Lunch with the girls. Sam is mightily pissed. She's pizzissed! She feels she should be "rewarded" for her lifestyle choice. "Since when does kids equal a Get Out Of Cancer Free card?" Heh. She correctly interprets her doctor's suggestion as a slightly more scientific version of what certain people (not me) on the forums have been saying: "I'm a whore, therefore I need chemo." Of course not, Sam. But people love to talk. And judge. So why should she get chemo, again? Sam says, "'Cause he's an asshole." Carrie says there could be something microscopic. Sam intones, "Like his dick." Carrie, ever the annoying prude, asks if Sam has cancer or Tourette's. God, shut up, Carrie! Your friend is going through something very serious -- life-threatening, even -- and you're offended by her language now? Or do you just hate when you're not the center of attention? This meaty scene should be all about Sam. Instead we get the knee-jerk reactions of a skinny twit. Sam says she's getting a new doctor, a woman. Dr. Andrews, top-rated oncologist by the loathsome New York magazine. Sam's trying to get in. Um, New York magazine? The same mag that had Carrie on the cover, looking like S-H-I-T? I thought Sam declared a boycott on that rag. Oh well. How quickly we forget.
Miranda gets up and announces reluctantly that she's taking a long weekend, so she has to get back to the office. Carrie is all, hold on there. Is this your honeymoon? Mir says dourly that she's going on a "whatever" with Steve. Her honeymooooon. Cue Charlotte's tearful squeals. Since Mir already gave Magda the time off, they're bringing Brady. Char says it's not a real honeymoon, then. Mir repeats that it's a "whatever." What could Magda be doing for four days? Mir mutters that maybe she's going to "Nanny-palooza." Oh, gawd. That's so lame. Char begs and begs to take care of Brady. Carrie says she's the godmother; she can take care of him part-time for a bit, too. Mir is all, "You guys would do that?" Um, godmothers? Are the on-call moms in case the real mom checks out. So yeah, they would. Carrie SHOULD. Sam says she wouldn't. Smith is coming back from L.A., and "I've always chosen sex over babies, and that's apparently why I got cancer!"
The next day, Carrie steps precariously down her front stoop in high heels, a mini, white gloves, and a hat that looks like she's going to be driving a locomotive in a moment. She's got Brady and the stroller in tow, too. Wow -- walking with a toddler en stroller in heels? That's advanced. I never did that. Platform wedges, yes. Adidas, of course. Stilettos? Never. A mom avec stroller swishes by Carrie and gives her a look that's part sympathetic, part "Are you crazy? Stilettos?" Carrie's pink glittery phone rings; it's Char. Carrie gushes that she was "just mistaken for a mother, by a mother." Carrie, I've been calling you a mother for years now. Guess the suffix that follows "mother-." Char is surrounded by a tower of applesauce cups and animal crackers. Carrie says they're going to Alek's house for the afternoon. Char worries herself into a lather about the place's possible pointy edges and potential death-trappiness. Carrie says sunnily that they're going to strap a pillow to the boy and hope for the best. Yeah! Take that, applesauce cups!