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With an iced coffee in hand and my canvas bag with the silkscreened silhouette of a squirrel draped over my shoulder, I walked jauntily down a quaint Brooklyn street on my way to Cintra's house, lost in my own thoughts. I don't remember what it was that I was thinking about exactly. It was probably something about "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" since I've been watching the entire series obsessively, thanks to power and convenience of Netflix and several wholehearted recommendations. Yes, I was a Buffy virgin, certain that I had neither the time nor the tolerance for Ms. Gellar's teentarded TV land antics. I was so very, very wrong. I watch my mailbox for those red Netflix envelopes like my bank account depended on it and when they arrive it's like Christmas morning.

So I was probably thinking about the transitions between Season One and Season Four, which I'm now reaching the end of (only four more seasons to go and what will I do when it's over!?!), when I heard a painfully familiar sound behind me. All else was quiet. It was as if I was The Slayer herself, patroling the streets of Sunnydale. Here comes the demon and I must reach into my fashionable bag for my wooden stake which I like to call Mr. Pointy.

"Tssst!" I heard the sound again. I knew exactly what it was and I ignored it. I kept walking. Then, two more times with even more conviction.

"Tsssst! Tssssssst!"

I whipped around with my imaginary stake held at the ready. There was a man walking behind me in white painter's paint and a dirty t-shirt.

"No, no," he said. "You don't know me or anything. I just wanted to say 'hi.'" I half smiled and narrowed my eyes as I turned back around and continued on. "Have a nice day!" he called out after me.

The men in these parts are totally shameless when it comes to getting a woman's attention. That's one of the first lessons I learned when I first moved to New York nine years ago, when I was a little less jaded and my vagina still believed. There's not a lot they won't do to try and talk to you or make eye contact at the very least, never mind if you're walking down Second Avenue with a hunk of burning love on your arm. Every moderately attractive and/or big-bottomed woman in this city is fair game.

If I can take a break from my Free Katie Crusade for a moment (write me for a T-shirt), I'd like to address the men out there. The men of New York in particular.

I ask you, dear sirs, what is it about the sound tssst that makes you think any woman with half a brain would stop in her tracks and fall at your feet like an erotic dancer, one graceful, whorish hand stretched out towards you, and in it, a piece of paper with her phone number and home address written above bubbly words that read "CALL ME!" When we get engaged and all of our friends ask how we met we can tell them you tsssssed me! Actually, that has kind of a funny ring to it. Okay, no, but still.

Tssst is for dirty dogs digging into the trash can. It's like snapping at a waitress in a restaurant, but without the tip.