Cha cha cha. Cha cha cha. Cha cha cha!
Carrie, in what looks like a Vivienne Westwood pinstriped suit, large cameo pin, and tan Manolos, stalks the busy sidewalk. Her VO says, amazingly, that she's on her way to work. At a, you know, job-type thing. She stops in front of a shop window to fluff out and tug at her new bob. Okay, this is the opposite of prescient, now. We all know about her bob (seen it at the Globes!), and the fact that she has a mortgage now is not the real reason people are hustling to make more bucks out here in the real world. That reason, for almost everyone, is the recession. But whatever; these are bonus eps shot in the summer before 9/11, so I can't really bitch about the contextual lapse. But I am bitching anyway. Will Carrie ever grow up and face the coffee? Can she ever smell the music, or is it all rainbows and stilettos? Who knows.
Carrie strolls the halls of Vogue magazine (and I am SO JEALOUS. Though I think I'm more an Allure girl than a Vogue woman. It's my frugality and love of make-up that causes me to embrace Allure. Plus, they have so many recession-era alternatives to the high cost of fashion, so I have to love them for being so real. You know, the Lust/Must feature? Really speaks to me). She VOs that she's just turned in her first freelance article for them, which thrills her because Vogue is one of "the most relevant and provocative magazines on the newsstands today," which of course is total bullshit except that some brilliant script writer has tacked on the totally necessary qualifier, "at least to ME." Yes, to YOU, Bradshaw. The same claim could be made of Brave Words and Bloody Knuckles, a heavy metal magazine, but the love of glossy periodicals is a subjective one, no? She fluffs her bob some more, and walks uncertainly into an office.
Candice Bergen, a hard-boiled editor (has she ever not played hard-boiled?), perches on a bearded man's desk and pronounces Carrie's copy "not Vogue." Ooh, burn. Carrie's face falls and shatters into many tiny pieces, like a house made out of Legos would if you dropped it. "You didn't like it?" I think Candice hated it! The copy is covered in red pencil marks. Speaking as a writer, I'd have to say this is pretty cool and old-school. I would love to have my copy corrected by a Vogue editor. I'd ask, "What do I need to do to make it Vogue?" And it would take all of my self-control not to answer my own question and say, "Strike a pose?" The bearded guy comforts Carrie, saying she wrote a great "first draft," and her "spin" is "very clever." She's made men into an accessory to be worn with clothes, and has a sentence about how the new Prada dress "should always be worn with an investment banker." As Beard reads the line, Carrie moves her lips along with him in sync. Uch, that's annoying. And immodest. Candice says she isn't sure Carrie "knows anything about purses, or for that matter, men" (no argument here), then says she thinks Carrie's copy is just her regular column with the word "style" in place of "sex." Bearded Guy is all, "For the love of God!" Oh, come on. Writers can take a little abuse. Or should I say, "Do take a little abuse." Candice is all, "I don't care about your agenda." Which is to whine, right? Me neither. "I want less Carrie Bradshaw and more 'carry this bag with these shoes.' You should be writing this down." Carrie makes faces and looks around her like Candice is addressing someone else in the room, then says defensively that she was trying to use humor, as in "men are the new black!" Bearded Guy laughs. Me, not so much. Then Carrie reaches around Candice to grab a pencil, muttering that she "didn't bring a writing implement." Now I have to stop typing to make the sign of an "L" with both hands.
Carrie VOs that she was edited for "an hour" before Candice went off to lunch. Yeah. Bearded Man puts on some Billie Holiday, saying that she's the "only other woman in more pain than [Carrie] right now." Um, hello? The recapper? He says that to make it in publishing, you need "a thick hide" and "a dry martini." He opens a blond wood shelf to reveal a hidden bar and starts pouring. Carrie purrs seductively, "Martinis in the morning? Is this allowed? Is it Vogue?" I guess so, since he spritzes a touch of vermouth in the glasses and keeps on mixing. Boy, I sure hope that liquor is chilled. That's all a martini is, you know. Chilled liquor. He kisses her ass some more, saying he thought she'd be "a natural at Vogue" and that she "has vision." They drink.
Carrie gets drunk and channels Bette Davis. "Cookie's drunk. I'm drunk at Vogue." Bearded Guy sits behind his desk with his martini glass and wonders how such a thing happened. Carrie says she skipped breakfast and "is a size two," which should make her a natural at Vogue, but look at her. She's a sloppy, drunken mess after only one and a half drinks. Heh. Again, how cool. I don't even think I could accept water if I were ever in a meeting at Vogue, let alone get smashed and slur my words. At Marie Claire, however, let 'er rip! Just kidding, really. Carrie rants some more about how Candice is probably right -- what does she know about purses, or men? She gesticulates wildly and spills her martini. Oh no. She's "spilled. [She's] spilled at Vogue." Bearded Guy says it's time to go home. She says she can't go out there, because she's "drunk. [She's] drunk at Vogue." Hee. Bearded Guy leads her through the office, and she teeters and totters and is mildly slapstick-y and destructive. Can I just say I love Vogue's food writer? Their book reviews are great too. And that Andre Leon Talley is such an icon. I'm jealous of Plum Sykes, and love Julia Reed. I really miss the underground feeling of the Index, too. Sorry, I just had to kiss a little ass. The ass of Vogue.
Samantha and Richard are out having a drink. She asks what he would want for his birthday. He demurs, saying he has everything he needs. She asks if he wants anything "decadent," or "naughty" even. The waitress comes up and says she ordered a chocolate soufflé, her name is "Alexa" (shout-out?), and Sam and Richard are "the most attractive couple in the restaurant." She walks away, and Richard asks for "an all-night fuck-fest" with Sam and Alexa. Woo, birthday three-way!
Sam asks the girls over a meal if the birthday three-way is a good idea for a gift. She sounds a bit bitter, although she says that it's "not like he asked for a hooker." Char screeches, "These are the options!" Sam says that at least this way she's "part of the fantasy." Carrie says the new Marc Jacobs notebook would also be a good gift, and it's something she's recommending to Vogue shoppers. No, that would be Vogue readers. Don't mix it up, Bradshaw. You're editorial, not marketing. ["Aw. So naïve, our Alex Richmond. Hee, just kidding." -- Sars] Char screeches that fulfilling a man's fantasy always blows up in the woman's face, like that time she and Trey did it on the golf course, for instance. Miranda rolls in, mightily pregnant, saying she shouldn't be frittering her time away hanging out with the girls, but should be baby-stuff shopping instead. She goes off on a little riff about visiting "Crib World," because "Crib City" wasn't big enough, and how she wishes there were a "This Is The Crib For You" store that delivered and assembled. Mir says she doesn't have a "vague idea" of how to prepare for her baby, and Carrie bursts in saying that she doesn't have "a Vogue idea, hello!" Oh, shut up, Carrie. Char says she'll help, even though Mir already turned down the idea of a baby shower. Char says it might "be good" for her to plan a party, and Mir says she hates all that "cutesy storky shit. Just an adult party, no opening presents, no crustless bread, no games! And I want FRIED CHICKEN!" Char cries, "This isn't Superbowl Sunday!" Actually, Charlotte, it is Superbowl Sunday. Mir wants what she wants, or rather, "it's my party and I'll fry if I want to." Hee. Sam leans toward Carrie and asks what they should get for the shower. Carrie says, "Just stick to the registry, Three-Way."
Char decides to paint over the nursery at her place to "hide the evidence" that she ever wanted a baby of her own. What was once her nursery is now a gray room with lots of shelf space.
Carrie is out having sushi and sake with Bearded Guy from Vogue. He says he fell in love with his wife when he saw her dance on-stage. "She plié-d, and I plotzed!" Oh, boy. You just took a romantic thing and made it lame with that line. Shame! Carrie laughs, kitted out in her nameplate necklace and yet another honking cameo pin on her sleeveless pink sweater. Bearded Guy asks if she has any "great love" going on, and she says she just broke up with someone. Way to editorialize, Bradshaw. Anyway, she asked Bearded Guy to dinner to tell him she's NOT GOING TO FINISH the article for Vogue. Oh, MAN! How lame is that? Does she not need the money? Can she not accept criticism? Does re-writing make her break out? Has she finally discovered eBay? Bearded Guy asks how her father would feel about her quitting. She says her father quit her and her mom when she was five. She doesn't know the reason why, and "that's the name of that tune." He goes, "Hmm," then says, "Your father leaves without an answer, and you spend your life asking questions about men." Oh, Doctor! You are a genius! My pink Freudian slip, she is mended! Bearded Guy offers Carrie freedom from dealing with mean ol' Candice Bergen, leaving her "more time to hate Tom Ford's line." Amen to that. Everyone should hate Tom Ford, and his lines. Vogue should have people on that AROUND the freaking CLOCK. The man is a pestilence on the industry, rosacea on the face of fashion. What did Tom Ford ever do for anyone besides make a few shiny shirts and slap some metal on the heel of a stiletto and demand credit for it? Go away, Tom Ford. Bearded Guy is all, "Let's work on this together, whaddya say?" I say, you are the nicest editor ever, and -- adopt me?
Carrie sits in front of her laptop, looks at a photo of herself and her dad, and wonders if the relationships children have with their parents do in fact influence their adult relationships. Duh! The question of the week is: "How much does a father figure, figure?"
Cut to Miranda in her office, hollering at some clients on a conference call. Charlotte breaks in with an "emergency." She sees that Miranda left an important toy off her registry list. Mir is all, dude? I'm on an IMPORTANT CONFERENCE CALL. Char babbles about a stork centerpiece and a marzipan baby stroller with a white peanut butter baby inside it that you can eat until Mir hollers that she is at WORK and they already agreed no cutesy stuff, and hangs up. Char is all, hello?
Samantha strolls into the restaurant and asks Alexa if she has any room for a party of three this weekend, for Richard's birthday. Alexa arches an eyebrow, leans in conspiratorially, and says she is "WIDE open." Hee.
Charlotte, in a great red corset top and full blue skirt, dances around Miranda's house, checking for baby readiness. Motormouth in overtime, Char babbles about where the bassinet should be, and wonders if maybe Mir would want the baby to sleep in bed with her, and then where the crib will go once the baby grows out of his bassinet. Mir looks like she wants to give Char a calmative, or maybe stuff her mouth with ginger snaps. Char asks if Mir has thought about baby-proofing, because all the sharp corners around Mir's apartment render it "a death trap!" Mir tells Char to "back off," and Char reminds Mir that once the baby has come, it won't be "just [Miranda]" anymore, and she "won't be able to control everything." Mir says she just "wanted to enjoy fried chicken and be done with it!" Char says she had to "rethink" the fried chicken, and that now they're having greens "with a beautiful puttanesca." And some kind of stork centerpiece that Mir might have said she didn't want. Mir starts to holler that there's already two storks at the shower. Char corrects her; the bird on the invitation is a duck. Mir screams, "The duck is fucked! Keep it up and you'll have a shower without a mother!" Char stomps toward the door, then turns and says that Mir had better show up, since she doesn't want to be hanging out with a bunch of lawyers. Mir snaps, "Be careful of the sharp edges." Char storms out.
Mir sits on Carrie's steps, thanking her for "coming out to talk." Carrie rubs Mir's back. Mir feels bad for yelling at Charlotte about the childproofing and stuff. Miranda is "what needs to be childproofed." Carrie says she'll quit Vogue if Mir quits the baby. Mir tells Carrie about dropping her niece on her head when she was baby-sitting when "bored." Carrie says mock-menacingly, "Get...off...my...stoop!" Heh. A couple on their second date walks by, and the women acknowledge and hate their naiveté. Carrie asks if she's messed up about men because her dad left. Mir says her dad came home every night and she still doesn't have a clue. And does Mir have to go to the shower? Yes. Mir struggles up to catch a cab; end of cute scene.
Baby shower. Mir walks in grumpily, then plotzes when she sees the fried chicken. Sam and Carrie arrive , with a cake fashioned entirely of diapers. Carrie says the gift "isn't Vogue." Oy, enough already.
More shower. Women exclaim and pass around gifts as Mir opens them. Sam talks to Carrie about the impending three-way action. "I could fuck her under the table! I have tricks she hasn't even seen! She's just renting him, I own him!" Carrie points out that the tricks Sam has "aren't for kids." Hee. One woman gives Mir a breast pump, then gets up to visit the loo, handing over her baby. Mir plops the baby to her on the couch. The kid slides off the couch a la Mir's niece, but Carrie grabs it before the kaboom comes. Mir doesn't even notice, just opens a silver rattle from Tiffany. Char freezes and says it's just like the rattle Trey gave her. She starts to cry, then runs out of the room. Mir follows.
Char has a pillow jammed over her head. She says she wants to be alone. Mir says maybe later, since she has twenty people in the other room. Char apologizes for "ruining" her shower. Mir says there would be nothing to ruin if it weren't for Char. Oh, Miranda, just give Charlotte your baby and be done with it already. The women bond over the cake made of diapers and lotion and bottles. Carrie VOs that Mir realizes she might "be a good mother figure" after all. There's a knock on the door. Carrie comes in holding the little one that almost slid off the couch. He peed himself, and on her. Good little one! Sam knocks, then asks if they can cut the cake already since she has a three-way to get to.
Three-way action of the pre-show variety. Sam tells Alexa no kissing Richard on the mouth. Alexa is all, "What if he kisses me?" Sam looks threatened, then strips to her bra when Richard walks in with champagne.
Okay, now it's a three-way. Sam kisses Richard, and when Alexa's head pops out from under the sheet, Sam elbows her off the bed. Whump. Richard says there's plenty of room, and Alexa says sulkily, "You tell her, Daddy." Not what the guy old enough to be her father wanted to hear right then. He whispers to Sam, "Get rid of her," and one elbow to the ribs later, Alexa falls out of bed with a plop, again.
Sam and Richard cuddle, post-coitus. She asks if he had a nice birthday, and that a busboy is arriving after midnight for her three-way. Hee. He says it was just perfect, and that they should try being each other's one and only. Sam murmurs, "Oh, okay." They kiss. Wow, exclusivity! I hope they're happy.
Carrie sits at Bearded Guy's desk, writing on his laptop. She's managed to finish her first Vogue piece and hits "print," satisfied. He PATS HER HEAD and says how cleverly she crafted her five hundred words. Oh my GOD. That is NOTHING. Granted, it's harder to write a good short piece, but then again, five hundred words is NOT A LOT. He asks what she does to reward herself after finishing a piece. She says she buys shoes and handbags. Me, I try to get another assignment, but whatever. He asks if she's heard of the Vogue accessories closet. She hasn't.
He takes her to a huge, well-organized closet filled with clothes, bags, and shoes. She freaks. OUT. She finds a pair of Manolo Mary Janes and tries them on. He says he'll be pillaging the men's side, then calls her over to look at some Versace item. The item? Men's briefs. On him. With his pants around his ankles. Carrie covers her eyes and freaks, then asks him to have a little respect and pull his pants up. "This is Vogue!" He does.
Carrie returns to Vogue once a month, she VOs, dealing only with Candice Bergen. Candice rants, "What does Carrie Bradshaw know about shoes!?" Carrie stops in her tracks and insists that she does know something about shoes. In spite of having just been contradicted, Candice chuckles. Oh, the laugh-a-day world of Vogue! As if.