Thursday, February 17, 2011
Writing about Sex and the City in the year 2011.
Brought to you by the Department of Irrelevancy.
But that is what it do here at myinterestingandexcitinglife.blogspot.com, in between poppin' bottles, poppin' cherries, and poppin' weasels!
TBS shows reruns of The Ladies (Okay, I might "demand" it every so often. Read: often) so while I'm hunched over a bowl of Puffins, sloshing spoonfuls of milky slop over my magazines, I get to take a little walk down memory lane. THE NINETIES! Things were so optimistic. Smoking indoors! Cosmos! Making bold statements with fanny packs and wristlets, ironically?
But more than anything, it makes me nostalgic for the conversations I used to have (in earnest) with my friends.
Who's the Samantha? That always went to the biggest slut in the group obviously, making it difficult to divine whether that consensus should be taken as a compliment or an insult. "You're such a Samantha!" So either you were too horny to function or you spoke only in suggestive innuendo on all subject matter. Both are unsustainable.
Perhaps you yearned to be Charlotte. That meant you were just a drag, a moralizing ninny who probably referred to herself as "the mom" of the group. Sure, you might have coveted her Michael Kors off the rack fashions, but you also had cankles and were most likely a virgin in college.
Carrie! Everyone wanted to be fun, feisty Carrie. She dressed like a streetwalker and straddled big city glitterati scenes, and straddled Chris Noth and even John Slattery for one episode until he asked her to pee on him and she wouldn't. Who wouldn't pee on Roger Sterling? That demonstrated a clear lack street cred and initiative, and 65% of her speech is in the language of pun.
Carries wears the least well (clothes and character) over time. And I done been a freelancer. You wear Vans, or house slippers, should you ever venture outdoors.
And then there was Miranda. No one, but NO ONE wanted to be the Miranda. Being the Miranda back in the day meant you were a fire crotch man hating lesbian spoil sport in Armani shoulder pads with an early incarnation of the Justin Bieber haircut. Sad sad you if you were the Miranda.
Maybe, even once, when you were lamenting the point of going out at all when you could just stay home and watch East Enders and eat Chinese takeout in your comfy pants because that's more fun anyway, someone might have muttered through the phone "Don't be such a Miranda!" Oh, you stripped down, hosed off, and put on some tragic Steve Madden stilettos right away, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?!
But now, from my perch of retrospection that only time and the daily beatdown of one's hopes and dreams can bring, I can only hope to be the Miranda. Despite her dolphin teeth, her appearance got steadily better over the course of six seasons unlike the other characters who looked progressively more insane. And she got *Steve* a doofus with a heart of gold, while Carries ended up with Big (who has the personality of a surfboard), Charlotte is stuck with Harry Rosenblatt (who looks like a thumb) and Samantha is left rubbing her loins on living room furniture.
Miranda is a lawyer, so she gets paid, and she has a house servant and spawned a little ranga baby. Cute!
She also gets the best lines in the show, and they don't rely on puns. Many of them also deal with the timely topic of flatulence, or farts (philistine). Like when she's pregnant she says, "I'm so bloated and gassy I'm like a floatation device!" or when she's in a shoe store trying to pull of a ring and accidentally farts and says "I just pulled my own finger!" Now that is good.
Over a glass of wine the other night (this is now enough for me to get hammered. Finally, I'm a cheap date!), I gave Brooke D a drunken exegesis on the relative merits of Sex and the City. Some bullshit like "We hear those lines as so cliché now, but in fact it's because the writing was so good that it got co -opted into the vernacular." And Brooke was like, "Girl you drunk. You are being such a Miranda right now." And I was like "Thank you."