Carrie's "euphoria" (not U4EA -- remember that?) carries over to Zabar's in the morning. She and Char stand by the counter and gush about how much they love their respective men. Carrie wants to "squeeze" Berger's face "right off" sometimes. Yeah, that's love all right. And that lasts forever, too. Not. And I'm not as old as Carrie, even. Char burbles on about how this is her first Shabbat dinner as "a real Jew," and she wants to make it great for Harry. The deli man steps up with the brisket she ordered, and she yells at him that she "said LEAN!" Wow, that's Jewy.
Carrie walks into her place, and finds a copy of Berger's novel waiting for her. It's called Hurricane Pandora, and he inscribed it with no pressure at all: "Sure, you love me, but can you love my book?" I'd break up with him right then and there. Well, unless the book really rocked my world. Writers are so fucking ridiculous. Why would you want to set a tone like that? "Love me? Love my book, too! Or I'll be an empty shell who'll resent you forever and ever. And I'll eat your Nutty Buddys when you're not looking."
Sam and Jerry have another fantasy scene. This time, he's an IRS auditor. She doesn't have the money; what is he going to do, take the shirt off her back? He does. Then they fuck on top of the adding machine, and she actually says, "This is what I call internal revenue!" Hold on, I have to get several drinks.
Carrie reads Berger's book and calls it "brilliant." Berger knocks on her door and loads on the pressure: Is she done yet? Did she like it? He can't date a slow reader. What, did she "stop for meals"? Oh, Jesus. I've dated writers like this. They're so fucking insecure that even when they're desperate for you to kiss their asses, they're whining and wheedling. I guess you could look at Berger's behavior as cute, but having been there, it's honestly just annoying. One reason I love my friends is because they don't kiss my ass, not because they do. Anyway, Carrie "loved" the book. She gets totally squeaky and annoying about it. She "love love loooooved it!" Berger's main character is "running all over the island of Manhattan wearing a scrunchie." I wish Carrie had said "isle of Manhattan." Then I could say, "Smoke on your pipe and put that in." Berger instantly goes on the defensive, like any insecure writer does. "You're full of shit!" He sees women wearing scrunchies all the livelong day. Walking the dog. Going to work. Making love in the afternoon. The scrunchie: it is one of the hypothetical roses in life which we often forget to sniff. It's like Jesus, in that it is always with us.
Carrie, not getting that Berger is hurt, says that nobody who works at W magazine (and this is the second time W got a plug this season! Don't think I don't notice!) and lives on Perry Street would wear a scrunchie to a "hip downtown restaurant." Ew. Who says "hip downtown restaurant"? Carrie really screeches the last "scrunchie." The sound of her voice makes my dog's forehead wrinkle up. Sure, it's adorable. But at what cost? Carrie asks to read her favorite part aloud, but Berger says no. He's "done talking about the book." He grabs the phone to order in some food.