Catcalls, Let Me Know I'm Home

A funny thing I missed in London, oddly enough, were catcalls. The Brits are far too polite (read: repressed) to let a lady know she's smokin', especially a lady they've never met before.

Here, in New York, not to say something to a female as you pass her in the street is borderline rude. I am a feminist, and I would hate to simply be sexualized; but in combination with intellectual praise, points for good humor, high fives on accomplishments, a "hey, mommy, how you doin'?" is a nice reminder that I'm in New York, I'm a "mommy" (whatever that means), and that I've managed, without so much as a gesture, to grab the attention of that construction worker.

Of course, some catcalls cross the line; anything with specific reference to my anatomy, for example, is immediately met with a stern look, and if I get the balls someday, maybe even a swift kick to the shin.

"hey, mommy..."