Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, go xylophone, go! Splashy bus, cha cha cha.
Some noodle-y tuneful music plays as we pan from the street, up past Carrie's cute cork wedgies and li'l ankle socks, to her sitting and not typing in the blank document on the screen of her computer. She VOs that the worst part of not being in a relationship is having a column where you're required to write about being in relationships. Sure, that'd be frustrating. Maybe she should think of it as a kind of forced procrastination, brought on from outside sources. Procrastination is a big part of being a writer. Ask anyone. If you've already emailed me on the subject, I'll get back to you about it. Later. But seriously, being a writer is a lot of sitting around, a lot of phone calls and pitching, some drinking and gallivanting (all in the name of getting material), and maybe one fifth actual writing. If anyone tells you differently, they're full of it. Ask anyone at a real job -- do they work nonstop for eight hours a day? Writers don't write for eight hours a day, either. We hustle, scrabble, and schmooze, and sit around and complain, and read other people's work and talk shit about it; then we get our own work done.
Breakfast at "The Coffee Shop" with the girls. Carrie asks desperately if anyone remembers "Randall the sandal guy." Everyone is all, huh? Whuh? Yeah, Carrie dated him like six years ago, but she's that desperate. Like, last week, she wrote about French fries. Char and Mir chirp that they thought that piece was cute. Carrie kvetches. Sam looks down at her menu, silent. Carrie is all, you didn't read it? Oh my god, if I expected all my friends to comment positively on everything I published, I'd have to get new friends. And if I had to kiss all my writer-friends' asses every time they did good work in print, well, there aren't enough hours in the day. Sam says she "doesn't always have time to read [Carrie's] column." Makes sense to me! Carrie whines that she's becoming "irrelevant" even to her friends. Oy, come on. Quit crying. Mir says she always has time. All right, Superwoman, don't let anyone forget for a minute that you have it all -- baby, career, and a few minutes to read the features in the weekly paper EVERY GODDAMN WEEK. Carrie whines (again, some more) that she's in a "dating desert," and they could change the name of her column to "'[Whistle] and the City," and she's "not getting laid, therefore [she's] getting laid off." Sam says, "You're on the side of a bus, for god's sake!" Carrie is all, "These are troubled times! This is not a good economy in which to be whipped cream!" Hee. I see her point. And yet, NOW MORE THAN EVER, don't we all need a little fluff? Wow, do you guys hate me for saying "NOW MORE THAN EVER"? You do? I love you guys.
Anyway, Carrie says she started writing about her "sock drawer -- men as socks." "Socks and the city," says Sam. Ah, metaphor. I'll do it. Men as socks: You ball them, then put them away for later. Darn them! And of course, there's your jocks, your frilly socks, silly socks. Okay, I'll stop. Carrie says there aren't any men left, and Char (!) says there are so and she'll take Carrie on a man-hunt. Wow, I like this new Charlotte! The waitress comes, and everyone orders. Sam says she'll "have the fruit plate and [she's] back with Richard." What-what-whaaaat? Everyone blanches. She replays what Richard says: he's "never known anyone" like Sam, and he "got scared." Everyone is agog. Char does the universal sign language for pussy-licking (fingers in a "V" held up to the lips, then tongue fluttering between the fingers), and everyone blanches again. Mir says that when she gets scared, she hides beneath the covers. Sam is all, "Maybe you had to be there!" Carrie says maybe Sam will have to be there "twenty-four hours a day to make sure it doesn't happen again." Sam says Richard is a successful, interesting man, and "an interesting pussy may cross his path now and then." Sure -- that doesn't mean he has to lick the thing! Mir asks if men "should get medals for correctly identifying a feeling." Hee. Sam says maybe (MAYBE?) this is just a flaw in Richard. And "it's just sex." Well, it's her life. We just watch it on TV. Carrie says we "shouldn't judge," and how about this for a column? "Desperate women who are willing to believe anything." Oh, snap. Pot, have you met kettle?