Carrie asks why, if Mir is so anti-romance, she's having a wedding at all? Mir has thought about this. She actually does "want to say those vows, out loud, in front of Steve and all our friends. Are you gagging over there?" Carrie says the opposite. "You were my cynical touchstone. Do you promise to be cynical even after you're married?" Mir says happily, "I do!" She wheels around to see a saleswoman bringing what looks like the Lara Flynn Boyle pink tutu disaster from the Golden Globes a few years back. Mir has gotta go. She clicks her phone shut and says, "Okay! We need to have another talk!"
Carrie pads toward her laptop in red Uggs and a v-necked argyle sweater, lap-length. Hoo-wee. I like the Uggs, though. She muses and types that New Yorkers accept Tasti-Delight as the real thing, and have given up on finding that real love thing, too. "Have New York women settled for a sugar-free existence as well? Is it something we could learn to digest? Or have we become romance-intolerant?" Oh, boy.
Harry is in the process of wining and dining Charlotte. He orders foie gras and beef -- sorry, "boeuf" bourgignon, and the fromage cart, not the plate. His Francais is le meh. I remember with love the TWoP recapper's convention in Las Vegas, where we stayed at the Paris and we called everything by its French name. I took le douche. We drank le cafe. And we sang "Alouette" and "Thank Heaven For Leetle Girls" all the livelong day. Anyway, Char is charmed by Harry's ordering skillz. He says, "The French learn romance from me, bay-bee."
Sam, in a pinstriped blazer with no shirt, hangs at a bar to boob-shop. She's parked next to two piggy guys who are doing the same thing. For different reasons, of course. She's looking to see what looks right, they're horny fuckwits who'll never get laid. They like the big, cartoony ones, like that chick has on The Real World San Diego. It's rather gross. Finally, the bartender arrives, and shakes a shaker. Her boobs shake, too. She's more like Coral from The Real World: Return to New York. Sam compliments her boobs and says they're either naturally great, or she needs the name of her doctor. The bartender is cooperative: Dr. Bevel is the best. "They paid for themselves in tips alone." Boobs are like currency.
Carrie enters Alek's love nest. She's in this hideous Little Red Riding Hood-y fleecy cropped jacket. Ugh, what a Little House on the Prairie nightmare. And pink satin elbow-length gloves? Okay, gloves are "in" this season, but they just don't look good. Alek is in a tuxedo. She says she didn't know this was a "formal sleep-over." He says La Traviata is playing at the Met, and he wants her to go with her. Hey, that's my favorite opera! I love the ones when the whores die of TB. It really gets me -- right there. Carrie says she almost put on her ball gown to go, but didn't. She can run home to change. No, he says. It'd be easier if she stays. He gestures to a box behind him. Oh. My. God. He got her the Oscar de la Renta dress. I saw the spring 2004 fashion show of his line, and those dresses came in yellow and white. In fact, I bet they could come in any color. That's the beauty of couture. Carrie slooowly opens the box: tah dah! She kvells. He says, "Tonight, only your poetry. Not mine. You like it?" She does. Of course she does.