Sam, Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte loll around, eating popsicles. Oh, and Sam's having chemo. They're in a "chemo lounge," a semi-private room where patients having chemo can hang with their peeps. It must make the process easier. They suck on popsicles athletically, Mir intoning, "Good Humor me!" Heh. Everyone has cherry except Mir, who chose grape. She sucks it efficiently, and Sam comments, "Look at her work Mr. Grape! Steve is a very lucky guy!" Heh. All women deep-throat popsicles when no one is around. It's the truth. Okay, maybe it's just me. The nurse asks if everyone is as much fun as Sam, and Carrie says she wishes. Then Sam says if it's fun they want, listen to how awesome the premiere party of Smith's movie is gonna be. She's got a hot dress and fab shoes and she's gonna nail that red carpet's ass! Everyone clinks popsicles and "woo hoo!"s. Yeah, this chemo thing is easy! Popsicles for everyone!
Carrie and Alek stroll through the aisles of Williams-Sonoma (shout-out to Keckler? Could be), past all the Bodum products, with Carrie chattering all the while about how much fun Sam's chemo session was, what with the Barcaloungers and popsicles and videos they could watch. Wow, I remember reading about special Barcalounger-type chairs marketed to hospitals for blood donors to use. They were hella expensive, but looked as comfortable as can be. I had to wonder, okay, they can invent these chairs that feel like you're in heaven with an angel cupping each buttock, but we STILL NEED BLOOD DONORS. Priorities, people. Anyway, as Carrie concludes that, avec shuffleboard, Sam's chemo would be "a vacation in Miami." Um, yeah. Exactly. Alek sees the espresso makers and drags Carrie towards them. Carrie says Sam "doesn't even look sick." Alek is all, but she is sick, yes? Well, not really, says Carrie. She was! But now it's all popsicles and dreaming of red carpet flashbulbs. Alek says seriously, "I had a friend with breast cancer. She died." Then he walks away, leaving Carrie to finger the tiny espresso cups, alone, alone.
Char fries eggs in the kitchen like a good little wifey. Wow, more wine, Mrs. Stepford? Just kidding. I already used that line in a recap. And it's on my mind because, when I was watching the Golden Globes tonight, I learned that I'll soon be seeing Nicole Kidman in a remake of The Stepford Wives. Which is both thrilling and horrifying to me. Like, first of all, do they have to remake EVERYTHING these days? Is there anything original out there? But then again, I love that movie, so yay. Maybe Sofia Coppola could direct and leave it a period piece, circa the '70s, and she could put her dappled-sunlight touches all over it like she did with The Virgin Suicides. Or maybe Vincent Gallo! Then again, it could suck, and people will go around thinking that The Stepford Wives is crap, and I'll be bummed, because the first one is so campy and feminist and scary and wholly lovable. So yeah, anyway, Char's frying something up in a pan, never letting Harry forget he's a man, cause she's a woooo-man, double-you oh. M-A-N. Want to sing it again? No? Okay. The phone rings. It's Dr. Steiner. She thanks him for calling, hangs up, serves Harry his eggs, and tells him none of her eggs were viable. But she wants to try again. She's sure. "It'll work. It has to." Harry reaches for her. Is she okay? Yeah. She says she's gonna go for a run.