First off, many, many thanks to Miss Cindy L. Cup Choy of HI. She knows why. I really appreciate everything!
Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, whee, go xylophone! Splashy bus! Cha cha cha.
A French accordion wheezes tunefully. Carrie skips across a rain-slicked street in a sheer pink top, black full skirt and heels, and a lovely tan raincoat, VO-ing about how being single in New York is oh so very much fun. Particularly when it isn't men or dating you're thinking of, but rather the museums and galleries and restaurants. Wasn't it just last season that Carrie ate out by herself? She's come a long way, baby. A yellow cab slides in front of her like a shark -- she lets it pass and hops into a twinkly-lit movie theater, at which Joie Pour Deux is playing. Heh. Get it? But she's psyched to be seeing a movie about Gay Paree, even though she is just une.
Alone, Carrie takes in the movie, gobbles Whoppers, and smiles. It's true -- going to movies alone rules. Aww, she's so happy!
Lunch the day with her three best friends, however, wipes the smile right off Carrie's face. Samantha is still mightily pissed at Richard, who, may I say expositionally, was the first man Sam loved and the first to smash her heart to a million little pieces. He keeps leaving her "'I'm sorry' messages," but she is not about to forgive a guy she caught "eating another girl's pussy." Word. Charlotte blanches at the use of such vulgarities in front of Miranda's baby, Brady. Mir looks startled and says, "Nothing has to change. Just think of this as a big purse!" And she holds up Brady in his little seat. Yes, a purse -- a purse with needs. A purse that will eventually leave home. A purse that may help to support you someday -- and sorry, no other purse appreciates in value quite like that. Not the Fendi baguette, not the Dior saddlebag, not the massive Balenciaga leather sling. Maybe Louis Vuitton luggage would pay for itself, if you don't knock it around too much. Carrie points out that Mir's "purse" just spit up. Sam rages on that after three weeks, Richard might have noticed that Sam isn't returning his calls and that "it's not okay to eat another woman's pussy!" Char is all, "Sam!" Because of the baby. Carrie, ever the clever wordsmith, suggests calling it "eating another woman's 'sushi.'" Good one! Char asks what Carrie did last night. She went to the movies -- alone. Char screeches, "On DATE NIGHT!?" Carrie asks if "[they're] going to have to call it that in [their] fifties." Oh, word. Saturday night is amateur night, when everyone and their mother goes out. Char is wearing the cutest black short-sleeved top ever, by the way, and says she couldn't go to a movie alone because she's afraid people would pity her. Oy, center of the universe much? Carrie begins to pontificate on How Great It Is To Be Single In The City, Because The City Is Your Date. Mir says dryly, "You're dating the city?" Carrie says breathily, "It's getting serious." She thinks she's "in love." Aww. Char snaps at Sam to quit checking her messages, thus still involving herself emotionally with Richard. Move on! And besides, Char read in a magazine that you "only get two great loves in your life," so Richard was one down. Mir asks what magazine this was, "Convenient Theories For You Monthly?" Oh yeah, I love that tome! That one and Your Bullshit Validated are great. Mir points out that when Char was married, she spouted that you only get one great love. Char blathers on that "great love" is "rare," and what "great love" means is one "that forever changes you, that shakes you to the core." Like a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl? The gang goes around and checks names off the list -- Mir has had "none," Sam had Richard, Char had Trey, and Carrie? "Refuse[s] to define love in those limited terms." Char pushes until we get her checklist: Big and Aidan, one-two. Oh, snap. Oh, dip. Carrie, according to Convenient Theories For You Monthly, is fresh out of core-shaking, forever-changing Great Loves, capital G capital L. Sucks to be her. Char tries to backpedal, but it's too late. Carrie writes her epitaph: "She had two great loves and lots o' shoes." Sam drops her fork with a clatter and says, "Fuck love!" Without missing a beat she turns to Char and says, "I gave you 'sushi,' I need 'fuck.'" I missed this show.
Post-lunch, the girls roam the park. I love how they all have fall outfits on but it so isn't near fall yet. And I know this is supposed to be last year, but I know they're shooting now and oy, isn't SJP hot in that stripey mohair turtleneck? No wonder she was nauseated. ["And Fleet Week is always in June, so…I don't know." -- Sars] Mir sets her Brady purse down to switch arms. Sam rolls her eyes for a microsecond, then sees a heavenly vision. "Anchors Away" starts oom-pah-pah-ing in the background. Sam hollers, "Look, seamen!" Mir sighs and says she hopes she sees sailors. And she does. It's Fleet Week in NYC! Yeow, they are handsome. Sam's "favorite holiday!" The "antidote to Valentine's Day!" And a reason to party with cute guys in uniform. Carrie says that tripping on her heels in Times Square looking for a cute sailor to kiss is over for her -- "that ship has sailed." Har de har har. But "it's [their] patriotic duty as women of New York to show them a good time!" Subtle. Carrie says that a better patriotic duty is to throw some money around downtown. Mir says she forgot the Snugli. Sam practically throws Mir into a cab, and the three girls are off. Mir watches them shrink away in the cab's rear window. Aww. Having kids changes you. And anvils are big and heavy.
Mir walks through the door and shoos the regular maid, Magda, away from the baby. No need for all that cooing. She has a stern, impassive baby nurse -- Lena -- for the baby now. And Steve is there, chomping on a sandwich. His booming greeting clearly grates on Mir. Mir is all, how did you get in? Where'd you get a sandwich? Magda polishes a mirror furiously. Steve asks, "How's ya nipples? Lena said they were sore." Mir is all, get out, get out, get out!
Char steps off the elevator, and the operator says, "Have a good evening, Mrs. MacDougal." Ooh, she doesn't like that. So, she steps inside in her Christian Louboutin shoes and changes the nameplate on her door to "York." Good for her.
Sam steps into her apartment laden with shopping bags -- ah, retail therapy. It really is good for the soul. Ooh, what would Sam get at Marc Jacobs? That's a brain-teaser. Sam is a Dior girl. She hears a message Richard left for her, begging for her to meet him for a drink tonight. Her resolve melts until she hears the place where he wants to meet: "Sushi Samba." Grrr.
Lights up at Sushi Samba. Sam strolls in looking dynamite -- strapless dress, amazing earrings, the whole nine. Richard hops up and greets her with a "hello, gorgeous." He ordered her a dirty martini. She removes the toothpicked olive and throws the drink right in his face. "Dirty martini, dirty bastard." And, scene.
The morning, Carrie rubs her face with moisturizer (note the belly-excluding close-up of her face, y'all) and congratulates Sam on her bold gesture. Carrie always wanted to do that. Who hasn't? It's so classic and fitting. One quick bloosh, and satisfaction. Sam agrees it felt "fabulous," but she woke up even angrier. She "need[s] to hurt him more. He's poisonous and toxic." "So, he's manthrax," quips Carrie. Yeah. He's in the Axis of Evil, Man Wing. Mansama Bin Laden. Mr. Al Qaeda. If other chicks date him, then the terrorists will have won. Carrie notes that people have been caught cheating and were forgiven (cough cough she and Big and Aidan cough), but it wasn't "a sushi situation." Sam shreds all her Richard-related documents and notes that Richard isn't the only thing pissing her off; she's over all the "P.C. bullshit baby brunches." Carrie says Brady won't always be there, and that Mir "had a baby, not a lobotomy." Sam, ever the sharp one, says, "Don't kid yourself. The days of 'pussy' and 'fuck' are gone."
Which gets Carrie to do a little thinking. About the "carefree time when our schedules were as open as our hearts." Dude, when was that? High school? College? Ever since I started working, I stopped describing my schedule as "open." She types as she crunches ice cubes. "Have we single girls missed the boat?"
Carrie knocks on Mir's door. It opens, and Carrie holds a pastry bag up, declaring, "Surprise!" and it's now time for pain au chocolat. But it isn't Miranda holding the door; it's Lena, the stoic, impassive baby nurse. Oh! Mir cruises up, baby in hand, and says hi. Carrie just stopped by "for a little chatty." Mir starts to expound on how the baby won't eat -- he seems to have trouble latching onto her nipple. Carrie suggests that the baby may be anorexic. Mir totally misses the "joke," (and who can blame her?), and stops her baby-talk to hear All About Carrie. Carrie starts in about her Two Great Loves Lost, and Mir whips out her tit so Brady can eat. Carrie is shocked, shocked at the sight of Mir's great big breasts. Her train of thought derails, and Mir admits that she's "frustrated" at being so baby-centric she can't carry on an "adult conversation." Yeah, well, Kids Change Things, and Anvils Are Heavy. The Sky Is Blue. We Breathe Air. These Things Will Not Change, not with all the maids in the world. Mir says her "friendships are important" to her, and then, softly, "Fuck." Brady finally latches on and eats. Mir sighs, then apologizes for flashing Carrie. Carrie says she'll seek "trauma counseling," and gets up to go. Um, hello? You popped in for a visit and now you're leaving just like that? Carrie has "a hot date with [her] city...lunch, a trip to the Guggenheim...it's New York!" Yes. And anvils are what, again?
Charlotte and a guy friend are off to see a movie. ["It's her wedding consultant, Mario Cantone." -- Sars] I love the blue coat she has on. A sailor gives her the eye and smiles, and her friend urges her to get his number. But he's a SAILOR, she screeches. What's she supposed to do with him? "Fuck him," says her sensible friend. Char can't do that! "You are so not gay," says the friend. "Put an end to that Park Avenue, pink-shirt flaccid-pee-pee mojo you've been dragging around." Oh, word. Didn't Elizabeth Kübler-Ross create stages on getting over a divorce? Random Fucking is totally one of them. That, along with editing your music collection to remove records that remind you too much of your ex, finding new restaurants to frequent, and the ever-important retail therapy so you look hot and contemporary, and have new outfits. Friend urges Char to have sex, but soon, since if she doesn't put something "in there soon, it'll grow over." I love this guy! Where has he been?
We pan down a large American flag to see Samantha handing out flyers in Richard's neighborhood. Said flyers feature his photo on pink paper, and the words "Cheater! Liar!" How fucking great. Here I have to thank Miss Marla Singer for posting all those awesome photos in the Spoiler topic on the S&TC boards. A while ago she posted these pics of Sam gleefully distributing her real-life PR warning to other women, and it made my day. Seeing it on TV? Also makes my day. It's just smart and funny as hell. It's probably illegal -- but so what? So should be most crimes of the heart. And you should have a license to have a kid. But they don't! A female cop rolls up to tell Sam that defacing city property is a fineable offense. Sam says, "This man told me he loved me, and I caught him eating another woman's pussy." The cop pauses, then says, "Carry on, ma'am." Yes! I'm kvelling. This is also probably a reference to all the millions of "missing" posters that covered city property (post 9/11) that were so fucking heartbreaking. Sam tucks her tape gun back into her fab brown leather bag, and hands out more flyers. Then she just lifts them into the air and lets the wind carry them away. Beautiful.
Carrie fights the wind as she heads up to the Guggenheim entrance. A gust blows her skirt up, and she screams. That only draws attention to you, hon. And -- nice granny panties. Those things are HUGE! She totters up to the entrance, but the door won't budge. That's because the museum is closed on Thursdays. She "awww"s loudly. Then, thunder booms and the skies open. Rain. Carrie screams again, and totters off to find shelter. Nice spectator shoes. Prada?
Carrie finds shelter under an awning. There's a cute guy taking refuge under there too. Bonus! She smiles, he smiles back. Carrie starts making small talk. She loves the smell of rain. Oh yeah? Does it smell like...victory? Then she says, "If this were a French film, we'd fall in love and get married." Whoops! I don't think that's what turns guys on. The guy smiles slightly, then rolls his eyes in the direction of the awning they're sharing. Carrie backpedals, saying she wasn't suggesting they get married. Oh, okay, she was. No, really, it's just what would happen in a movie. She was engaged last year and if she didn't want to marry him...the guy bolts into the downpour, that eager to escape Carrie's nattering. She stands there forlornly until the rain stops.
Carrie pops into a diner, wet and disheveled. The seating guy barks at her, "Singles at the counter. SINGLES, COUNTER!" She heads off to Singleton, a little put out. Her nearest counter seatmate is the incomparable Miss Sylvia Miles! She looks fab in a Monica-esque beret, a groovy hat-clip, and a Chanel scarf. Sylvia starts barking at Carrie in that way strong older ladies do. "That manager is a real prick! We single gals gotta have a port in a storm." Carrie isn't thrilled to be included in that "we." Bitch. As Sylvia crushes lithium to sprinkle on her ice cream, she tells Carrie the tale of How She Came To Be Where She Is. She let one get away -- Morty -- in 1982. She thought she could do better. She never did. Carrie looks scared shitless. Sylvia has a bite of her laced ice cream and hollers, "Oh, I LOVE this!"
After drying off with the diner's hand dryer, Carrie fights to find a cab. It isn't easy. Her love affair with the city is fast turning into an unhappy co-dependency. I love her stripey skirt, though. Behind her, three sailors emerge from a taxi, then kindly hold the door for her as she hops over in her heels. Oof, one of them is super-super-hot. She thanks them, then demurely accepts the invitation to a "big Navy party tonight." At first, I thought he said big naked party. Hee.
Looking exactly like hookers, Carrie, Samantha, and Charlotte stroll through Times Square, their "fall" coats hanging off their shoulders, exposing their décolletage. Three single girls out on the town. Char asks how long they've gone without sex. Sam stumbles in her high-heeled boots. Char says it's been six months for her, and tonight, she's "going to have sex with a sailor." Sam loses her footing again. Carrie asks about Char's "great loves" theory. Char chirps, "Maybe that was bullshit!" Carrie stumbles and is caught by her two friends. Go, Charlotte!
The girls head into the party, wondering how they're going to find the hot-t-t guy Carrie saw. The place is packed with too-handsome men in their Navy whites, and beautiful women. No uglies to be seen. Just like in real life! Except not. The cheesy cover band plays on as Sam intones, "God bless America!" Ow, it's raining anvils. Carrie heads into the throng and says it's important to stick together or they'll get separated. Instantly, she finds herself alone in the crowd, with Sam and Char off to conquer their own part of the high seas.
Miranda changes Brady, with the silent Lena standing by. Brady's stub of an umbilical cord casually falls off his tum-tum. Gross! Or should I say "aww"? No, it's gross. Mir tries to be all miracle-of-life about it, but she's horrified. She picks it up and puts it down, and then the cat snatches it and dashes away. Gross, gross, gross! Miranda screams and chases after the cat, but is so squicked out that she's powerless to grab it back. She looks helplessly at Lena, who trembles, unable to move.
Steve comes in, to the rescue. Such a cliché, but it happens. You sometimes need your man to kill bugs, empty the mousetraps, and steal back the baby's umbilical cord from the cat. Mir trembles, her eyes filled with tears, and says she's "prepared for the expected but not prepared for the unexpected. It's gross, it's gross!" Steve is all, "Where's the cat?" The cat is PLAYING with the blackened little nub. Go Steve. Assert your personhood!
The Navy party looks like a Coors Light commercial, minus the Andrew WK and obligatory bikini girls. You know, pretty people engaging in primitive, alcohol-soaked mating rituals. Muted colors, lots of fast cuts. There aren't enough Ronnie Dobbs-styled nerds, though. A beer ad needs an underdog so the audience can identify. I watch too much TV. The band is feelin' all right, uh-huh. Carrie tries to flirt with a young sailor, who listens to her attempts at humor and says, "You remind me of my mom." Carrie says, "Bye!" That is the best line. Sometimes I say it to make people go away. Then I don't even have to move! Try it yourself, it works.
Sam finds herself a sailor and puts his hat on her head, a classic seduction move. Nowhere near as cool as a firefighter's hat, though.
Char has found "an officer who isn't a gentleman." Oy. They suck face. When they come up for air, his witty repartee consists of "show me your tits." Byron was never so direct. That's up there with the farmer telling the hobo, "Don't stick your dick in that hole." Char says she can't. Then will she just show him one? This guy is smooth like a Jamba Juice. "It's an order." Char thinks of her vagina growing over, then slips out of her dress and shows the guy her boob. Oh my god! Carrie walks up and plotzes. Char tries to introduce her to the officer-not-a-gentleman, but Carrie is running away fast. Her eyeballs just exploded.
Sam sees Carrie and calls out, "There you are!" Yeah, there she is, scarred and told she reminds dudes of their mom. Great party. Carrie relays her day -- seeing Mir's boobs and Char's lone boob -- and says Sam might as well show her hers. Sam, of course, pulls down her dress and shows Carrie and the hundred sailors nearby her boobs. Okay. Carrie is all, "I'm leaving." Just then the hot-t-t sailor man steps up and says to her in his Louisiana drawl that he came all this way just to dance with a New York City gal. Oh, come on. Who could resist? Not Carrie. Sam pushes her into his arms.
Now we're treated to a little Dirty Dancing-esque segment set to a little R&B, "Can't Get to You, Babe." I hope they didn't hire a choreographer for this. Sam ducks into a corner to check her messages. Richard called. He says, "You threw a drink in my face and papered my neighborhood -- would I still be calling if I didn't really love you?" Well, he could be calling because he hates to lose. Because he's a control freak and a manipulative bastard who wants another chance to hurt her. Or maybe he's the white knight. Whatever. Sam looks ecstatically happy and listens to the message over and over.
Women get woolly. Oh, they sure get woolly. Wearing that same raggy dress, ye-ees. Carrie sits on a fire escape outside the party and chats with her ma-yun. KISS HIM, woman. He is fine. He's fine as wine, and better for you. She says she needed that dance, after the way the city "kicked [her] ass today." Louisiana says this is his first time in NYC, and it's not for him. "The garbage, the noise...." He doesn't know how Carrie can deal. If he wants to see garbage, he should come to Philadelphia. We are the trashiest city around. And you want noise? We're your place. A Philly restaurant critic actually takes a decibel meter around with him to clock the reading -- so many places are over 72 decibels. To give you a scale, Motorhead likes to play at 100 decibels. Do you get me? Carrie "doesn't want to hear anyone talk shit about [her] boyfriend," so she makes to leave. "It's rough out there," he says. "It's not so bad," she says. And she goes home alone.