‘em on hand.

Dr. Gershowitz is not the kind of doctor who allows for those sorts of shenanigans. She realizes that our precious time together is brief, and she’s already gone through the rigmarole of figuring out what’s going on with me medically. The time when I’m on my back is her time to chat, to let loose. I have never had a woman who I wasn’t dating insert two fingers inside of me while telling me about themselves. Moreover, I’ve never been expected to keep up my end of the conversation during a Pap smear. Dr. G actually looked at me with what was almost impatience when I hesitated offering my opinion about the West Coast as she finished dusting the cobwebs away from my uterus. Oddly enough, this tactic worked. Because she wasn’t letting me lay there and think it was a big deal, and because she acted like this was more of an opportunity to connect, not dissect, I wasn’t allowed to get sucked into my usual spiral of panic. By the time my adrenaline had gotten to the level I normally associate with having that part of me probed, my panties were going back on. I was amazed. Finally I was presented with an example as to why OB/GYNs make nearly $300K a year on average.

When I researched what’s normally involved in the field, I was even more impressed. Sure, like most doctors, gynos have to go to medical school and then partake in a residency program. After that they usually attend some sort of fellowship for a subspecialty, such as Maternal-Fetal Medicine, Reproductive Endocrinology, and Gynecological Oncology. This fellowship often lasts about three years. Following the fellowship there are examinations and certification from the American Board of Obstetrics and Gynecology. Then, after four years of undergrad, four years of med school, and three years of a fellowship, they enter a career where the number of patient care hours per week averages around fifty. Often because of labor and delivery, they work at all hours. Certain practices allow for more schedule control, like private practices where the baby extracting stuff is left to family physicians, hospital OBs, and midwives. Clearly tons of factors like where they practice can affect a gynecologist’s schedule, but you have to think that this is some pretty exhausting work, in spite of those elementary school jokes that the boys made about it being an easy job.

I give every doctor I see a ton of credit. Not only are they busting their ass in a system that is filled with legal minefields, bureaucratic pitfalls, and mountains of paperwork, they also have to hear people complaining all day. If they spend more than two minutes in a room with me and I don’t leave feeling like a donkey’s lower colon, I figure that I owe them a repeat visit. In Dr. Gershowitz’s case, I’d like for every vagina on this damn island to go to her. Their owners would probably leave feeling a whole world healthier and happier. New York would be a more laid back, peaceful place. Maybe the girl next door would even start smiling at me in the hallway. But I kind of doubt it.

And to put the cherry on the oversharing sundae, I have menopausal level estrogen, which means that reproduction will require more scientific intervention than Jeff Goldblum’s acting in The Fly. Although I’m under thirty, for me to have a baby, a sperm would needed to be guided into my egg with more precision and planning than a moon landing.

I’m not going to allow myself to be guilty of what made me start this experiment in the first place. I won’t preach to you. Unless your head is filled with rocks, you know that what you eat has a direct impact on your health. To me, the key benefit to going vegan was simple. I no longer felt like shit. I wasn’t a big meat eater to begin with, but I consumed a Super Walmart dairy section’s worth of milk products per day. We’re talking a 16 ounce container of fat free cottage cheese in a sitting, at least once a day, on top of skim milk drowning my cereal in the morning, punctuated by Greek yogurt for a snack. The only way I could describe how I felt as I kicked the dairy habit was like my stomach and intestines had been suffering from a stuffy nose that suddenly cleared. Going vegan was like spraying Afrin in the nostrils of my digestive tract. I suddenly felt lighter, less bloated and congested. I ain’t gonna lie, it was no fun at all to begin with. I still crave that tub of cottage cheese quite often, but fortunately there are some tasty alternatives, like cinnamon-bun flavored soy yogurt, or even just raw nuts. Yup, it’s true that your taste buds change when you start cutting out those foods that had their hooks in your tongue.

I’m just going to throw it out there and let y’all know that my skin mysteriously cleared up around the same time,  that my energy level skyrocketed. It could have been my liver wringing out ten years of severe alcohol abuse. Or it could have been the fact that I was consuming a plant-based diet. (Or the fact that I was spending my nights in bed reading while Simon went out to spin records at the bars. Nothing holds a candle to the health benefits of a full eight-hours of shut-eye.)

After I quit drinking, which was about a month before I decided to veganize my diet, my vices were Splenda, non-fat French vanilla flavored non-dairy creamer, and Diet Pepsi. These days I’d list them as dried figs, Medjool dates, kombucha tea, and Red Star nutritional yeast. Blimey! I’ve become one of them! I’d like to say that once I became a card-carrying vegan, I received a package from headquarters that included two pairs of black skinny jeans, five new tattoos, and a septum ring. But even though all of those were things I procured after going vegan, they are unrelated, I think. I learned from doing this that a lifestyle choice isn’t an aesthetic thing, although – as with any so-called subculture – there are those who are attracted to the idea of veganism simply because of the fact that it’s different. But poseurs are everywhere, and since opening my mouth and consequently my mind, I’ve found that vegans come in all shapes and sizes, from the marathon running dad, to the preteen animal activist. Yes, it’s true, I’ve hung out with vegans who were not all twenty-something, Caucasian, educated Band of Horses fans. And although Portland is a town that seems to be run by animal-eschewing foodies, New York is a close second-best.

For anyone who is already vegan and who is thinking of opening a business, I give you my blessing. Although I couldn’t find any specific statistics, I will say that the main companies and restaurants I’ve relied upon to keep my stomach full of vegan vittles have not closed in the past two years. The restaurants out here that cater to this particular clientele seem to have a passionate following, and I’m hopeful that time and research will prove that even though they are providing provisions for a very particular niche, you can be successful if you craft a business around certain ideals. Although the hypocritical cynic in me would probably scoff  at a steak house, or the converse of the places and platters that I love (the opposite of salad must be milk-chocolate smothered bacon or something on the menu at Churrascaria Plataforma,) I will admit that I’m surprised that vegan shops and markets seem to thrive, even in a city so notorious for destroying small businesses like a smoke-belching, ever-hungry bankruptcy dragon. 

If you’re thinking of trying out a plant-based diet, even if it’s only for a month, here are some resources and advice.

Advice:

• You will fart at first. A lot. Like, to an alarming degree. Just be prepared. Don’t go to any silent films, don’t sit on the bus next to cute strangers, and maybe practice in the back of yoga class for a while. 
• If you’re lucky enough to have health insurance, or a friend who’s in med school, check in with them before you start. The last thing you want is to be mildly anemic before you start fucking with your diet. In spite of the negative press, veganism isn’t necessarily tied to iron deficiencies. (Believe it or not, dried beans and dried fruits are two of the best sources of iron you can chomp on, while that whole spinach schpeel is a myth.) 
• Drink a fuckload of water. That is an actual unit of measurement, and I urge you to drink as close to a fuckload as you can a day. 
• Don’t be an asshole. Your friends might have problems with your new diet, you might have to deal with a lot of lip service, but this doesn’t mean that you should become some sort of preachy zealot. Remember to take the high road. You’re trying this out for whatever reasons – you want to improve your health, you needed to do something for Lent, some cute girl in your class was reading The China Study – so simply stick by them. People will chill out if you just stay consistent and don’t argue. Of course, this comes from a woman whose boyfriend passive-aggressively watches Man vs. Food during dinner and makes orgasm sounds while doing so.

Resources

On-linear: 
VegWeb is the go-to spot for recipes, discussions, and articles on vegetarianism and veganism. It’s a good place to start, and the comments below the recipes are really useful, especially if you happen to be inept when it comes to directions like yours truly.

Fat Free Vegan Kitchen (and its predecessor Fat Free Vegan Recipes.) Don’t be fooled! When Susan says "fat free" she just means without the artery-clogging trans fat and high-fructose corn syrup of processed foods. There’s plenty of olive oil, avocado, and nut-based goodness in here to keep your system running, and the veganization of some of her favorite Southern recipes from a childhood in Louisiana certainly wouldn’t be considered "lite" fare. (Think creamy Creole eggplant casserole and fat-free donuts.) But this blog is a godsend for an incapable cook such as myself who likes to keep things at least somewhat healthy. After all, I live with a dude who views the five main food groups as apple turnovers, candy, bacon, pizza, and Goldfish crackers.

Girlie Girl Army and its founder Chloe Jo Davis will appeal to even your most high-maintenance, label-coveting cousin. The site includes everything from information on sample sales to adoptable pets. It’s activism with allure, like Vogue magazine for vegans, only with a sense of humor and a lot of edge. Bonus points: the Army sends out a weekly newsletter, so you get tips and treats in your Inbox without having to do anything. Awesome for those of us who like feeling better about ourselves without lifting a finger.

Food Fight Grocery. Okay, confession. When I lived in Portland, going to this grocery store was the heterosexual-male equivalent of walking into a strip-club. I knew I was going to drop a lot of money, but it would be worth it for what was about to invade my pupils like one-thousand sparkly rainbows. And I’m not just talking about the food. Sure, their actual aisles and online store are filled with a plethora of snacks, staples, and sweets, but the boys who keep the shop running…well, let’s just say they’re my centerfolds. Smoking-hot vegan boys with tattoos getting shit done in a small business? Swoon.

Locavore

New Yorkers:

Gobo restaurant is my favorite mid-level veggie place where I can take omnivore friends and have them be confused at the menu, but pleased with the chow. (Actual dialog: "What’s Satan?" "That’s seitan. It’s good. Eat it.") It’s got a cute set-up, though the sound level can get a bit ridiculous. I recommend their juices, and the spinach wonton soup. For old-school New York veg-heads out there, Gobo is the cousin of the late Zen Palate.

Everyone I know swears by Candle 79 and Candle Cafe. We’re talking serious foodies telling me that I should take a Bic lighter to my buttcheeks and make my way there right now. The two or three times we’ve made reservations something has come up, which means that the meal I will eventually eat there is destined to irrevocably change my life or give me superpowers. The restaurant is fancy, while the cafe is slightly scaled down for more casual meals. With offerings that include a daily special of hand-cut pasta, I am an idiot to have not gone yet.

Other places that have been lauded that I haven’t tried include Stogo and Babycakes. I confess that this is because I’m not a huge dessert fiend.

Stogo is a non-dairy ice cream parlor. Read that again and let your brain get acclimated to it. Three flavors that made my eyeballs salivate include soy based Mexican Spiced Chocolate, coconut-milk based pina colada, and hemp based Maple Walnut. I’ll post a first-person review of this joint once it stops fucking snowing and I can actually walk beyond a two-block radius without drowning in grey sludge.

Babycakes is famous for their vegan cupcakes, and even my passionately burger-loving friend who views vegan fare as "non-food" is known to make special trips to this shop during her time of the month. They have flavors that include red velvet and carrot, along with other baked goods, like cinnamon buns. Non-New Yorkers take note, they ship.

I used to love teany cafe, the vegan tea house and nosh nook founded by my boyfriend’s doppelgänger, Moby. Turns out the place got gutted in an electrical fire last June, no word yet on when it’s reopening. I’m pretty sure they’re still shipping their selections of 98 different tea varieties, so it’s worth checking out their website. Hopefully it will reopen soon.

In Norman, Oklahoma, the Earth Cafe and Grocery, Gray Owl Coffee, Sweet Basil, and Misal restaurant were all great for vegan fuel, which you may find surprising in a state that ranks fifth in the nation for cattle production.

In Portland, Oregon, where I went vegan, I would say that the entire town was helpful in maintaining a vegan diet. The Blossoming Lotus Cafe and the Bye & Bye bar were probably my two favorite vegan hangouts, though. If you’re passing through Puddletown, check them out, and I mean actually check them out, as the staff at both places is very easy on the eyes.

• Cheat sheet:
• There are articles online that are much better at explaining how to go vegan than this one. Look ‘em up. Read Skinny Bitch if you’re in the mood for a quick read that explains why this lifestyle change works for some people. If you’re a brainiac, tackle that aforementioned book, The China Study. Actually, fuck it, everyone should read at least a little bit of both. Form your own opinion.
• Vegans are not all animal rights activists who throw red paint on your leather boots.
• Sometimes veganism can be a sign or a trigger for an eating disorder. If you’re prone to that sort of thing, or you know a new vegan who has struggled with her body image in the past, just keep that in mind. It’s worth noting.
• Vegans are fucking hot. Seriously. Hottest fucking guys in the world. I believe I have touched on this point several times during this post, but I cannot touch on it enough. Heh.

Final Thoughts:
I can’t say that I’m always spot-on when it comes to my veganism. It’s progress, not plant-based perfection. I’m still on the fence when it comes to my stance on honey, and I get side-swiped by an errant sushi dinner or seduced by the soft swirls of soft-serve froyo, but I consider veganism to be one of the better health choices I’ve made. As with everything, I try to remember that being rigid and obtuse about any choice can be off-putting. It’s better to have an open mind and enough self-knowledge to explain yourself in an argument without being defensive. Of course, I’m standing on this soap box right now, so the view’s a little better for me.

In case you’re interested, face plant was the first blog I ever wrote, documenting my exploration of veganism which consequently, like blogging, became a way of life.

Share your tasty thoughts and edible experiences with me if you’d like. You can always write me at AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. I love getting email, I read it over lunch.

Last March, my mom was diagnosed with cancer following a routine scan to figure out why her back and stomach were bothering her. As they called us to the doctor’s office to share the results, we knew it was bad. Doctor’s usually tell you what you need to know over the phone, ’cause they have long afternoons of golf to get to. When we went into the exam room and were told that my mother’s liver was covered in metastatic lesions, I felt as though my skeleton caved in, but I pursed my lips and asked the doctor the necessary questions as though I were interviewing a writer for House. I looked at my mother, so small and shocked, and I knew I had to rise up and take charge. Not because I was so close to her (although we spoke frequently, we didn’t really get along) but because she didn’t have anyone else to be there and step up. It felt like the right thing to do, and moreover, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. Selfish, I know. Over the following five months from her diagnosis to her death, I made a point to try to keep myself together, and for the most part, I did. It took a lot of yoga, a lot of aggressive music, and several Yankee games, but I was able to stay sober and present for my mother, without casting more than a fleeting internal glance on how I was feeling. I figured I’d deal with it later.

After mom died, I had to execute the funeral arrangements, clean and sell her house, get rid of cars, animals, things, and find a place to live. I didn’t have the spare time to get all soggy and snot-covered. A lot of people observed that I didn’t seem to be grieving. They asked me if I was okay in that tone that led me to believe that they thought I was about to skinny dip in the East River wearing some concrete Converse. I kept saying that I was fine, that it would hit me later, when everything was done. I didn’t believe a word of it. To me it was just lip service to get the perfume-soaked old broads off my back, and to shut that stupid hospice grief counselor up. I was fine. I’d read Camus and Hesse in grade school, I’d learned how to cut through emotion with logic, to temper desperation with reason and philosophy. I. Was. Fine. Similar to the way women mourn in Bali, I tried my best not to cry, as though that were a humiliation, a demonstration of how incapable I was to cope and take care of what needed to be taken care of.

Two days ago I was walking to a cafe to do some work. For the past two weeks or so I’d had nightmares every night. Not always graphic ones, like zombies eating my dog or Rush Limbaugh flashing me his genitals, just uncomfortable dreams, ones that made me wake up restless and exhausted. Some of them about my mom, most of them just about random shit. On my walk I was wrestling with this fatigue when something happened, something inside of me broke, I guess that’s the only way to put it. I couldn’t stay at the cafe. I went home. I was agitated, frayed, unable to focus. I looked at my apartment, everything having been moved in and unpacked, Simon’s issue of The Economist and his gloves on the chair, my books all lining the shelf. I saw the photograph of my mother holding me, one of my favorite ones. According to my mom’s handwriting on the back, we’re at the zoo. In the picture I’m an infant, reaching for the camera, while my mother smiles, holding me at my waist. I started to cry. For four hours I collapsed into a drooling, mucus-spewing mess. (To be fair, I didn’t help myself out by listening to The Magnetic Fields and Cat Power while this was going on.) I struggled to work, but found myself staring at the screen, the window, the floor, sobbing. Even in my days of alcoholic emotion, where I’d break the nearest plate to emphasize a point, or make out with somebody’s girlfriend to express joy, I’ve never felt overwhelmed quite like this. Trying to rely on logic to pull me away from the puddle of fluids I was creating, I struggled to think of a trigger. I couldn’t. Still can’t.

In normal people, responses to grief can be really intense. Breathing problems, cotton-mouth, appetite issues, and nightmares are commonplace. Repetitive motions to try to ward off or avoid pain can occur. (I will admit to a vigorous shaking of my head when I have a particularly vivid memory.) Hallucinations are even reported in certain cases of early grief. Basically, it’s scientifically proven that it’s okay to lose your shit. But six months later? Is this a sign that I’m one of the ones who starts a motel and harasses people with a knife in the shower?

I’m not sure what the grieving process is, or what’s considered normal. I’ve lost a grandmother, a dog, close friends, and I’ve always processed it as an event, just like writing about something difficult. I answered the questions in my head, the who, what, when, where, and why, and let that serve as an epitaph. As though understanding something disarmed its potential for an emotional response. As though telling myself that death is just a part of life and it happens to everyone, move on, would get me through the loss of my mother without much more than ten minutes of yowling in the pew of a church next to her bright pink coffin. Maybe for some of us mourning isn’t something that we do in a house of worship, or among the company of friends and family. I’m beginning to realize that I can only really be vulnerable in my solitude. Which is makes sense, when I think about it. It used to be that I could only be vulnerable when I was talking to my mom.

In Ethiopia, grieving family members are given assistance by a community group called an edir. The edir cooks, cleans, and donates money to the family. Many cultures respond to death by helping: feeding the family of the dead, planning a funeral, hosting a party, performing religious rites. I didn’t feel let down by my mother’s Catholicism or by the community of people she surrounded herself with, they were like worker bees, plying me with baked goods and teary-eyed stories. In response, I felt as though I needed to be there for them. My mother was the kind of person who refused help even when she needed it, and, like my stature and love of Neil Diamond, it’s something that she passed on. Perhaps the other day was some sort of delayed response, the "later" I kept waiting for, a moment where I was alone and there was nothing to do other than work and sit and think. It’s in those moments that I realize I won’t hear her chopping basil while listening to Cher, or smell her Obsession perfume as she puts on her coat, or hear her gasp for air in the way she did when she truly laughed at something, never again. I’ve suddenly come to realize that this isn’t a vacation, she isn’t coming back. My mind and my insides have slowly grown accustomed to the tiny moments of defeat, I go to call her, I can’t, I try to plan a visit to her house, it’s no longer hers, I want to send her an email, but I don’t even know the password to her account to delete it. When she was dying I told her that I found myself mentally treating it like she was going on a trip,  like a cruise or a Caribbean adventure. "Me too," she responded. "Isn’t that funny?"

Although I’m not taking this route, if you’re struggling with the loss of a loved one, grief counselors can be helpful. If you belong to a temple or church, your clergyman or staff there will have resources for you. Groups like GriefShare can help you find a support group, there are even ones that are based online like GriefNet. Contact your local hospital for other support group options, and, of course, if your loved one had hospice, grief counseling is available for a year or more following death. Most cities have grief counselors available as well, the best thing to do would be to look up a nearby mental health practitioner or a counselor certified by the American Academy of Grief Counseling who can help give you guidance and strength to get through the aftermath.

The only way I can suffer through the commercialized display of pressured gift giving and the frantic reserving of a table for two is to pretend that the holiday is all about bumping uglies, which is basically how I slog through every day. I imagine the overly-starched suit holding hands with his gift-hungry lady, passing her a pink-paper wrapped box after feeding her chocolate fondue. She’s imagining diamond earrings, but this kiss does not begin with Kay. Instead, inside the box, she finds the Sqweel, or bejeweled nipple clamps. This sort of vivid imagining is the only way to endure the statistic that 53% of women would break up with their boyfriend if he didn’t get her something for Valentine’s Day.

Other than being a perv, I’ve found that an effective way of approaching topics that I scoff at is to integrate numbers and facts. For instance, there’s Simon’s favorite detail from last year: On Valentine’s Day 2009, the #1 Google search term was Olive Garden. The top ten included Longhorn Steakhouse, Texas Roadhouse, Applebees, Red Lobster, and Outback, ’cause nothing says "Please give me a holiday mandated blowjob" quite like a Bloomin’ Onion. Search term #45 was "boobie miles," which is always saved in my Internet search history. Also in the top 100? Venereal disease. Stay classy, Google.

On average, people are expected to spend $103 on Valentine’s Day. That is ridiculous, and that’s also down 5% from last year. Men are the big spenders, anticipated to fork over $133, while the cervixes in their life are only expected to spend $72. Of course, the percentage of individuals expected to celebrate by boning is equal, with 25% of both genders banking on bonking.

To be a perv once more, this percentage seems low to me. Really? Only 25% of people polled expect to get laid on the so-called holiday of love? Maybe they only polled people over the age of 60. But even then, there’s always Viagra, Cialis, and whatever other pills come with the dreaded and completely unwelcome threat of a four hour long erection.

Let’s calculate the stats as to why younger women should bump that percentage at least to a healthy half: There are roughly 120 single men in their 20s for every 100 single ladies in that same age range. YOU OUTNUMBER US BY 20. Which means that we get our pick. (Or, in a bisexual’s case, there are a solid 220 for every one.) Of course, in my newfound hometown of New York, single ladies outnumber gents by over 210,000. Hey, it’s a small island.

Nearly 36 million heart-shaped boxes of chocolate were hocked in 2008, but cramming your lover full of cocoa wasn’t always a romantic gesture. In France, centuries ago, chocolate was labelled a "barbarous and noxious drug," which is probably a line that Jillian Michaels uses on The Biggest Loser. The French court only warmed up to chocolate as medicine, and it had to be deemed a worthy potion by the Paris faculty of medicine for it to even get that popular. In fact, Pope Pius V decreed chocolate so gross, he told his followers that drinking it wouldn’t break the communion fast. So back in the 1500s, cocoa was considered a romantic no-no. I can only imagine that this is the whole premise of that book Why French Women Don’t Get Fat.

Time traveling back to the aughts, 15% of all men in the U.S. have paid for sex in a more direct manner. Of course, dinner and some long-stemmed roses for 133 bucks is cheaper than the $540 a high-end escort can cost for a date. And here are some more numbers to make cozying up to your sweetie that much more unsavory:

• 57% of dudes admit to cheating, while 54% of ladies admit to infidelity.
• 74% of men say they’d cheat if they knew they could get away with it, compared to 68% of women who said they’d do the same. (I hate to say it, but I think these numbers are bullshit. I can’t imagine less than 3/4 of everybody saying they’d do it if they wouldn’t get caught.)
• 17% of divorces in America are due to infidelity.
• 10% of affairs last only one day, with the average length of an affair being 2 years.
• And if you’re a piece on the side, don’t get your hopes up. Only 3% of men divorce their wives and marry their mistresses.

Geeks, beware. 46% of guys think that on-line affairs count as adultery, too. Considering that the average online dating bachelor or bachelorette spends $239 per year on the service, you’d best hope that there’s some sort of ROI.

Hopefully that 25% of sexpectant individuals will be smart and be safe and not turn V-Day into STD Day: Durex says its sales spike 20-30% around Valentine’s Day. A less positive statistic? There are more home pregnancy tests purchased in March compared to any other month. Be wary of warts, too. It’s estimated that at least 50% of all sexually active men and women will get human papillomavirus (HPV) during the course of their quest for intercourse. There are two types of HPV: low-risk and high-risk, with high-risk being the one that can cause cervical cancer and other nastiness. Fortunately, in 90% of HPV cases, the body’s immune system will kill off the disease within two years, meaning that by V-Day 2014, you’ll be HPV free and just another statistic.

For those of you looking to be fruitful and multiply this long Valentine’s Day weekend, this little tidbit will make having another mouth to feed in your family of four pale in comparison. Back in Russia in the 18th century, a woman set a record that still hasn’t been broken. She had 69 kids. That’s 27 pregnancies, sixteen pairs of twins, seven sets of triplets, and four sets of quadruplets. She also could park the family mini-van inside of her vagina. That big mama was topped by the Guinness Book’s big papa, a Moroccan emperor who spunked himself 867 kids (that’s 342 daughters and 525 sons.)

As for the rest of us looking to knock boots, let’s add some notches to our bedposts. In a survey of people between the ages of 20 and 59, women only averaged four sex partners in their lives, while men had an average of seven. I’m hoping that they were all lying, otherwise statistics show that I am a very big slut.

75% of men always reach orgasm during sex (let’s make it 100% this weekend, guys,) while only 29% of chicks hit the peak. No more faking, ladies, even though this might be the day where the most public displays of deception take place. 15% of women send flowers to themselves, so don’t get overcome with jealousy when you’re snotty coworker gets a delivery from FTD.

As for some of my favorite stats and facts that I found along my journey to quell the seething I feel for every paper heart and jewelry store commercial, these are a few humdingers.

One out of ten married adults typically sleep alone. That means that 12% of your friends on Facebook, the ones who gushed about their change in status and posted an album called "Our Big Day," they’re actually solo sleepers.

3% of pet owners will buy presents for their pets. Snack  gets gifts regularly, and from her appearance you’d assume she consumes a box of cordial cherries a day.

The average erect penis is five to seven inches long, with a four to six inch circumference. That means that the average penis is the size of the average blue ringed octopus, only the venom of that cephalopod will kill you, as opposed to simply staining your sheets. (Fun fact about the blue ringed octopus: The males will try to mate with one another, and sometimes they only succeed in humping the females by blinding them. The lady blue rings are often observed removing the males by force.)

Of course, my vitriol about V-Day is a bit of preaching to the choir. One in four Americans don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day at all. But don’t let the holiday itself make you sick, after all, February 14th was the date that penicillin was discovered, back in 1929.

I leave you with the greatest web video Vamlumtime of all time, courtesy of Homestar Runner’s Teen Girl Squad. Happy Humping.

For the record, I have never been to an Outback Steakhouse.

Food stylists get paid to make people want to eat shit. The burgers you see on Whopper commercials, with their golden, fluffy buns and thick, dripping patties really pale in comparison to the hockey pucks on soggy bread that you get at the ‘King. And what about those chicken, er, bits that make your mouth become the set of Rescue Me and tigers jump through your eyes, the ones that are hocked by KFC? (Or KGC? They’re going through some sort of rebranding.) In all likelihood they don’t come with genuine grill marks and juicy centers. Friendly’s commercials? You know that aerosol whipped cream doesn’t look like that. Denny’s? I never saw a Grand Slam where every item didn’t look like it had been put through a washing machine filled with Astroglide. And all of those gorgeous photographs that grace the pages of fading magazines? Food stylists are the evil sorcerers who make you actually think that you can cook sweet and sour eggplant and onion stew and have it look like something that hasn’t been regurgitated by a frat boy on Saturday morning.

All of this said, it’s pretty cool how food stylists get you to gain ten pounds. And, even more appealing, once you know that those pancakes are actually slathered in motor oil, maybe the IHOP commercial won’t make you dash out in your pajamas in the dead of night and scarf down a Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity with a side order of self-hate.

Take note that a lot of the tricks are only gross ’cause they’re combined with scarf-worthy goodies. The reason why they have to at least include some elements of real food is because the rules of advertising. After all, how can you truly be paid to sell salad dressing if your commercial only includes propylene glycol?

If you’re sitting in front of the TV and find yourself seduced by the burlesque of bacon or the temptation of turkey, keep in mind that a lot of the meat products are raw. Poultry is usually completely raw, or briefly cooked just to get the skin slightly browned. The rest is done with a blowtorch. The shrimp, lobster, and other ocean delights caught by the ever-capable fisherman Long John Silver and his cousins the Red Lobster and Mr. Sizzler are all coated in glycerin to make them look wet and succulent. The practical application of this in my own life is a sort of kinky possibility. After all, the stuff’s non-toxic.

Most of those curvy breasts you see on television are turkeys injected with mashed potatoes just below their skin. Mashed potatoes are almost like the duct tape of food styling, they’re also an option when it comes to making believable-looking ice cream that won’t turn into drippy goo like a teenage girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. Stylists scoop the starch, freeze it, and then use it in the place of French vanilla on a wafer cone. And when you think those drips of syrup would only be more perfect atop your girlfriend’s boobs, it pays to consider that there are often tiny, curled up pieces of paper towel below them, in order to make them look more drip-tacular and symmetrical. (Ever squeeze Hershey’s on ice cream? It often just runs straight off, no drips, no sensuous droplets. Paper towels apparently are a lot more forgiving than mocha chip.)

Mashed potatoes might be a good ’scream stand-in for some, but for the real pros, they go to Trengove Studios. Based in New York, Trengove is the go-to place for everything from replica resin cherries to that super-cool crushed ice you see sliding down the barrel of a Bud, or droplets of water (brand name, Aqua Drops) weeping along the neck of a Dos Equis. Since 1985, Trengove has been providing fake food and handmade replicas of comestibles to the full spectrum of food photographers and stylists. The best from the best doesn’t come cheap, however. Most of the faux food on the site costs more than an entree at even the toniest New York City restaurant.

Of course, if you can’t pay $58.00 for a scoop, you can always use another mix for ice cream trickery, Crisco mixed with powdered sugar in it, which I do believe is an actual Southern dessert.

Recently, the push for local and organic food has altered the image industry, making the emphasis on "realistic" looking munchies, versus picture-perfect ones. Another shift has come courtesy of technology. Back before digital photography was all the rage, stylists were lucky to get about five shots completed in a day’s work. Today, even though food still suffers under hot studio lights, the average day of shooting can net 15-20 twenty shots, as digital film allows photographers, stylists, and the overlords of the media to make sure that each picture entices the dumb public to scarf down White Castle. For any of you who may be foolish enough to shed a tear for the rail-thin, rail-sniffing models who grace the glossies, food really does have a rougher time on set. Noodles are pinched and swirled with tweezers, fruit is sprayed with deodorant to give it a frosty look, and cake is attacked with hair spray to make it appear fresh and moist.

If playing with your food appeals to you, and you enjoy working with photographers, perhaps becoming a food stylist is your calling. Communications and food science courses are key to have in your background, as you’ll need to be familiar with how both food and ad execs work under pressure. If your goal is to put piping-hot cotton balls beneath a plate of pasta to make it look steaming, then go and get a degree from a culinary school and learn about the chemistry of food. Many, like the Culinary Institute of America, offer concentrations or classes that lend themselves well to food styling. Once you start getting credits for your cuisine education, try to become an assistant to an already established food stylist. A piece of advice for this industry, as with many, is to work your way up. Speak to people who have worked for photographers or ad execs, suck up as much information as you can, like a Shredded Wheat square sucking up 2%. (The way food stylists prevent cereal from getting soggy on a shoot is to use white glue or hair conditioner in place of milk. Yummy.)

But when it comes to watching television or reading a magazine, and hearing your stomach give you a little paradiddle to tell you that Taco Bell is open late and Wendy’s is as real as a cholesterol problem, remember what George Orwell once said, "Advertising is the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket." Chow down.

The Internet is my office. I work using mainly Google Docs, I run Chrome for browsing and use Live Writer for blogging. We use Basecamp for projects, and primarily conduct correspondence through Gmail or Gchat versus the traditional conference call. I’m not disciplined enough to sit at my computer all day, knowing that a world of wonder is one tab away, without peeking behind the curtain. Sometimes it feels a bit like I’m a drunk working as a bartender, only the analogy goes kaput once I recognize that, if that were the case, tiny relapses wouldn’t be discouraged, they’d be welcomed.

See, for me, fucking around on the Internet is my coffee break. Facebook is my break-room. Tumblr is my cigarette. Twitter is my extra long pee and conversation about last night’s CSI with Cheryl from accounting. The problem is, as with any gig, you can’t let the breaks get the better of you. Most of us have worked desk jobs where some sorry asshole (hopefully not you) started getting too caught up in enjoying their downtime, hitting up the MySpace, or bullshitting with their buddies. One day they were called into the boss’ office, and ten minutes later they were carting their belongings down in a box, possibly with a security escort. Every job requires discipline.

I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that working from home, in your pajamas, with the creature comforts of your television, tea kettle, and comforter a mere arms-reach away, makes that battle for focus slightly more difficult. Working on the Internet ups the interruption ante. But I’ve learned that a taste of the forbidden fruit of free time isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ve written before about the benefits of fucking around for a little bit each day. It’s like that guy who used to work two cubicles over, the one who never seemed to leave the office until the day he disappeared. Eventually you heard he was rumored to be in a hospital suffering a breakdown, six years later he’s living on an ashram and going by the name Tandralu. Burn-out is a real thing. But here’s the tricky, sticky part of the Internet being your main means of diversion: you can’t tell if your cigarette break is going to turn out to be a three-hour meth bender. In the "real" world, there are concrete means of getting some time away from your screen. Most of them involve consuming food, drink, or chemicals, and most of them are fairly mundane. To extend the metaphor, if Facebook is my break-room, I’m never sure whether I’ll walk in and grab a quick cup of tea or if I’ll wind up studying the fabric of the couch for a few hours. Getting distracted on the Internet requires vigilance and brute strength to keep it brief, at least for me.

For example, this week the Internet was good for several respites. I took ten minutes to locate an old friend and find out that he’s attending a Masters program for English. I discovered that the guy who passed me his email at the gym is actually a married performance artist from the Midwest. I located the greatest cheap Thai restaurant in our neighborhood. I ordered Sriracha and a wedding gift. All of these things took less than fifteen minutes and helped me to get my brain back on track.

What didn’t work was my quest for a new book, courtesy of a still unused Christmas gift-card from my cousin. Looking up countless tomes on Barnes and Noble ate up the better part of an hour, and amounted to nothing but frustration. (Really, what I keep hoping is that Mary Roach will release, like, six books at once. Somehow I imagine that she’ll either channel Stephen King or develop a speed problem and start writing books the way I complain. By which I mean incessantly.) Also approaching productivity from the opposite corner was a short story competition. Although I wholeheartedly believe that writing for competitions is a vital part of my upkeep as a professional, it can drain a lot of energy, especially when I’m working under a deadline. It doesn’t allow for any real downtime either, since downtime spent crafting a story isn’t exactly the same sort of time suck as, say, looking at pictures of Lady Sovereign on the web. Email is also a fucking Molotov cocktail thrown at the window of my ambition. Sure, I’ll get to those other 175 headlines, right after I write back my friend who is going through a breakup, my pal who is dealing with the ice storm in Oklahoma and wants to know a good app to kill time, and my very favorite yoga instructor who is just "checking in." Those emails only took…well, the truth is that I can’t tell you. I didn’t respond to all of them, because when I noticed how close to the wire it was, I abandoned that second email mid-sentence. It’s still saved in Drafts.

I don’t know if I can say that there are hard and fast rules to budgeting your breaks. I believe that, as with all things freelance, you have to design your own system. One of the greatest graphic designers we know works from his basement from midnight until 4AM every day, getting buckets of stuff done. Other developers take hourly breaks to eat Pringles and smoke. (I’m leaving the specifics of that last detail to your imagination.) When it comes to using the Internet as a method of recreation while also using it as your mode of work, it bears repeating that if you throw moderation to the winds, the greatest pleasures bring the greatest pains. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet.

Content as a clam while simultaneously as high-strung as a hamster, I watched the Jets game at my dad’s house along with Simon and Snack. Somewhere around the third quarter I got a phone call from the building’s managing agent, the super needed to get inside the apartment, pronto. There was water leaking through my downstairs’ neighbors’ ceiling. It could only be coming from one place. (No, not heaven.)

The faucet had been loose since I’d moved in. Although Simon complained that it was pretty rickety, I was just grateful to be living someplace that wasn’t my mother’s old house. I’d shrugged off the sink issue, though looking back on it I should have given it a little more thought. After all, that cabinet space below the kitchen sink is there usually for one reason: to cover up the pipes while still providing access to them. It is not a regular cabinet. It is a magic cabinet, discreetly hiding the Wizard of Oz known as interior plumbing. If only I’d taken a moment to apply my one frenetic brain cell to that observation, maybe all of this could have been avoided, but alas.

As a kid, if guests remarked that my room was clean, my dad would tell them to open the closet. That often led to me being regarded as borderline disposophobic or crazy. Since birth, my protocol for cleaning was this: if no one can see it, it isn’t there. So messes of all varieties (excluding food refuse) would be shoved under my bed, inside drawers, and behind the fantastically useful closet door. Known as "closet-cleaning," in Ainsley’s version of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe there would be no Christ references, just a lot of swearing and terror when those British brats opened up my closet to clamber inside. Needless to say, my cleaning m.o. has not altered one iota as an adult. And in this apartment, which is big enough for approximately 1.5 Bhikku monks and their six belongings, cleaning became a game of hide-the-stuff Tetris that  has teetered on the fringe of mania for me. When it came to finding a location for my two blenders, dustpan, five rolls of tin foil, three rolls of Cling Wrap, trash bags, six bags of dog treats and a ten-pound bag of dog food, among other dog-and-cleaning supplies, the minuscule cabinet under the kitchen sink was the only available real estate where the massive amount of unnecessary shit I’d accumulated but couldn’t bear to throw away could find a home. It took a little bit of effort, but it fit. So when both valves exploded into mini Niagra Falls, one could only assume it was just old plumbing and that it had nothing at all to do with the six cubic feet of crap I had loaded into a space the size of a shoebox. Right.

Needless to say, the super shut off the water for the sink and promised to return on a day that there was no football. Meanwhile, my neighbors below were obviously peeved. They didn’t even know someone had moved in above them, and yet their ceiling turned into a cascade during a Chargers’ possession. When all was said and done, the Jets were victorious and my neighbors’ ceiling had water damage. Of course it was my luck to start off on the wrong foot. Instead of sending a pie and a note to greet them with a friendly hello, they wound up with a kitchen that could have been the set for a Kevin Costner post-apocalyptic flop and a pusillanimous, apologizing teacup poodle of a human on their doorstep offering to scrape, paint, and test the electrical outlets. (Not on my own. God only knows that would solve their problem of having an upstairs neighbor in the first place.)

The following day the super arrived with a bucket full of tools and a hearty handshake. It should be noted that we still hadn’t met in person because nothing short of Maynard James Keenan camping out on my fire escape would have brough me home during that game, and also because the rest of the city, including my super, was watching it with rapt attention. He was able to fix the sink in the amount of time it takes me to urinate, so I started asking him some questions. Turns out he’s worked as a superintendent for twenty-five years, first in Brooklyn, then moving to Manhattan for the money. This building is a "union building," and it’s down the block from an auspicious public school, so the relocation was perfect for him and his family. I’d never really thought about building superintendents before. When I’d lived in New York years ago, it never crossed my mind to call anyone but my dad when my fridge conked out or my toilet got clogged. In Portland, the only thing I had that resembled a superintendent was the Google search engine and a peyote consuming roommate whose dad was a janitor. By contrast, Oklahoma was filled with individuals who considered themselves superintendents, they were known as men. To have a human being technically living at the same address as me, whose sole purpose is to fix what gets fucked up, is pretty awesome. And yet, probably pretty difficult for the human being under examination. This was illuminated when I inquisitively stated that I thought the metal pump device attached to the floor of my bathroom probably had something to do with the tub?

"You just saved me a phone call," he said. "You don’t know how many people ring me up, telling me that the water from their shower isn’t going down when it’s really the drain right there."

"You get a lot of those calls?" I asked, incredulous.

"Dozens," he said.

The man troubleshoots teaching people how to use their bathtub. Even if he’s in the middle of a sandwich, or a Jets game, he’s on the clock. Although he’s living rent free, that’s pretty hard work. Some supers get rent discounts, others live rent free, and still others get a salary in addition to free rent, it depends on the situation. I’d educate countless irate tenants on the intricacies of their bathroom if I could live in my apartment for free.

On average the salary for a superintendent is $35,000 in smaller buildings outside of Manhattan. Of course, if you head into the city, this number only goes up. The average salary for a New York City super ranges from $60,000 to $80,000 a year, not including tips and the perks and packages that come with some of the more high-end luxury buildings. The union for superintendents provides a pension and healthcare, which is why a building like the one I’m currently causing leaks in is so coveted.

Moreover, while researching the numbers, an article cited that one superintendent in particular was living rent-free in a two-bedroom, 1.5 million dollar apartment in the city. And I can almost guarantee that he’s not the only one fixing pads high on the hog. New Yorkers are notorious for hiring other people to do jobs that, in Oklahoma, are relegated to family. Unlike Uncle Burt, superintendents need to actually have acquired knowledge of how to fix things like sinks and electric outlets. They also have to be capable of organizing and subcontracting labor. Some superintendents are in charge of collecting rent and making sure that the rules of the property aren’t broken. There’s really no requirement for education, other than a high-school diploma, though some supers have a bachelors degree in property management. Training and certification in different vocations can be helpful, the more that you know, the more tony your gig as a super can be. Although it wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles I read, and although my super didn’t say anything from beneath the belly of my sink, I assume that a lot of their job is calmly and patiently managing complaints, some of them irrational, others plain old silly. They’re likely the psychologists of the building as well, or maybe that’s just my fanciful imagination who would like to put Lorraine Bracco in some overalls tinkering with my under-mount. Again, fielding complaints and manual labor are a fair trade-off for prime New York real estate, and I think that nearly anyone in this city would agree.

All of that said, my super is living across from my laundry room. I haven’t seen the inside of his pad, but I know he has a family, so I can only assume he has enough space and that their laundry days are wildly convenient. This is in stark contrast to mine, which require hauling all of my wares up and down five flights of stairs and through an outdoor hallway. I’m glad that he’s compensated well for his work, fixing my sink and tightening the faucet so it went from rickety to rock solid only cost me $65. Given that the last time a plumber visited my mother’s house I was charged practically double because it was on a weekend and required some sort of fancy part, I was pretty happy. (For the record, the average salary for a plumber is $38,709.)

Tomorrow I’m having the crew that fixed up my mother’s house come in and repair the damage to my neighbors’ ceiling. I can only hope that all goes smoothly and that they accept my apology. Hopefully Peyton Manning will eat a bad pancake on Sunday morning and another Jets victory will bury the leaky roof in the proverbial closet where I hide all of my unfortunate and mortifying memories. Otherwise Mark Sanchez will be doing a little closet-cleaning of his own.

I’ll take a minute here to admit to putting ads on the site. I put ads on the site. Because I’m making no money. And maybe, just maybe, putting ads on the site will afford me some groceries to put in the pantry of the new apartment. Or at least make me feel like I’m going legit.

Other than clogging your eyes with ads, what can I do to raise some revenue? I thought about different varieties of writing that I’d like to try, catalog discriptions and professional wrestling scripts came to mind. But if I write as a side job, then what about what I actually want to write? Would that wither and dry up faster than a normal person’s sex drive when presented with an 8×10 glossy close-up of Mickey Rourke’s new face? I assume I should try something that could be relatively simple and stimulating, that doesn’t require a set schedule or dressing up and playing office. Something that could be lucrative, and possibly secretive. As I wracked my brain I finished a novel that I had to read in place of television. (One of the nuisances of moving is that you have to cut cable on one place and install it in another. At least in New York this feat alone takes roughly as much time as becoming a veterinarian.) The book was called Gods Behaving Badly, by Marie Phillips. I’m not going to spoil the plot, but in it the goddess Aphrodite is a phone sex operator. It was then that I remembered that this was a go-to gig for fellow freshmen in the brief year that I went to Sarah Lawrence.

There was one girl in particular, a butch lesbian with a lazy eye named Ariel. Pudgy, aggressive, the kind of girl who could provide you with a bodyguard or a dimebag of weed, she wasn’t exactly what I’d describe as a male fantasy. But what she lacked in heterosexual charm she made up for with a husky voice. She operated a phone sex line out of her off-campus room and proceeded to put herself through college with little more than a phone line and an occasional marijuana retail business. And it was this hazy college memory, coupled with the fictional goddess of love purring into a Bluetooth device, that suddenly got the clam-craving cogs in my brain turning.

In the late 1980s and 1990s, phone sex hotlines experienced an upswing in popularity due to the 900 number. Callers could choose their ultimate phone fantasy partner, using lines that advertised "no taboos" that allowed for those looking for particular kinks to know that they’d be welcome, so long as they had a method of payment and time to kill. In 1996 the FCC rained on the paid calling parade by changing regulations in order to prevent fraud or abuse of the lines by minors. Party lines, which differed in price and access from hardcore lines, were forced to comply with a list of euphemistic restrictions. From an account of her time as a PSO (as industry insiders call it) Joyce Ventimiglia writes:

“The "party lines" were not considered "hardcore" and the FCC was spot-monitoring to make sure we didn’t say anything obscene. This is a little like ordering a full course meal in a restaurant without mentioning food; it’s really hard to get the point across. For example, we euphemistically replaced the usual dirty words with code phrases like "pussy-cat," "brown-eye" or "man-meat." A typical line would be something like "Oooh big boy, take your man-meat out of my pussy-cat and put it up my brown-eye."’

Other regulations included a prohibition on simulating sex itself, leaving it only as a topic of loudly moaned conversation.

As of 2007, there were only two large chat line companies operating in the United States, one being Sweet Sensations, who are in charge of PhoneSex.com, and The Providence Telephone Company. The Providence Telephone Company changed its business model by providing free chat services that had advertisements that lonely callers were forced to listen to prior to being connected with another person. Other methods of operation include call-back services, where a caller will ring up a secretary who will coordinate a phone call back between them and a willing pay-per-minute person who fits their specific criteria.

The phone sex industry rakes in nearly $500 million a year according to the Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington. In order to start dialing up a piece of that pie you can begin by getting hired or going independent. If I were to choose flying solo I would basically be signing up for the same sort of dedicated daily grind that I endure as a writer. I’d have to set up a website, promote myself, advertise, manage payments, somehow utilize active database marketing, and troll chat rooms for sad sacks willing to shill out some bucks for a human voice.

Working for a company is a little easier.  First you prove that you are over the age of eighteen. Then you have to make sure that you have a quiet place to work and a land-line with a corded phone. Lastly, and most importantly, you have to be patient and able to engage people in conversation for as long as possible. It also helps not to be prudish. I have a quiet place to work so long as Simon has a bag of Goldfish crackers. Snack doesn’t bark much so that’s not a problem either. Setting up a land-line might be a little bit of a pain in the ass, but considering how badly phone companies need to make money I have faith that it could get done. And, hey, maybe I could even invest in that Garfield phone I always wanted.

Things to keep in mind include making sure that your number is protected and that you can get out of the work without any trouble should you decide that it isn’t your cup of smutty tea. As with any job, don’t sign anything until you’ve read all of the fine print, and never, ever pay to work. Be aware that a lot of these companies have become gateways to other Internet-based sex endeavors, mainly web cam performances. The first company to unite the Internet with phone sex was Sweet Sensations back in 1996.

The pay days are varied, with some phone fantasy actresses only pocketing nine dollars a day, some less than $2000 a month. (I’m not going to say anything, but, compared to the amount of work we have right now, a G this month would be peachy keen.) Some girls have flat fees starting at around $20 for ten minutes, with the cents-per-minute going up exponentially after that.

Some savvy phone sex operators make about $60 to $100 an hour, depending on the amount of calls they take and their rates. Because girls are often paid for their "talk time," and not the amount of time they’ve logged in, it’s imperative to talk like a lonely cat owner on a grocery store line. Rates vary but average about .12-.15 cents per minute for the first five minutes, with an increase to .30 cents for the following five, and a jump to .40-.60 cents per minute if the caller stays hooked for over that initial ten. More or less this is the kind of industry where it pays to be a windbag. But at the end of the day, it isn’t a guaranteed steady living.

Payments are usually once a week, with companies demanding little more than a certain number of hours "logged" per week (usually around 10 or more.) According to that old stalwart, Providence Telephone Company, the average length of a call for gay callers was about twenty minutes per call, while straight callers would only gab for ten minutes or so. Interestingly, roughly 30% of all callers were physically challenged or housebound.

I’ll be honest, after reading about it, this isn’t the best line of work for me. I’m sarcastic, cynical, and very, very shy. Things like dumb blogs and Twitter are perfect for a coward such as myself. I hide behind the written word because it allows me the introspection to edit what I say and not actually lend it my high-pitched, often-grating voice. Besides, I pronounce certain words funny, like roof, mirror, and fire. Not as if those are hot button sex words, although perhaps they fall under that FCC euphemism jurisdiction. Moreover, I don’t think that I would be able to tolerate such blatant displays of loneliness. I’m not judging those who call phone sex lines, I’m simply recognizing that I’m not at my most comfortable when confronted with the sad, dejected, rejected, and alone, unless I’m sitting on a folding chair in a Church basement discussing my drinking. Making a profit off of the withdrawn and isolated wouldn’t seem fair, especially if they were imagining tying me to a bedpost and pouring Hershey’s syrup all over my make-believe breasts.

Some people think it would be the best kind of job for those of us with overactive imaginations and potty mouths. Maybe, but I’d still rather explore the option of writing the storyline for professional wrestlers. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about the Feds watching my language.

NOTE: I occasionally put up links or resources to help out those of you who are interested in the kinds of work posted on the blog. With this one I felt weird linking to outright porn. If you’re looking to explore becoming a phone sex operator, Google SexyJobs, Sweet Sensations, or PhoneEntertainers. But, really, if you want to do this kind of thing it’s not that difficult to find a way in, according to everything I read. Certainly it’s not as tough as trying to get new clients as a freelance copywriter. Good luck. Talk ain’t cheap.

Only now it’s before the closing. So I have to get up off of my ass and do something before a green baby starts crawling on my ceiling.

My broker was a good friend of my mother’s, so she calls to check up on me more often than most brokers do. Or perhaps I’m just flattering myself, after all, she’s aching for the closing just as much as I am since she can’t pick up her 4% commission until the papers are signed and the lawyers have given awkward man hugs or chest bumps or whatever it is that they do after they’ve done some maths and netted top dollar. Last night she called and proceeded to go through the list of things I need to do before vacating the premises. I scrawled notes as she yammered on. By the second page I started to feel as though I needed a Pepto shot with an Immodium chaser. Apparently my dog-whistle pitched "uh-huh"s gave away my panic.

"Now, honey," she said in a voice that let me know that she had children. "Don’t hesitate to call me if any of this makes you feel overwhelmed."

I’ve learned in sobriety that you have to ask for help, otherwise you risk really fucking yourself up. God knows that this situation strikes a nerve with me. Back when I was drinking I moved impulsively, leaving behind entire apartments filled with shit that I suddenly "didn’t need," along with social circles wondering if I’d died (an email from the director of a poetry group read, "Next time you decide to leave the state, tell someone.") When I see a cardboard box I start to get itchy. It’s as though the slow slope of the key coming off the keyring ignites some sort of reaction in me. I want to change my phone number, dye my hair, and pretend that NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED. Only this time around, nothing happened. Well, other than my mom dying, but that isn’t anything that moving to a different city can fix.

I’m not good at things like this, to put it mildly. Moving requires organization, which is fine when you’re talking about a project, such as writing the text for a website, or tracking edits on an article, but I lose my ability to focus once serious shit is involved. My eyes start involuntarily glazing over and I suddenly feel myself under the pressure of a very demanding nap schedule. But I can’t shy away from this. The family of four — one of which is an infant daughter named Ainsley, swear to God — is expecting an empty, "broom clean" house to move into. Until then, it’s a race to see if I can successfully get this shit done without knocking myself unconscious or going out and becoming a Lindsay Lohan impressionist.

At this point in reading you may be wondering, “What is it that you need to do that’s so goddamned demanding that it has you whining like a New Jersey housewife whose flight to Miami is delayed?” Here’s a taste.

- Dismantle a king-sized, wrought-iron bed frame, then throw out said frame and accompanying mattress and box spring. I should mention that all of these items are on the second floor of a very narrow two-story house.

- Go through a decade’s-worth of dried goods in two pantries. My mother was a hoarder. When I cleaned out the over-stocked freezer I discovered that there were batches of tomato sauce and cookies labeled from years before she moved. Meaning that she moved food with her in 1999. I can tell you just from standing on a chair and peeking that there is a bottle of ketchup whose color  and logo suggest that it’s been around since U2 was an indie band, and there’s a bottle of unopened A1 whose sheer presence is terrifying since my mother didn’t cook steak or burgers and I haven’t consumed red meat in nearly seven years.

- Choreographing a stranger coming by and picking up the rest of the furniture, including my mattress, while somehow preserving my ability to sleep and comfortably exist for the remaining forty-eight hours of life in this house.

- Cutting off and canceling all of the important stuff, like gas, mail, lights, camera, action. Due to the fact that the only time I can stop twitching with nerves is when I’m planted in front of the television watching CSI or LeBron James (in both situations the nervous tics are appropriate,) I don’t want to cut cable until the very end. Unfortunately I think I have to drop off all of the cable boxes at some undisclosed location, because cable companies live in an alternate, incomparably selfish universe, much like Paris Hilton and cats. 

- Orchestrate moving nineteen boxes and a stair-wary dog up five flights into my new apartment in a five hour window following the closing. It’s a walk-up. Also, figuring out how to get furniture delivered on a Saturday when my brand-spankin’-new super isn’t in the building. Hi! I’m your new tenant, here to inconvenience you from the get-go! Don’t mind the yelling! I do this all the time.

Of course, these are all what Simon commonly refers to as "white people problems." What he really means is that they’re insignificant, "luxury problems," if you will. I agree. But I look at my panic and dread as a positive thing. Six months ago my main complaints were the way chemo was useless, my mom’s ascetis had swollen her out of a wardrobe, and I didn’t know if we would be able to pay our mortgage while simultaneously trying to sustain her healthcare coverage since she couldn’t work. Those were problems. Moving furniture? Potatoes so small they couldn’t adequately feed dust mites. The fact that I’m popping an ulcer over what sort of couch could fit in a seven-foot-long one-bedroom apartment means that my stress level has actually gone down. Life has returned to its normal pace.

I’m always going to have complaints. Not only is it in my nature, but I think it’s part of the modern human condition. Life isn’t perfect unless you make a conscious effort to see it that way, and even then, it’s usually a blend of perception, positive visualization, meditation, and medication. So even though I can’t just "om" my way through the move, I can observe the simple fact that my inconveniences are now non-life-threatening. And although I would trade my easy problems for my mom back in a heartbeat, it’s good to know that when life goes on it doesn’t make too dramatic of a flourish. Unless, of course, you count an artichoke colored couch being hauled up a staircase by a five-foot-tall alcoholic.

Happy New Year. This one’s gonna be better.