On Friday, my dear sweet long term significant other, Reggie, asked if I was planning to go to the movies that night.
No, I answered. I was perplexed. Was there a movie plan that I had forgotten about?
I thought you’d be going to Sex And The City with the rest of the sisterhood, he said. He sounded slightly disappointed as if some fantasy he had of me was shattering.
I like Sex And The City, and at times I’ve been amused by it, but I don’t love it---not like I love, say, Indy. I explained this as I made a mental note to see Indy again---that Indy, he’s just so . . .well, Mr. Big is no Indy.
I thought you loved Sex And The City. Reggie whined.
Baby, I’m beyond Sex And The City. I said worried that it sounded a bit like bragging until I realized I was telling a truth.
Anyway, gentle reader, I do have a Sex And The City story. It’s not about famous people or even fabulous shoes. It’s about how I came to watch Sex And The City.
Back in the late nineties/early new millennium, I was drinking with some female friends in a New York unfashionable watering hole---by the way, we probably could drink Carrie and her crew under the table.
There was a girl who also drank at the same bar and latched onto me. I think it was because I was too drunk one night to walk away as she unloaded her baggage. Sometimes I can be just too damn nice. Anyway, I’m gonna call her Wacky Jessica. She loved Sex And The City and talked about it all the freakin’ time.
I’m sooooo Carrie, she’d say, and she even had one of those cheesy golden necklaces with her name written on it. I never liked those necklaces. It made it too easy for creepazoids to learn your name, and I liked having the option of making up a fake name.
Some of my kick ass posse wondered why I’d talk to Wacky Jessica, but she could be amusing. Besides, I didn’t have to put in much effort to hold up my end of the conversation. Anyway, I figured she was a poet who just didn’t know it.
After telling her several times that I had never seen Sex And The City since I didn’t have cable, Wacky Jessica brought me six videotapes of episodes which she had recorded off her cable.
When I watched the eps on my twelve inch Panasonic (with knobs), I was amused and entertained. There was even some wit to the thing. I didn’t feel that the ladies were me. They were kind of like teases in too pretty dresses. It was all very quaint. I mean, they drank cosmos for christsake.
So I wasn’t waiting with legs firmly crossed for the big movie extravaganza. I knew how the series ended because it was all over the entertainment news at the time. I caught the occasional rerun on commercial TV. Still, even though I sat neatly in the ideal demographic (urban female thirties), I kind of didn’t care, and the more the movie got hyped, the less I cared. I’ll probably Netflix it---unless Reggie wants to see it---maybe Reggie secretly wants to see Sex And The City.
Speaking of hype, the seven Indiana Jones billboards on La Cienega and Venice have been replaced by The Love Guru. Yes, seven billboards for The Love Guru.
Speaking of Netflix, my latest Netflix rental was P.S. I Love You which is pukably bad. Yes, I admit I saw it for the Gerald Butler eye candy, but ugh. Gerald Butler plays Hillary Swank’s husband who dies but arranges to send her letters every day after he dies---guess how each letter ends. However, I kept forgetting that his character was dead because he kept showing up in the movie saying really dumb ass cheesy things. Ugh again. I think I need to move away from the whole urban female romance genre and go see Indy again.
I don't know what ever happened to Wacky Jessica, but I'm sure she saw a certain movie this past weekend.