Carrie types on about how she's thirty-five with no financial security (didn't she see the inevitable coming?), but with "many life experiences behind" her, and she should "get credit for enduring them." Oh, give me strength. In VO, she really hits "life experiences," in a desperate attempt to make Carrie seem sympathetic, like broken hearts are some kind of accomplishment. And, um, career? No small potatoes. God, is her brain really located south of her belt buckle? Think, damn you! The toilet ghost-flushes, and Carrie looks in the direction of the toilet furtively. Another problem! Which you will NOT get credit for fixing. So Carrie says she's loaded up with "war wounds and self-doubt," boo hoo, and asks the Question of the Week about failed relationships and blah blah blah: "What's it all worth?" In dollar value? Not a damn thing. Oh, but her trials have fed the column. In that case, a little something.
Char's on the phone, in a great flowered sundress, buttering up gallery owners who have already received her résumé. Not that she needs to work; she just wants to. A piano tinkles "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" as Charlotte opens a desk drawer, puts on her engagement ring, and wanders around her "2.17-carat Park Avenue apartment." Ah, the rich, they get sad too. They do! Don't ask me how I know.
Richard flips on the light in his bedroom, and Sam sees another gift waiting for her on the bed from Le Petit Coquette. She pronounces it "cock-ette," hee. She rips open the box, and he tells her to read the card first. She grits her teeth and obeys. "'Sexy for sexy, best, Richard.'" He tells her to run a bath while he pours some Cristal, and she says she'll "try her very BEST."
Carrie and Miranda are shoe shopping. Carrie sniffs a red patent leather pump fetishistically and whines that "this is torture" and she shouldn't be doing this. Mir says she's looking for comfortable shoes, and to shut up, Carrie. Carrie asks a salesman to fetch her some pairs to try on, but under no circumstances is he to let her buy any. She's just trying them on "for fun." The salesman is all, "How fun for me." Heh. Carrie is wearing a white, vintage-looking sun dress with big white granny panties underneath. Then Carrie's all, what's that smell? It's your outfit, dear. It stinks. No, Miranda farted. Carrie covers her nose with the crook of her arm and dashes away. Mir says she's "learned to control the sound," or maybe it's that her "ass is so fat it's muffled the noise." Oh, boy. Mir says she's swollen, gassy, and has never been hornier. "That's why you're supposed to be married when you're pregnant, so somebody is obligated to have sex with you." Hey, why doesn't the Moral Majority or Dan Quayle use that little nugget as a selling point to all the unwed mothers they're cheesed off at? Mir says she's "undesirable," and Carrie is all, no, I AM, recalls the bank lady's comment, and wonders where all the money she made went. Mir says, well, how many pairs of shoes do you have? A hundred, at $400 a pop? "There's your down payment." Carrie is all, that's just four grand. Um, no -- actually, it's FORTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. Carrie gasps dramatically at this Grand Realization that she's Frittered Away All Of Her Money, and says she will be "the little old woman who lived in her shoes!" Mir pulls on her swollen finger and farts again.
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