The Domino Effect

Credits. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, whee, go xylophone! Splashy bus! Ohhh, the five-dollar tutu, she is ruined. Cha cha cha.

It's evening in New York. Carrie, in a creamy-pearly gorgeous short evening dress, the effect of which is barely ruined by her visible black bra, skips and flits and cavorts her way down the sidewalk. It's like the woman forgot how to walk without ebullience. She stops and checks her face in a car's side mirror, then catapults herself into what looks like the National Arts Club near Gramercy Park (feel free to write in and correct me if I'm wrong. Not everyone at once!).

No wonder she's so happy: She's meeting none other than her superman, Big. He looks weary and creased. They chew on steaks ecstatically. She asks if they have steaks this good out in his "little village" of Napa. He asks what field she thinks the cattle graze on, "the one on Canal Street?" She says, "What we lack in fields, we make up for in cabs." They could go on like this all night. I sincerely hope they do not. I have a slight banter allergy, which acts up after about two rounds of the stuff. Big counters with "Napa has cabs," and Carrie finally cries uncle and gives in. "You win." Not exactly: when pointless bickering comes to an end, we all win. She asks what's on his "New York agenda." Well, first he's going to catch up on everyone's blackout stories, then he's going to pay too much for cigarettes and have nowhere to smoke them. Just kidding. He asks if she can keep a secret. Never ask a journalist to keep a secret: they can't. I was at the Khyber last Friday night, which is a lovely rock-and-roll dump in Philadelphia. For the first time ever in their history, they were forced to cut the bands short for a noise ordinance, and the manager of the place drunkenly told me their legal plans to fight the shutdown. Of course, I won't tell you what he told me, just that after each sentence he kept stressing that it was OFF THE RECORD and NOT FOR PUBLICATION and DO I HEAR THIS, ALEX? I love getting the inside scoop, but when it comes with a disclaimer like that, secrets become a burden. And to provide closure on that anecdote, the Khyber is open and operating and everything is fine. The end.

Anyway. Big's secret is that he's in town for "a little heart thing." An angioplasty. There seems to be some blockage in his arteries. And afterwards, he can kiss steaks good-bye. Carrie listens to all this looking stricken, then bursts into almost-comic sobs. Her tears are ridiculous, the liquid equivalent of her famous squeal. Big gets a familiar, casual twang in his voice as he tells her she's freaking out needlessly, and that "they do a million of these a day...it's like having your teeth cleaned." More hysterical sobs from Carrie. Very high drama, very Olive Oyl. The waiter comes by to check on them, and Big asks for some more napkins and "a violin." Also, may we have another order of "shut up, Carrie"? Thanks, that'd be great. Mmm, I loves me that "shut up, Carrie." Can't get enough.

Miranda lets herself into her apartment and gasps: Blair Underwood is cooking dinner for her. Ooh, Dr. Robert! Magda let him in, and he's prepared his one specialty: enchiladas. Miranda licks the sauce off his fingers and says, "Ooh. Spicy." And she's not just talking about the food! Blair nods knowingly and says he knows she can handle it. And he's not just talking about the...oh, never mind. Then, he drops a bomb. Would Miranda take the day off of work tomorrow? Brady's with his dad, and he doesn't have to work until seven, so they could spend the whole day together. Mir looks slightly put out. I have to say, don't do it, Miranda. You're already in trouble at the office, and conflicted about being a working mom. When a man asks you to miss work for purely selfish reasons, you shouldn't give in. Why doesn't he call out of work so they can spend the evening together? Exactly. No man would. So why should a woman?

Morning. Miranda and Blair (oh, Blair!) are making love. So she didn't take my advice. Oh, well, at least she's getting laid. Steve lets himself in, pokes his head around, and walks right in on the love-fest. He screams, "Whoa, whoa!" Then Miranda screams; then we see Blair's ass and everyone at home screams; then everyone at home rewinds and pauses, rewinds and pauses, and screams some more. Blair and Mir untangle themselves and throw on some clothes, and Steve turns too quickly and smacks his nose, hard. It's bleeding. Miranda screams yet again. "Oh my god, are you okay?" No, he's shocked, stunned, and now wounded and bleeding. Blair quickly switches gears into doctor mode and takes him under his wing. Steve is all, "Whoa, who the hell are you!" It's okay, he's a doctor. And fine. And, Miranda adds, her "boyfriend." Steve is stunned. Blair, a little tickled. Mir asks, "Is it okay that I call you that?" Blair loves it. Mir has yet another outburst prefaced with "oh my god! Who's watching the baby?" Steve bleats, his "Maaaaa." Oh boy, Maaaa is back! At least Maaaa is getting name-checked. We were just talking about her on the boards. Well, wondering, anyway. Blair takes Steve into the bathroom and sits him down on the edge of the tub. After examining his nose, Blair asks Mir for a tampon. Steve asks disgruntledly if Blair is "a nose guy." Blair says, "Sports medicine," and Mir can't resist chiming in, "For the Knicks!" Steve suffers yet another blow to the ego. God, how great for Miranda to be able to humiliate Steve this way, particularly after diving under her bed to avoid Debbie a few weeks back. Blair then shoves the tampon up Steve's nose. Perfect.

At lunch with the girls, Miranda retells the Steve-meets-Blair story. She says she feels badly for Steve, being in such a vulnerable position, what with the sex and the bloody nose. Oh, boy. Mir still has feelings for Steve. Sam says, "Well, you won!" Mir says that "it isn't a contest," and Sam points out that Mir was "fucking a hot black doctor" and Steve "had a tampon up his nose...no contest!" Yup. Pretty much. Mir admits she felt a little glimmer of happy-evil schadenfreude at seeing Steve's confusion, and also conflicted -- she's crazy about Robert, so why should she care about Steve's stupid feelings? Because crazy would be nothing without stupid, is why. Carrie, of course, can turn this into a conversation about herself. "When I saw Big the other night..." Everyone is all, WHAAA? You saw Biiiiig? Carrie demurs that he's "in town for a little heart thing." Mir asks if "he's on the wait-list to get one." Heh. Carrie intones that Mir's going to feel "incredibly bad in a minute" when she and everyone else learn that Big has heart surgery scheduled, since they found a block-hoo-hoo! Angio-waah! Carrie loses it AGAIN. And when she drops her head to sob, we can see the four inches of root she's rocking. Dark ring, begone! What, did Garnier fire you? Then she tearfully explains that she cried like this when he told her. So, his heart blockage is leading to your heartrending sobs, WE GET IT. God.

Now I'm going to pull a Carrie on your asses: My newly single life is going quite well, thanks. I'm having fun, running around, and blabbing the more lascivious details to friends of mine. During such a naughty gabfest, one of my better homies (who's happily married -- hi, Leslie!) blurted out, "You're like that chick! That chick in that show you write about!" Um...you mean CARRIE? I certainly am not. I never pay full price for designer shoes when the Neiman Marcus outlet is so nearby. Loehmann's, I love you. Marc Jacobs cashmere? Prada kitten heels, sport pumps, and forties-looking wedges? An Armani leather skirt? All mine. And for a fraction of the original cost. Plus, I never squeal like she does when she drops something. And as for the lascivious details, I'll just tell you this: the list of boys I haven't fooled around with is a lot longer than the list of boys I have fooled around with. And don't get all mathematical on me and tell me that statistically, it should be. I know that. It's just something I say to people to shut them up.

Just then, a very pregnant Bitsy Von Muffling (the Mrs. Bobby Fine) waddles up. A Dr. Mao ("Or as we call him, Doctor WOW!") has assisted with getting this fifty-year-old society marm -- who's "married to a fag" (thanks, Samantha) -- knocked up. Bitsy screeches, "He could get a cactus pregnant!" Char's eyes widen and practically fly out of her head. Oh, boy.

The day, Char wears the ugliest outfit in the world to Dr. Mao's office. A white eyelet blouse, a disgusting brocade purse, and the ugliest black pants with white lines on it, making squares. Those pants make Kristin Davis's ass look HUGE. Her ass could eat J. Lo and Beyonc for dinner, then have room left over for a bucket of spicy fried chicken from Popeye's. With the sides, and the biscuits. Her ass looks bigger than her head! It's bigger than Jay Leno's head, even. Oh, those are very bad pants. When she sits down to fill out the forms, we see that the pants are cropped, even. Capri pants of Satan, get away from me. Char listens to the excited chatter of the women in the waiting room (all success stories, of course), and starts to look anxious.

Carrie chomps on an apple, preparing herself to write. God, I know it took me long enough, but I see the similarities between Carrie and all the other recappers now -- not just me! We all have to plug into our writing implements and let fly, whether we like it or not. Let me guess: something about an open heart? She bites the apple and writes that if the apple is New York's signature fruit, its signature sound is an ambulance siren, blaring a reminder "that people are getting hurt." She mentions "falling back in love," then writes, "How dangerous is an open heart?" She calls the hospital. Can she be connected to Room 817? Sorry. "That person" checked out this morning. And P.S., you'll never learn Bog's name, either. Ev. Er. I hope it is Ralph or Rafe or Rip or Dirk, and that he whispers it to someone after getting run over by a bike messenger or something. Just kidding.

Now Carrie really, really creeps me out. She goes to the Four Seasons, where she just instinctively knows Bog has checked himself in, and in a costume no less. He's less than thrilled to see her, and calls her Weepy or Boo-Hoo, or Sniffles, and says he would have invited her but he "ran out of Kleenex." Good one. Carrie marches in and takes off her gray satin trench coat to reveal...a candy-striper's uniform. She affects this very sickly-sweet voice and makes a lot of bad banter with him about "stripping" and "striping" and "she knows the rules." He's amused, and says he can't "get excited," which is "a waste of a perfectly good hotel room," so now what are they gonna do? She opens her straw purse and whips out...dominoes. And a giant lollipop. He giggles, "Kill me now." Hey, that's my line.

Miranda plays with Brady in the park. Wow, he looks giant now! She smears him with sunscreen, then sees Steve and Debbie approaching. They arrive in slo-mo, to highlight her boom-pow-bap-ness. Debbie is a hot mama, and Miranda probably just feels like a mama. But you're beautiful, Miranda! Don't let a toned midriff make you feel awful. Mir sticks out her hand for Debbie to shake, then trips over the stroller and goes flying to the ground. Aww, we can even see her giant pink granny panties -- karmic revenge for her glee in seeing Steve bust his nose! Karma is such a bitch. Steve and Debbie help Mir up, and then Mir dies another little death when Debbie cuddles Brady and calls him "Bradylicious." Then Blair comes up, and Mir gets off on introducing him as a doctor..."for the Knicks." Debbie gushes, then goes off about how Steve lives for the Knicks. Blair says, "So, you're a Knicks man." Wouldn't that be "fan"? It's not like he's a Harvard man or something. Or a leg man. Or is that a thing with the Knicks? Are there "Yankees men"? It sounds like a tribe. ["I think it's as opposed to 'a Nets man.' Yes, such a thing does exist." -- Sars] Then Blair offers up some courtside seats, since Debbie mentioned that their last seats were "so high up!" Steve refuses. Mir insists. Steve refuses. Mir insists. You get the idea.