Hey, congrats on the two Golden Globes, you all. Splashy bus, cha cha cha!
Lights up on a tap-dancing class. This is how Charlotte is "coping" with her impending divorce. Tappa tappa tappa. Tappa tappa tappa is all some people ever had. Some people would have killed for tappa tappa tappa!
Charlotte, Carrie, and Aidan munch sushi. Charlotte effervescently describes how her new activities -- tap and a sculpture class, too -- are great, and how her divorce will be quick and painless, like pulling off a Band-Aid with one swift motion. "I don't need time to grieve!" she bubbles. Mmm hmm. Sure. Carrie, laden down with a hundred strands of pearls and a cameo on a green ribbon, nods. Then, Susan Sharon, Carrie's friend the cashmere queen who adopted Charlotte's terrier, pops up and demands to know what's new with Carrie. Carrie is all, "Writing, gallivanting." Good answers! But she forgot the impending nuptials with the man chewing sushi just to her right. Char points out the omission, and Susan Sharon looks for the ring on Carrie's hand. It isn't there, of course. The ring is hidden on a slender chain underneath the hundreds of strands of pearls and the cameo on a green ribbon. Susan Sharon asks if this is "is what the people are doing these days?" Hell no. Well, it's what the lame, selfish people are doing. Carrie lamely says that the ring is "closer to [her] heart" when she wears it on a chain. Susan Sharon plotzes, then asks if it'll be a spring wedding or a fall wedding or what. Um, they haven't decided yet. Susan Sharon says -- and is she really the first to say this? -- that they had better "chop chop" and pick a date already, since "these places book up, [she's] telling you, years and years." That's okay -- they aren't ever going to get married, so they needn't worry about such logistics.
Samantha and her perfect Richard are having breakfast. He tells her she's gorgeous. She knows. They kiss; she opens the paper and sees that some gossip columnist has a photo of Richard with some socialite on his arm. She gasps, horrified. Sam calls the guy, who thought she'd be "sucking [his] dick for getting Richard's name in the paper." Oh noooo. Sam knows for a fact that Richard is "canoodling" with one woman, and it isn't the socialite. The columnist cackles and says in blind-item-speak, "Guess which publicist can't seem to keep track of her own client?" Heh. My blind item would be, "Guess which television show continues to win accolades and awards under the guise of comedy, but is in actuality grim and unfunny?" No, too long. How about "SEX SHOW LOSES LAUGHS, GETS LINES IN FACE." And the columnist would love to fuck Samantha, if she's ever in the mood. Of course he would. But she's sprung on some other guy, see.
Samantha charges into the shower and reports the misprint to her perfect Richard. Was he in fact "canoodling" with that socialite? She needs "to know all the facts." So she can "do her job." Oh, Sam. Whht-tssh! The big jungle cat, she is tamed. One might even say "whipped." But I prefer the phonetic spelling. Whht-tssh! Whht-tssh! Richard asks her to "get that perfect ass" into the shower with him, and lowers the shower nozzle so Sam can get her own canoodle on. Sam goes along with it, choosing an orgasm over intimacy yet again.