Luck Be An Old Lady

Cha, cha cha, cha cha, cha cha. Spla-shy bus, cha cha cha!

Lights up on Carrie, with softly tousled bed-head and a pale eyelet slip-dress on, waiting in a bar. She's alone, and waiting rather anxiously for her "first blind date of the century." Uch, what could be worse? Well, she could be tapped for some horrible blind date reality show; that would be worse. She calls out to one guy passing by, ignores the lascivious eye of another across the bar, smiles shyly at one with enough phone headgear on to communicate with aliens, and generally "hopes for the best, expects the worst." Duh. And wow, more optimism. Will it be in vain?

Yes. Carrie rants to her friends the day that she "got stood up." Wow, she's wearing a cross between my grandmother's afghan and a Cosby sweater. So not pretty! Charlotte, in a white-and-red argyle twin-set thing, says she's "sure there's a perfectly good explanation" for the blow-off. Yes, I have it: Guys are chicken and they suck, generally? Now let me lead you all in a rousing chorus of "I Am Woman." Oh, am I ever uppity. Carrie says that "blind dates are like job interviews with cocktails," and she thinks she's "done." Miranda says that yesterday she said she was going to stop eating bread, and yet she just ordered pancakes, which is a really nice way of saying, "Yeah, right." Carrie wonders hypothetically why she'd need stupid dates with stupid guys when she can have two tons of fun with her friends, all sitting around her right now? Samantha pats her shoulder and tells Carrie she's "cute," but there's no way she's gonna fuck her. Not even by accident? What if Carrie slipped Sam a roofie? And thanks, writers, for reminding us that we endure [awful, boring, et cetera] dates for the possibility of having sex. It's the fucking truth! Now let us never whine about Why Dating Sucks again. Remember, we're just animals. Animals who like to fuck, and to shop. Yes, that's the Urban Woman. But Charlotte says we date so as "not to wind up old maid[s]." Oh, riiight! Because it would suck not to have an old crotchety man hanging around when you're really hitting your stride during Friday-night bingo. Carrie taps her head to drill it in: "Must not wind up old maid, must not wind up old maid...does anyone have a pen?" Hee. Is this going to be her new catch phrase? It's okay. I'm sure I've told this anecdote in a recap before, but once when I was leaning (elegantly, or so I thought) on the bar at Bob & Barbara's, a guy approached me and asked, "Hey, drunk girl, got a pen?" I wasn't that drunk, and worst of all, I didn't have a pen. And what do I do for a living? Right. I write. So Carrie, I recognize the sarcasm tags, but never let yourself be known as The Girl That Didn't Have A Pen. Mir rants about the unfair standards that exist; women are "spinsters," but men are "bachelors." Yeah, but didn't La Bushnell herself write about how tacky it is for men to continue to act twenty-five (dating lots and never settling down) when they're fortyish? She did. And -- "spinster"? When's the last time that hoary term saw daylight? Was it when the writers were wearing stone underwear and riding their mini-dinosaurs to work?

Carrie announces a new topic -- Charlotte's thirty-sixth birthday Saturday night. Where are they celebrating? Well, first of all, Char is "sticking at thirty-five," since she isn't where she thought she'd be at thirty-six, and "men are more interested in thirty-five-year-olds." Okay, whatever. Mir says that since the baby nurse is getting sprung, she'll be too busy with Brady to get out. And Sam has to go to Atlantic City with Richard on Saturday for a gambling-meets-business-meets-boxing-match-meets-sex-in-a-hotel weekend getaway. Carrie indignantly takes umbrage at the fact that her three friends can't get together to celebrate Char's "thirty-faux birthday," and screeches, "This is bullshit!"

Carrie's home alone, without any "good/bad TV to watch." Oh, the pain. So, she picks up the phone.

Three calls in, Carrie declares her frustration with trying to get her friends together. And the most recent photo of the four of them is "moldy!" Oh, quit whining. It's not like you're estranged. You see each other all the freaking time! Carrie explains to Sam that Mir can get Steve to watch Brady, and Char is in as long as no one mentions birthdays or the number thirty-six. Sam says she'll have to check with Richard, who is right there, kissing her back. Richard suggests that everyone come along to Atlantic City, in the jet, and he'll arrange for comped suites. On the other end of the phone, Carrie screeches, "YES!"

Carrie rolls her suitcase up to Mir's door, knocks, and sings "Under The Boardwalk" to her. Mir has a sad face on. She says she's not ready to leave the baby. Carrie is all, "WHAAT!?" Mir says she's "kidding!" Steve took Brady two hours ago. Wow, both these ladies look preggers. Cynthia Nixon is in black stretch pants and a brown top, and SJP is in black pants and a loose white peasant blouse to hide that faint li'l tummy bulge. Carrie recovers from the shock, rolls her suitcase inside, and is collared by Magda, who points her head at all the "cutest" baby pictures on the fridge. Carrie acts mock-impressed and oohs and ahs when it's her time to do so. Magda is all, "Look, so smiley! Look, here, after bath." Mir comes in, and Carrie makes fun of her for hanging baby photos up. Mir says it's all Magda's doing. Okay, why did Mir have a baby again? She seems to get no pleasure from any of the little baby things one does. Of course, it doesn't help that none of her friends gives a shit. The doorbell rings, and the two women answer it. It's Steve, with Brady. He doesn't think he can take care of Brady for the weekend. He's "afraid [he] might break him or something...or accidentally kill [the baby]." Mir says it's "a given" that he's scared, but they made a deal. Steve says he just can't do it, and pushes his way inside. Mir looks glum and says Carrie had better go or else she'll miss the jet. Aww!

Char dashes onto the jet, late and in good spirits -- until she sees it's just Sam and Richard on board. And that they're making out. Oh, Carrie and Mir will be meeting them down there. Char sits down and grabs a present. Ooh, Samantha shouldn't have! And she didn't. The gift, a pearl thong, was from Richard to Sam. "Practical and stimulating," says Sam. She kisses Richard noisily, and Char takes her knitting out of her bag. She, like my sister and many other New Yorkers, has taken up knitting. It was a post 9/11 stress reliever thing. It keeps the hands busy when you're watching TV, and you can make scarves and sweaters and things. My sister made me the most beautiful scarf. Char is working on a pair of blue booties for Brady. Oh, what a clich. Couldn't she make a vibrator cozy, or something 2002-cool like that? I thought we had a new harlot Charlotte to work with this season. Richard whispers that he'll give Sam a pearl necklace tonight, too. Char says her Dad gave her a pearl necklace once. Ew, but not the kind Sam and Richard are talking about. The jet taxis to the runway, and Char knits furiously as Sam and Richard lie on top of each other and make out. Hoo boy.

Mir and Steve sit at a table and yell about the spoiled weekend. Carrie tiptoes in and says that Magda has offered to help Steve with the baby. Mir filibusters that "that isn't her job." Oh, loosen up. Great, come on, let's go! Miranda says the jet's taken off, so how are they going to get there? HOW?

The bus, of course, of course. What better way to get to an unglamorous location than an unglamorous means of transportation? A car rental wouldn't be nearly as much of an eye-opener as the bus, which is crammed full of lots of little old ladies, ready to park it at slot machines, and hardly any little old men. Why? Because men die sooner than women. And they "marry twenty-year-olds." Mir buries herself in some New Yorkers and starts mm-hmming to Carrie's wheedle-y questions. Carrie snaps, "Hey, New Yorker!" Friendships require an emotional investment, and Carrie is the only one ponying up! And, as this scene shows, in the end it's "just us old ladies ridin' the bus!" Mir looks at Carrie, eyes full of love, says she's "so happy right now," and buries herself back in her New Yorker. As a reader, I totally understand. Plus, Carrie is annoying.

They land at the Taj Mahal, a Trump property, of course. We pan down past a giant chandelier to the four friends, each dressed in character -- Sam all in slinky white, Char in a ditzy-print full skirt and prim white romantic blouse, Mir in her long red cardigan and black stretchy pants, and Carrie in a silver top thing that bares her ever-so-faintly protruding stomach. That's right, the abs of steel are being pushed out a bit. Because there's a baby in there! Sam wants to join Richard at baccarat, and Mir wants to hit the slots, but Carrie waves a bill around and says she's "taking her Atlantic City Ladies to dinner. Nothin''s too fancy!" Well, all right!

We have restaurant -- I think it's the Taj's coffee shop. A man in a turban snaps a photo of nearby diners as Mir slathers sour cream on her massive baked potato. Carrie chirps, "We have got to get a picture taken here, this place is fan-TAS-tic!" Oy with the photos. Mir asks if "fantastic" is secret code for "tacky." But of course. You're in New Jersey! I've heard people exclaiming over "fantastic" merchandise in Kohl's like they were in Tiffany's. Something tacky-magical happens when you're in the Garden State. The one safe place where one can't be overwhelmed by tack, I believe, is Princeton, or Sars's parents' house. ["Hee. You're oh for two, but that's sweet of you to say." -- Sars] Mir gives Char a gift. Char shoos it away; after all, her birthday is tomorrow and she doesn't want to be reminded anyway. Mir says she spent $3.99 on it, and Char consents to open it. It's an Old Maid card game set. Heh. Char is horrified. Mir screeches, "Of course it's supposed to be a joke!" Still. Once I almost gave a friend of mine some nice age-fighting eye cream for her birthday. I thought better of it. People are sensitive! Duh. Richard approaches the table, kisses Sam, and says he's starting a poker game shortly. A big-breasted hostess saunters up and takes Richard's arm, ready to escort him out to his "gentleman's" poker game. As they walk away, Mir is reminded that she "has to pump" soon. Carrie says, "Cleavage is big here. It's part of the regional charm." Heh. I could say something here about Sars, but I won't. Carrie proposes a toast to the four of them, but Sam dashes out after Richard, and Char has a face like a wet cat on. The turbaned photographer comes over, but Carrie shoos him away. He shrugs. Me too.

Mir, Char, and Carrie are playing craps. Mir is hot, but Carrie wants to go find Sam. Mir is all, but I'm WINNING! Carrie thinks that's a reason to leave now. Um, no it isn't. A beefy guy asks Carrie to blow on his dice. Carrie offers up Char for the job, and his friend insists that Beefy get "the hot one" to give him luck. Carrie, flattered, leans over and flashes what cleavage she has as she blows on the dice. Char is totally disgruntled. "'The hot one,' that's so sexist!" Well, Char, maybe you just aren't OUT THERE enough in your high-collared white blouse. Beefy rolls the dice and wins twelve grand. He hands Carrie a $1000 chip. Damn! Carrie is thrilled. Char is still put out, and Mir runs around the table offering to "coach" Carrie if she wants to gamble the grand away. Carrie wants to take her friends to see ZZ Top in the Magic Carpet room. Wow, ZZ Top really did play the Taj recently! I tried to get in, but my PR connections didn't come through. And can I just say that I went to Atlantic City right after September 11th, and it was SO very flaggy? It was insane -- casinos are usually monuments to capitalism, but all the billboards on the drive down were patriotic. One even had a revenge theme. And the casinos themselves were lit up all red, white, and blue. It was strange. Mir and Char pass on ZZ Top. Aww! But Mir was all into rolling the dice! And Char turns thirty-five again in a few minutes! Good night, Carrie.