[Note to my readers: It's clear that I'm going to have to write a book deconstructing "Sex and the City"...]

“Big” Disappointment

I knew it. I knew that Carrie would take Big back. And I suppose there was a demand for it—the passion between the two of them was undeniable, and the majority of SEX AND THE CITY fans wanted it that way. The magic of Paris—billed as the romance capital of the world—fueled this desire, leading fans to murmur in their sleep: “If only Big were there in Paris with you…”

But that I knew it was going to go down this way doesn’t stop me from being disappointed. I’ve always seen Carrie and Big as a reverse Scarlett and Rhett (boys, that’s from GONE WITH THE WIND, which was both a book and a movie). As prone to scandal and flexible political loyalties as he was, Rhett loved Scarlett. Soulmates? Certainly. But Scarlett was always too selfish and immature to do anything else but take Rhett’s wealth, presence and support for granted. At the end of the story, Scarlett realizes Rhett has always been her true love, but by then it’s too late. He loves her, but can’t be consumed with hopes that she’ll change, or thoughts of what will happen to her once he leaves. Rhett has done what is right for himself, and removed himself from the dysfunction of his relationship with Scarlett.

It’s not a perfect analogy, but that’s what I wanted from Carrie. To lay down the law: Big needs to prove that he has changed, not by jetting to Paris as the emissary of her friends (which he never reveals), but by actually engaging in a normal relationship, one where the noncommittal hunk actually treats her with (oooh!!) respect and (gasp!!) regard, as well as (aahhh…) romance. Their previous encounters—which, though passionate, amount to mere stolen moments between and during her other relationships—prove him emotionally unstable, a loose cannon, and fundamentally non-intuitive. He’s hurt Carrie more times than any of us can count. What’s changed now?

I’ll admit that what I want for Carrie in her life as a spunky, creative New York writer, is what I want for myself…independence, feistiness, tenacity, perseverance, and a passionate relationship with a soulmate. And it’s clear to anyone with half a brain that neither Alexsandr Petrovsky nor “John Big” (and don’t even get me started on the neutrality of this name) fits this description.

But there are two “characters” who could: her friends and New York City.

The girlfriends are tight. Now. But even in their thirties and forties, they’re just beginning to metamorphose. Brooklyn does not an automatic rift make, but Miranda will become very busy very quickly. Now, cultivating a marriage, tending to her aging mother-in-law, and still trying to work, Miranda will have to prioritize. And there are going to be times—most times—when her girlfriends are going to get the short end of the stick. It’s partly a function of the maturation process, partly a function of “out of sight, out of mind.” It’s happened to me many times. Not that I don’t love my friends with children who live in the suburbs. Some of them are my oldest and most loyal friends. But the plain and simple fact is that a parent’s priority is what is present in their immediate range of vision. Telling children not to touch the stove because it’s hot, meeting with mortgage brokers, and trying to recapture the romance of marriage can sap their energy and consume their time. And then, while they’re drifting off at night, their brains get a reminder email, which they subconsciously and guiltily acknowledge—like pressing the snooze button—promise themselves that they’ll call you tomorrow before submitting to sleep. You’re on their brains. They love you. But they just don’t have the strength to keep in touch.

When Miranda stops calling, I’m betting Samantha won’t notice. She’s got Smith, which—when the writers introduced him—I never imagined would be enough. But he’s been the boy-toy surprise in the Cracker Jack box. He was a hot waiter that ran deep, and Samantha suspected it all along—initially running from it, but eventually, surrendering to it. She’s changed, not so much because of her illness, but because of how Smith reacted to her illness. She’s dedicated to the dyad, in a world apart from everyone else.

Charlotte, for all her sweetness, idealism and innocence, has always struck me as the most self-absorbed. And now, she had baby brain. Not in the pea-sized sense, but in the single-minded, must-have-baby-now sense that I’ve also seen personally. (I will reveal no names.) First, there were Goldenblatt dogs, and now that she and Harry are getting a Goldenblatt baby, Charlotte will become a Miranda, and realize she never really had all that much in common with Samantha, who probably won’t note the distance as a loss.

And when the relationship between the four girls changes, what will Carrie do? She’ll cling ever closer to Big, which will accelerate the velocity of their relationship in one direction or another. And no doubt she’ll pen many a column on her other soulmate, her computer. But if Big leaves, and her computer crashes, what will be her source of strength? (Certainly not her editor, Candice Bergen. Although maybe Sanford. But anyway…)

There has been much ado made about the fact that NYC is the fifth girlfriend in the group, the background against which the four central characters live their lives. Living in NYC informs their career pursuits, their personalities, their survival instincts, their romantic choices.

New York has it all, and conveys the feeling of the endlessly possible. And with the hordes of men and women living in this city, you’d think finding someone to love wouldn’t be so difficult. But it is. The vastness of the endlessly possible can be lonely and overwhelming. This is why, in a place where possibility has no limits, Carrie falls back on the known, the flawed, instead of putting past behind her and heading into a future that, for all its potential, is unknown. She lets her fear limit her. By returning to her male Scarlett, a man who only acknowledges his own needs, she restricts her own potential for happiness.

I try to remember that Carrie’s choice was not as much a choice between Petrovsky and Big, as it was a choice between lifestyles, between the unknown and the safe and familiar. In Paris, she had Petrovsky, who never paid her any attention and was always sticking her in awkward situations with his friends. (Subtract one point.) Plus, she was in France, which meant being the “ugly American” who trips and spills the contents of her purse on the floor of Dior, and, in one of my favorite moments on the final episode, being smacked on the head by a random French child. (Subtract another point. In NYC, she had Big (add or subtract points as you see fit); her friends (add three points); if not her job, then at least her reputation (add one point); and New York City, where she had made her name and her fortune (add one point). In case you’re keeping score, that’s Petrovsky/France=-2 points, Big/NYC=4-5 points (depending on what you think of Big). Correct my math if you want, but in the end, it’s a landslide. Carrie picks New York.

I’m not saying that Carrie should have chosen Petrovsky, or even France for that matter. And it’s definitely good that she chose NYC, as it’s a better environment for her. But once in NYC, what should she do? Big was not only her biggest relationship temptation, but also her knight in shining armor who rescued her from the ickiness of France. The audience doesn’t get to see the two of them spending time discovering Paris together or discussing how different the relationship was going to be when they returned or going back to Petrovsky’s to get Carrie’s beloved baggage or that Big had been sent by her friends to bring her back…Presumably they talked things through on the plane, but audience members weren’t privy to those conversations. Leaving us out of that thought process makes those of us who thought Big is Bad to scowl angrily at Carrie’s weakness.

To the series’ credit, it didn’t show Big and Carrie getting married. This leaves open the possibility, not only of movie sequels and DVD alternate endings, but that Big and Carrie give the relationship thing a whirl and then figure out that it doesn’t work. Or that it does. We don’t know. I’m sure that even the writers had different opinions on how what should have happened. There’s no easy answer. Theoretically, after the final credits rolled, it still could have gone my way. Which isn’t right or wrong. It’s just different.

Maybe, if I had been an SATC disciple from day one, this final episode would have been my Gospel, something that I felt intrinsically and with every fiber of my being to be an absolute truth. But as it happens, even though the series is over, and the characters’ storylines resolved, there are lots of us whose storylines remain open, and I had hoped that the show’s waning moments would have provided us with the inspiration to march boldly into the future. I know so many people just like me: still single in the City, trying not to let fear of the unknown limit our possibilities.

So, tonight “Sex and the City” is over…boo freakin’ hoo.

I never really got into this show the way people thought I should have. As a single writer living in New York City with only my quirky sense of humor to protect me from the heartbreak of years of unsuccessful blind dating, I should have loved this show. But I missed the first season, and the train of fans who have been obsessive since Day One had already left the station. I was left behind, waving my handkerchief at the departing cars, and following on the next train out of the station—but this was a more critical train, interested in documenting the progress of the show and tracking the evolution (if any) of the characters, but not necessarily identifying with them the way my friends and colleagues did. Part of it was that I really didn’t get the glamour and the fashion of the whole affair. I made jokes: If there were an HBO show about my dating life, they’d just have to call it “The City.” Which character did I most identify with? One that didn’t exist—a funny, average-looking, non-twiglike woman, whose sardonic wit, budget-conscious shopping and sensible shoes would doom her to a life off-camera and banned from Twilo and Fashion Week.

But tonight it all ends. Tonight the last Carrie Bradshaw question will be typed on her computer for our consideration; tonight we’ll find out if Charlotte’s been impregnated; if Miranda can live happily ever after in Brooklyn with Steve, their son and her sarcasm; if Samantha’s cancer has killed her indomitable sexual spirit; and if Big is Carrie’s “lobster” (to use a “Friends” term).

I, for one, hope that Carrie chooses self-actualized freedom over yet another chapter of her dysfunctional relationship with Big. This makes me extremely unpopular among my friends, but I can’t help it. There’s this Hollywood tendency to think that every story needs a wedding, or the ending is not happy. Actually, this English major remembers that this nuptial-centric literary device was one that Shakespeare used at the end of all of his comedies—after a play full of confusion, gender bending and identity confusion, he pairs up his characters at the end, they all get married, and they live happily ever after. This continues to send a message to single America—even if you’re successful in everything else, if you’re not married, it’s not a happy ending.

The truth is, some people don’t get married. Some people get married late. And some other people get married and still don’t get their happy ending. I know people in all these categories, and I don’t wish to be married just for marriage’s sake. I could have been married by now, if that was the endgame. But I’ve seen people do that and fail miserably. And I do understand the temptation of trying to revisit old unresolved relationships—I even recently tried to contact an old boyfriend. Although he was far from being my “Big,” he was one of these characters who never wanted anything serious, and although we had great chemistry, I knew he wasn’t for me. But the great chemistry, the witty banter and flirtatious repartee, has been lacking enough in my current dating life that I was tempted to cling to past vestiges thereof, even in faded memory. (Joke was on me, this “never-ready” guy at some point got ready, and got married last December, around the time that I tried to reach him.) So, yes, I do understand how it’s just easier to go back to something that’s known, even if it’s less than you think and know you deserve, than to forge ahead into an unknown future.

So what do I want from tonight’s finale? A message that conveys that being married isn’t the only endgame. That leaves open the possibility that Carrie will individuate, and realize that Big’s actually the Big Bad, relationship-wise. That allows Carrie the optimism to soldier on into a future where she pursues her real self, and maintains connections with her friends, even as their lives all change.

I want an acknowledgment that from here on in, it’s not all Appletinis and Cosmos. Miranda’s in the suburbs (at least by City standards); Charlotte is married and has dogs and (I’m guessing) children to tend to; and Samantha and Smith are finally forging true intimacy against the backdrop of cancer recovery. As for Carrie, who knows? Some people want her with Big, some people don’t. But in any case, these four self-centered broads are expanding their circles of caring, moving away from daily diner dates with the girls, and towards the maturity of real, long-term relationships with men.

Although the title of this series was “Sex and the City,” what I’ve always related to--and I think, what most women really loved about the series-- was the relationships between the girls. The magic was in the banter that was hashed out over hash browns at brunches, and the sweet, strong truths that were imbibed along with fruity alcoholic beverages served in martini glasses—these have always formed the comedic and dramatic centerpiece of the series. These characters will no doubt evolve away from being in constant contact with each other, as that is the tendency once lifestyles change. But my prayer for all of them is that they experience the real happy Hollywood ending, that they continue to know themselves, grow their relationships with men as well as with each other, and that they always remember the girlfriends who allowed them to become who they are, with or without a man by their sides.

The Fifty-Fifty party—not so nifty

The 50/50 Party seemed like a good idea at the time. Each single was charged with bringing a member of the opposite sex in whom they had no romantic interest. The idea was to yield an event where there was an even ratio of men-to-women, while upping the quality/pedigree of the people in attendance. Presumably, atttendees would be friends of friends and therefore have a connection to the event that was less random than is often the case at singles events. A couple of problems ensued...

Firstly, although I knew who had invited me to the party, it wasn’t clear that she was going to be there, so I faced the possibility, which ended up being the reality, that I would walk into a room of faces I’ve never seen before. A little terrifying, but this was the new me, the braver, more intrepid version of the self who likes to be surrounded by people she knows and loves. So I overcame this and decided to go.

Secondly, I didn’t have anyone to bring. I couldn’t picture saying to any of my male friends “look, I’m not interested in you romantically, want to go with me to a party?” Not that I’m necessarily interested in all of my male friends romantically, and not that they’re into me either. But it just seemed cruel on some level to completely remove the possibility from relationships that seem steady, even in their lack of definition. But I contacted the organizers anyway, and told them that I wanted to come but that I didn’t have a “bringer” (which, in Buffy terms means a big creepy guy who seeks out potential Slayers and kills them before they reach Sunnydale, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case here). They told me there was a guy with the same predicament. So they put us both on the list and we were in. In the movies, this guy would have been there waiting for me outside when I arrived, and we would have hated each other on first site. Over the course of the evening, we’d shoot each other looks and glare as we talked to others, always coming back to each other. And the movie would end with us giving into our undeniable attraction. Fast-forward to the wedding, toasting the bride and groom, and end scene. (“That’s a wrap, thanks everyone, see you at the Golden Globes!”)

Like I said, the party was a good idea in the abstract. But in the implementation, some basic systems broke down. Although there were a good number of men in the house, there were still way more women. Kind of par for the dating course in NYC, in my experience. I walked in and knew not a single person, and I can’t remember the last time that happened. Looking around, I could tell that most of these people were not Jewish. And then there was the other problem that I assumed was indigenous to the Jewish community—the inherent lameness of the guys. Like vegans in the wild. No approaching their prey, just kind of fluttering ineffectively in the wind, like butterflies. Kind of pretty, but so insubstantial, and more interested in collecting grains (via alcohol) than in actually meeting a mate, temporary or otherwise.

I don’t mind going up to men and starting conversations, but I can’t say I like it. Based on what am I starting a conversation? They’re sitting at the bar, having a drink. What about that do I find so fascinating and worthy of conversation? Do I approach them just because I think they’re cute? And is it easier to approach guys in groups or on their own? I’ve not had any luck with any of these methods. And I’ve found that I am totally unapproachable. (I assume that men find the combination of my striking good looks and sparkling personality overwhelmingly intimidating.) This is why the bar scene doesn’t work for me.

I’ve found that for the most part, people are closed books that don’t like to be opened. Even when I was stuck in the subway on August 14th, the day of the blackout, when no one knew what was happening or if any of us were going to make it out of there, none of us were talking to each other. You would think someone would try to connect with another living person, since we were all stuck together. In the movies, some of us would have forged romantic connections and slipped off to the area between cars for a little end-of-the-world necking. Even on an episode of Felicity, trapped in a train translated to free group therapy that salvaged an ailing friendship. But not here.

Even those "books" who indicate that they’re "open," willing to meet someone, through friends or at parties especially designed for that purpose, aren’t really ready. They'd prefer to remain unread, on the dusty shelves in the library. What are they expecting? Who are they expecting? Do they really think they’ll be bowled over at first sight? Or do they understand that they’ll have to make conversation with someone before getting those special feelings?

And now, for my Carrie Bradshaw moment:

In a city of closed books, does having a library card really matter?

All-Time High

Ahh, nothing like the feeling when a 56-year-old man checks out your profile on JDate. Actually, there's one more feeling like that. When you subtract your age (32) from his (56) and you still get double digits. This means that while my mother was in labor with me, her first child, this dude was 24. While I was having my bat mitzvah 12 years later, he was 36, nearly four years older than I am now. Up till now, I panicked when I got "viewed" by that 51-year-old guy. But this, this feeling, is priceless.

CHEW ON THIS...

I have to face the ugly facts. I have a fang.

I keep biting my lower lip, really hard, in the same place, time after time, while I'm just chewing. Doesn't matter what I'm eating, whether it's hard or easy to chew. From a granola bar to a mushroom, I'm just chewing food or gum, like a normal person, when WHAM! My upper tooth (an incisor? who knows? all I know is it's where a fang would be...) just mashes right through my lower lip. Blood, pain, yada yada yada.

There's only one logical explanation. After a year of really late nights, I must be becoming a vampire. I'm sure all those episodes of Buffy and Angel can't be helping. At least they'll ease the transition.

All I have to do is stay away from crosses and holy water (as a Jew, no problem) and steer clear of wooden stakes. No worries. Hakuna matata with my vampire dentata, baby. I've been doing Tae-Bo; I'm ready. Bring on the slayers.

“Today, I am a Toilet”

Back in the day, when a kid had his bar mitzvah, he was often given a fountain pen as a present. Therefore, the joke ran, when the kid in question got up before his parents’ congregation, he would announce, “Today, I am a fountain pen.”

Well, it’s my dubious honor to announce that after the experience I had on Monday, I can firmly state the unflushable fact—Today I am a toilet.

Picture it…a single gal, living on her own. She’s smart, most of the time. But occasionally, there are these moments of shining stupidity when everything seems to be happening in slow-motion, and yet, she’s still powerless to stop it. Simply put, as I was flushing the toilet, a small cosmetics bottle tumbles from its tenuous perch atop my sink, and is sucked down into the bowl. Our heroine, Superfreelancer, thinking and reacting quickly, pushes her sleeve up to her elbow and plunges her hand into the toilet, grasping desperately for the bottle.

But alas, her lightning reflexes are not sufficient to prevent the tragedy. The bottle of Max Factor makeup remover is gone, along with the chance of easily removing her Lipfinity lipstick, which if painted on a Twinkie, would help it to survive a nuclear holocaust.

Soon, it becomes clear to our genius heroine that, with a small bottle blocking the pipes of the toilet, waste disposal is going to become a problem. Yuck. She had no training as a plumber. So she called her super for help. I mean after all, she did tip him every year for just being there. About time he actually helped her with something. Finally, the super arrived and gave her the news: since the bottle could not be accessed, the toilet would probably have to be replaced, incurring a cost of $500-600 for a new toilet and $100/hour for the plumber’s labor.

Superfreelancer almost began to cry. Instead she explained to the super that she has been mostly unemployed for the past eon and didn’t have that kind of money to replace a toilet that otherwise worked—we know what’s wrong, why can’t we just stick something down there and jostle the obstruction until it is dislodged? The super sighed and said he’d come back later to help. Superfreelancer is left with her thoughts, and has waking nightmares of having to find an extra $700 to replace a toilet…tears begin to flow as she bemoans her fate…she calls her brother and makes arrangements to stay there that night in case her toilet remains nonfunctional…

On return, the super instructs Superfreelancer to lay out newspaper on the floor of her bathroom. Together, the two were going to detach the toilet from the floor and turn it over, hopefully dislodging the obstruction in the process. Now, Superfreelancer is no princess, but this was something she had never done. But if the alternative is $700, you’d be surprised how much of a motivator that can be.

The rest exists in blips of memory, as a list of instructions, as the project proceeded…Turn off water supply. Flush toilet until tank’s water supply is reduced as much as possible. Unscrew screws connecting toilet to floor. Lift the toilet off its base, dumping remainder of contents into a wide bowl and onto the newspaper-covered floor. Jiggling the toilet as we suspend it in midair. Whittling away at a plastic hanger with a kitchen knife, creating a tool. Using the tool to reach into the fixture from both ends, trying to jostle the obstruction loose. Hearing the bottle plop onto the wet newspaper tarmac in my bathroom, and feeling no relief yet. “We still have to reattach the toilet,” the super said, holding his back and complaining about how his wife says he’s not supposed to lift things.

Then, it became “Operation Toilet Removal,” but in reverse, as we righted the fixture, tried to find and reuse the screws in the appropriate manner. Success! The toilet was reconnected and operational, if a little crooked. Yes, I said crooked. There’s a slight slant to it that I didn’t remember from before. But it was operational, which was something. I thanked the super, who never actually said “you’re welcome,” but instead lobbed a couple of more comments like“I’m just glad my back didn’t give out” that were as clear a hint for tipping as an outstretched palm would have been. With no cash at my disposal, I thanked him again and showed him out. (Don't worry, I'll tip him, eventually...)

Alone again, I looked at the grime on my hands (uggh…) and then felt an odd sense of achievement. Superfreelancer had achieved an adulthood of sorts. She had gotten down and dirrrty (extra R's courtesy of Nelly and Christina Aguilera); she had unconnected and reconnected her first toilet.

Today, she was a toilet. Even though she had been living alone for several years, it was this milestone, unacknowledged by Hallmark, that marked the beginning of a real independence.

THE MY URBAN KVETCH MANIFESTO

Welcome to My Urban Kvetch, a place for me to vent about the issues that clutter my brain as I live my so-called-freelance life in the Big City. I'm all about looking at my experience through the lens of humor, whenever it's possible. Usually, if the experience is bad, it's hard for me to see the funny in it until much later, but I usually come around eventually. I mean, after all, we are talking about someone (me) who was stuck in the subway during the August 14th Blackout, and managed to not completely lose it until she could breathe above-ground air again. That takes some strength of character, and some humor. I wrote my way through it--couldn't have survived without my little notebook. More than AMEX, I don't leave home without it. Pen and paper are an essential part of the NYC writer's wardrobe, even at its most minimum.

And though I've resisted long enough, I'm joining the blog generation. My hopes? That this space will provide me with a forum for fleshing out ideas, kicking around premises and developing essays that will ultimately yield publishable fruit. And making it public? Hoping to be discovered, of course...by a fan base or by editors who will make my dreams of a positive checkbook balance a reality.

[Note to my readers: It's clear that I'm going to have to write a book deconstructing "Sex and the City"...]

“Big” Disappointment

I knew it. I knew that Carrie would take Big back. And I suppose there was a demand for it—the passion between the two of them was undeniable, and the majority of SEX AND THE CITY fans wanted it that way. The magic of Paris—billed as the romance capital of the world—fueled this desire, leading fans to murmur in their sleep: “If only Big were there in Paris with you…”

But that I knew it was going to go down this way doesn’t stop me from being disappointed. I’ve always seen Carrie and Big as a reverse Scarlett and Rhett (boys, that’s from GONE WITH THE WIND, which was both a book and a movie). As prone to scandal and flexible political loyalties as he was, Rhett loved Scarlett. Soulmates? Certainly. But Scarlett was always too selfish and immature to do anything else but take Rhett’s wealth, presence and support for granted. At the end of the story, Scarlett realizes Rhett has always been her true love, but by then it’s too late. He loves her, but can’t be consumed with hopes that she’ll change, or thoughts of what will happen to her once he leaves. Rhett has done what is right for himself, and removed himself from the dysfunction of his relationship with Scarlett.

It’s not a perfect analogy, but that’s what I wanted from Carrie. To lay down the law: Big needs to prove that he has changed, not by jetting to Paris as the emissary of her friends (which he never reveals), but by actually engaging in a normal relationship, one where the noncommittal hunk actually treats her with (oooh!!) respect and (gasp!!) regard, as well as (aahhh…) romance. Their previous encounters—which, though passionate, amount to mere stolen moments between and during her other relationships—prove him emotionally unstable, a loose cannon, and fundamentally non-intuitive. He’s hurt Carrie more times than any of us can count. What’s changed now?

I’ll admit that what I want for Carrie in her life as a spunky, creative New York writer, is what I want for myself…independence, feistiness, tenacity, perseverance, and a passionate relationship with a soulmate. And it’s clear to anyone with half a brain that neither Alexsandr Petrovsky nor “John Big” (and don’t even get me started on the neutrality of this name) fits this description.

But there are two “characters” who could: her friends and New York City.

The girlfriends are tight. Now. But even in their thirties and forties, they’re just beginning to metamorphose. Brooklyn does not an automatic rift make, but Miranda will become very busy very quickly. Now, cultivating a marriage, tending to her aging mother-in-law, and still trying to work, Miranda will have to prioritize. And there are going to be times—most times—when her girlfriends are going to get the short end of the stick. It’s partly a function of the maturation process, partly a function of “out of sight, out of mind.” It’s happened to me many times. Not that I don’t love my friends with children who live in the suburbs. Some of them are my oldest and most loyal friends. But the plain and simple fact is that a parent’s priority is what is present in their immediate range of vision. Telling children not to touch the stove because it’s hot, meeting with mortgage brokers, and trying to recapture the romance of marriage can sap their energy and consume their time. And then, while they’re drifting off at night, their brains get a reminder email, which they subconsciously and guiltily acknowledge—like pressing the snooze button—promise themselves that they’ll call you tomorrow before submitting to sleep. You’re on their brains. They love you. But they just don’t have the strength to keep in touch.

When Miranda stops calling, I’m betting Samantha won’t notice. She’s got Smith, which—when the writers introduced him—I never imagined would be enough. But he’s been the boy-toy surprise in the Cracker Jack box. He was a hot waiter that ran deep, and Samantha suspected it all along—initially running from it, but eventually, surrendering to it. She’s changed, not so much because of her illness, but because of how Smith reacted to her illness. She’s dedicated to the dyad, in a world apart from everyone else.

Charlotte, for all her sweetness, idealism and innocence, has always struck me as the most self-absorbed. And now, she had baby brain. Not in the pea-sized sense, but in the single-minded, must-have-baby-now sense that I’ve also seen personally. (I will reveal no names.) First, there were Goldenblatt dogs, and now that she and Harry are getting a Goldenblatt baby, Charlotte will become a Miranda, and realize she never really had all that much in common with Samantha, who probably won’t note the distance as a loss.

And when the relationship between the four girls changes, what will Carrie do? She’ll cling ever closer to Big, which will accelerate the velocity of their relationship in one direction or another. And no doubt she’ll pen many a column on her other soulmate, her computer. But if Big leaves, and her computer crashes, what will be her source of strength? (Certainly not her editor, Candice Bergen. Although maybe Sanford. But anyway…)

There has been much ado made about the fact that NYC is the fifth girlfriend in the group, the background against which the four central characters live their lives. Living in NYC informs their career pursuits, their personalities, their survival instincts, their romantic choices.

New York has it all, and conveys the feeling of the endlessly possible. And with the hordes of men and women living in this city, you’d think finding someone to love wouldn’t be so difficult. But it is. The vastness of the endlessly possible can be lonely and overwhelming. This is why, in a place where possibility has no limits, Carrie falls back on the known, the flawed, instead of putting past behind her and heading into a future that, for all its potential, is unknown. She lets her fear limit her. By returning to her male Scarlett, a man who only acknowledges his own needs, she restricts her own potential for happiness.

I try to remember that Carrie’s choice was not as much a choice between Petrovsky and Big, as it was a choice between lifestyles, between the unknown and the safe and familiar. In Paris, she had Petrovsky, who never paid her any attention and was always sticking her in awkward situations with his friends. (Subtract one point.) Plus, she was in France, which meant being the “ugly American” who trips and spills the contents of her purse on the floor of Dior, and, in one of my favorite moments on the final episode, being smacked on the head by a random French child. (Subtract another point. In NYC, she had Big (add or subtract points as you see fit); her friends (add three points); if not her job, then at least her reputation (add one point); and New York City, where she had made her name and her fortune (add one point). In case you’re keeping score, that’s Petrovsky/France=-2 points, Big/NYC=4-5 points (depending on what you think of Big). Correct my math if you want, but in the end, it’s a landslide. Carrie picks New York.

I’m not saying that Carrie should have chosen Petrovsky, or even France for that matter. And it’s definitely good that she chose NYC, as it’s a better environment for her. But once in NYC, what should she do? Big was not only her biggest relationship temptation, but also her knight in shining armor who rescued her from the ickiness of France. The audience doesn’t get to see the two of them spending time discovering Paris together or discussing how different the relationship was going to be when they returned or going back to Petrovsky’s to get Carrie’s beloved baggage or that Big had been sent by her friends to bring her back…Presumably they talked things through on the plane, but audience members weren’t privy to those conversations. Leaving us out of that thought process makes those of us who thought Big is Bad to scowl angrily at Carrie’s weakness.

To the series’ credit, it didn’t show Big and Carrie getting married. This leaves open the possibility, not only of movie sequels and DVD alternate endings, but that Big and Carrie give the relationship thing a whirl and then figure out that it doesn’t work. Or that it does. We don’t know. I’m sure that even the writers had different opinions on how what should have happened. There’s no easy answer. Theoretically, after the final credits rolled, it still could have gone my way. Which isn’t right or wrong. It’s just different.

Maybe, if I had been an SATC disciple from day one, this final episode would have been my Gospel, something that I felt intrinsically and with every fiber of my being to be an absolute truth. But as it happens, even though the series is over, and the characters’ storylines resolved, there are lots of us whose storylines remain open, and I had hoped that the show’s waning moments would have provided us with the inspiration to march boldly into the future. I know so many people just like me: still single in the City, trying not to let fear of the unknown limit our possibilities.

So, tonight “Sex and the City” is over…boo freakin’ hoo.

I never really got into this show the way people thought I should have. As a single writer living in New York City with only my quirky sense of humor to protect me from the heartbreak of years of unsuccessful blind dating, I should have loved this show. But I missed the first season, and the train of fans who have been obsessive since Day One had already left the station. I was left behind, waving my handkerchief at the departing cars, and following on the next train out of the station—but this was a more critical train, interested in documenting the progress of the show and tracking the evolution (if any) of the characters, but not necessarily identifying with them the way my friends and colleagues did. Part of it was that I really didn’t get the glamour and the fashion of the whole affair. I made jokes: If there were an HBO show about my dating life, they’d just have to call it “The City.” Which character did I most identify with? One that didn’t exist—a funny, average-looking, non-twiglike woman, whose sardonic wit, budget-conscious shopping and sensible shoes would doom her to a life off-camera and banned from Twilo and Fashion Week.

But tonight it all ends. Tonight the last Carrie Bradshaw question will be typed on her computer for our consideration; tonight we’ll find out if Charlotte’s been impregnated; if Miranda can live happily ever after in Brooklyn with Steve, their son and her sarcasm; if Samantha’s cancer has killed her indomitable sexual spirit; and if Big is Carrie’s “lobster” (to use a “Friends” term).

I, for one, hope that Carrie chooses self-actualized freedom over yet another chapter of her dysfunctional relationship with Big. This makes me extremely unpopular among my friends, but I can’t help it. There’s this Hollywood tendency to think that every story needs a wedding, or the ending is not happy. Actually, this English major remembers that this nuptial-centric literary device was one that Shakespeare used at the end of all of his comedies—after a play full of confusion, gender bending and identity confusion, he pairs up his characters at the end, they all get married, and they live happily ever after. This continues to send a message to single America—even if you’re successful in everything else, if you’re not married, it’s not a happy ending.

The truth is, some people don’t get married. Some people get married late. And some other people get married and still don’t get their happy ending. I know people in all these categories, and I don’t wish to be married just for marriage’s sake. I could have been married by now, if that was the endgame. But I’ve seen people do that and fail miserably. And I do understand the temptation of trying to revisit old unresolved relationships—I even recently tried to contact an old boyfriend. Although he was far from being my “Big,” he was one of these characters who never wanted anything serious, and although we had great chemistry, I knew he wasn’t for me. But the great chemistry, the witty banter and flirtatious repartee, has been lacking enough in my current dating life that I was tempted to cling to past vestiges thereof, even in faded memory. (Joke was on me, this “never-ready” guy at some point got ready, and got married last December, around the time that I tried to reach him.) So, yes, I do understand how it’s just easier to go back to something that’s known, even if it’s less than you think and know you deserve, than to forge ahead into an unknown future.

So what do I want from tonight’s finale? A message that conveys that being married isn’t the only endgame. That leaves open the possibility that Carrie will individuate, and realize that Big’s actually the Big Bad, relationship-wise. That allows Carrie the optimism to soldier on into a future where she pursues her real self, and maintains connections with her friends, even as their lives all change.

I want an acknowledgment that from here on in, it’s not all Appletinis and Cosmos. Miranda’s in the suburbs (at least by City standards); Charlotte is married and has dogs and (I’m guessing) children to tend to; and Samantha and Smith are finally forging true intimacy against the backdrop of cancer recovery. As for Carrie, who knows? Some people want her with Big, some people don’t. But in any case, these four self-centered broads are expanding their circles of caring, moving away from daily diner dates with the girls, and towards the maturity of real, long-term relationships with men.

Although the title of this series was “Sex and the City,” what I’ve always related to--and I think, what most women really loved about the series-- was the relationships between the girls. The magic was in the banter that was hashed out over hash browns at brunches, and the sweet, strong truths that were imbibed along with fruity alcoholic beverages served in martini glasses—these have always formed the comedic and dramatic centerpiece of the series. These characters will no doubt evolve away from being in constant contact with each other, as that is the tendency once lifestyles change. But my prayer for all of them is that they experience the real happy Hollywood ending, that they continue to know themselves, grow their relationships with men as well as with each other, and that they always remember the girlfriends who allowed them to become who they are, with or without a man by their sides.

The Fifty-Fifty party—not so nifty

The 50/50 Party seemed like a good idea at the time. Each single was charged with bringing a member of the opposite sex in whom they had no romantic interest. The idea was to yield an event where there was an even ratio of men-to-women, while upping the quality/pedigree of the people in attendance. Presumably, atttendees would be friends of friends and therefore have a connection to the event that was less random than is often the case at singles events. A couple of problems ensued...

Firstly, although I knew who had invited me to the party, it wasn’t clear that she was going to be there, so I faced the possibility, which ended up being the reality, that I would walk into a room of faces I’ve never seen before. A little terrifying, but this was the new me, the braver, more intrepid version of the self who likes to be surrounded by people she knows and loves. So I overcame this and decided to go.

Secondly, I didn’t have anyone to bring. I couldn’t picture saying to any of my male friends “look, I’m not interested in you romantically, want to go with me to a party?” Not that I’m necessarily interested in all of my male friends romantically, and not that they’re into me either. But it just seemed cruel on some level to completely remove the possibility from relationships that seem steady, even in their lack of definition. But I contacted the organizers anyway, and told them that I wanted to come but that I didn’t have a “bringer” (which, in Buffy terms means a big creepy guy who seeks out potential Slayers and kills them before they reach Sunnydale, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case here). They told me there was a guy with the same predicament. So they put us both on the list and we were in. In the movies, this guy would have been there waiting for me outside when I arrived, and we would have hated each other on first site. Over the course of the evening, we’d shoot each other looks and glare as we talked to others, always coming back to each other. And the movie would end with us giving into our undeniable attraction. Fast-forward to the wedding, toasting the bride and groom, and end scene. (“That’s a wrap, thanks everyone, see you at the Golden Globes!”)

Like I said, the party was a good idea in the abstract. But in the implementation, some basic systems broke down. Although there were a good number of men in the house, there were still way more women. Kind of par for the dating course in NYC, in my experience. I walked in and knew not a single person, and I can’t remember the last time that happened. Looking around, I could tell that most of these people were not Jewish. And then there was the other problem that I assumed was indigenous to the Jewish community—the inherent lameness of the guys. Like vegans in the wild. No approaching their prey, just kind of fluttering ineffectively in the wind, like butterflies. Kind of pretty, but so insubstantial, and more interested in collecting grains (via alcohol) than in actually meeting a mate, temporary or otherwise.

I don’t mind going up to men and starting conversations, but I can’t say I like it. Based on what am I starting a conversation? They’re sitting at the bar, having a drink. What about that do I find so fascinating and worthy of conversation? Do I approach them just because I think they’re cute? And is it easier to approach guys in groups or on their own? I’ve not had any luck with any of these methods. And I’ve found that I am totally unapproachable. (I assume that men find the combination of my striking good looks and sparkling personality overwhelmingly intimidating.) This is why the bar scene doesn’t work for me.

I’ve found that for the most part, people are closed books that don’t like to be opened. Even when I was stuck in the subway on August 14th, the day of the blackout, when no one knew what was happening or if any of us were going to make it out of there, none of us were talking to each other. You would think someone would try to connect with another living person, since we were all stuck together. In the movies, some of us would have forged romantic connections and slipped off to the area between cars for a little end-of-the-world necking. Even on an episode of Felicity, trapped in a train translated to free group therapy that salvaged an ailing friendship. But not here.

Even those "books" who indicate that they’re "open," willing to meet someone, through friends or at parties especially designed for that purpose, aren’t really ready. They'd prefer to remain unread, on the dusty shelves in the library. What are they expecting? Who are they expecting? Do they really think they’ll be bowled over at first sight? Or do they understand that they’ll have to make conversation with someone before getting those special feelings?

And now, for my Carrie Bradshaw moment:

In a city of closed books, does having a library card really matter?

All-Time High

Ahh, nothing like the feeling when a 56-year-old man checks out your profile on JDate. Actually, there's one more feeling like that. When you subtract your age (32) from his (56) and you still get double digits. This means that while my mother was in labor with me, her first child, this dude was 24. While I was having my bat mitzvah 12 years later, he was 36, nearly four years older than I am now. Up till now, I panicked when I got "viewed" by that 51-year-old guy. But this, this feeling, is priceless.

CHEW ON THIS...

I have to face the ugly facts. I have a fang.

I keep biting my lower lip, really hard, in the same place, time after time, while I'm just chewing. Doesn't matter what I'm eating, whether it's hard or easy to chew. From a granola bar to a mushroom, I'm just chewing food or gum, like a normal person, when WHAM! My upper tooth (an incisor? who knows? all I know is it's where a fang would be...) just mashes right through my lower lip. Blood, pain, yada yada yada.

There's only one logical explanation. After a year of really late nights, I must be becoming a vampire. I'm sure all those episodes of Buffy and Angel can't be helping. At least they'll ease the transition.

All I have to do is stay away from crosses and holy water (as a Jew, no problem) and steer clear of wooden stakes. No worries. Hakuna matata with my vampire dentata, baby. I've been doing Tae-Bo; I'm ready. Bring on the slayers.

“Today, I am a Toilet”

Back in the day, when a kid had his bar mitzvah, he was often given a fountain pen as a present. Therefore, the joke ran, when the kid in question got up before his parents’ congregation, he would announce, “Today, I am a fountain pen.”

Well, it’s my dubious honor to announce that after the experience I had on Monday, I can firmly state the unflushable fact—Today I am a toilet.

Picture it…a single gal, living on her own. She’s smart, most of the time. But occasionally, there are these moments of shining stupidity when everything seems to be happening in slow-motion, and yet, she’s still powerless to stop it. Simply put, as I was flushing the toilet, a small cosmetics bottle tumbles from its tenuous perch atop my sink, and is sucked down into the bowl. Our heroine, Superfreelancer, thinking and reacting quickly, pushes her sleeve up to her elbow and plunges her hand into the toilet, grasping desperately for the bottle.

But alas, her lightning reflexes are not sufficient to prevent the tragedy. The bottle of Max Factor makeup remover is gone, along with the chance of easily removing her Lipfinity lipstick, which if painted on a Twinkie, would help it to survive a nuclear holocaust.

Soon, it becomes clear to our genius heroine that, with a small bottle blocking the pipes of the toilet, waste disposal is going to become a problem. Yuck. She had no training as a plumber. So she called her super for help. I mean after all, she did tip him every year for just being there. About time he actually helped her with something. Finally, the super arrived and gave her the news: since the bottle could not be accessed, the toilet would probably have to be replaced, incurring a cost of $500-600 for a new toilet and $100/hour for the plumber’s labor.

Superfreelancer almost began to cry. Instead she explained to the super that she has been mostly unemployed for the past eon and didn’t have that kind of money to replace a toilet that otherwise worked—we know what’s wrong, why can’t we just stick something down there and jostle the obstruction until it is dislodged? The super sighed and said he’d come back later to help. Superfreelancer is left with her thoughts, and has waking nightmares of having to find an extra $700 to replace a toilet…tears begin to flow as she bemoans her fate…she calls her brother and makes arrangements to stay there that night in case her toilet remains nonfunctional…

On return, the super instructs Superfreelancer to lay out newspaper on the floor of her bathroom. Together, the two were going to detach the toilet from the floor and turn it over, hopefully dislodging the obstruction in the process. Now, Superfreelancer is no princess, but this was something she had never done. But if the alternative is $700, you’d be surprised how much of a motivator that can be.

The rest exists in blips of memory, as a list of instructions, as the project proceeded…Turn off water supply. Flush toilet until tank’s water supply is reduced as much as possible. Unscrew screws connecting toilet to floor. Lift the toilet off its base, dumping remainder of contents into a wide bowl and onto the newspaper-covered floor. Jiggling the toilet as we suspend it in midair. Whittling away at a plastic hanger with a kitchen knife, creating a tool. Using the tool to reach into the fixture from both ends, trying to jostle the obstruction loose. Hearing the bottle plop onto the wet newspaper tarmac in my bathroom, and feeling no relief yet. “We still have to reattach the toilet,” the super said, holding his back and complaining about how his wife says he’s not supposed to lift things.

Then, it became “Operation Toilet Removal,” but in reverse, as we righted the fixture, tried to find and reuse the screws in the appropriate manner. Success! The toilet was reconnected and operational, if a little crooked. Yes, I said crooked. There’s a slight slant to it that I didn’t remember from before. But it was operational, which was something. I thanked the super, who never actually said “you’re welcome,” but instead lobbed a couple of more comments like“I’m just glad my back didn’t give out” that were as clear a hint for tipping as an outstretched palm would have been. With no cash at my disposal, I thanked him again and showed him out. (Don't worry, I'll tip him, eventually...)

Alone again, I looked at the grime on my hands (uggh…) and then felt an odd sense of achievement. Superfreelancer had achieved an adulthood of sorts. She had gotten down and dirrrty (extra R's courtesy of Nelly and Christina Aguilera); she had unconnected and reconnected her first toilet.

Today, she was a toilet. Even though she had been living alone for several years, it was this milestone, unacknowledged by Hallmark, that marked the beginning of a real independence.

THE MY URBAN KVETCH MANIFESTO

Welcome to My Urban Kvetch, a place for me to vent about the issues that clutter my brain as I live my so-called-freelance life in the Big City. I'm all about looking at my experience through the lens of humor, whenever it's possible. Usually, if the experience is bad, it's hard for me to see the funny in it until much later, but I usually come around eventually. I mean, after all, we are talking about someone (me) who was stuck in the subway during the August 14th Blackout, and managed to not completely lose it until she could breathe above-ground air again. That takes some strength of character, and some humor. I wrote my way through it--couldn't have survived without my little notebook. More than AMEX, I don't leave home without it. Pen and paper are an essential part of the NYC writer's wardrobe, even at its most minimum.

And though I've resisted long enough, I'm joining the blog generation. My hopes? That this space will provide me with a forum for fleshing out ideas, kicking around premises and developing essays that will ultimately yield publishable fruit. And making it public? Hoping to be discovered, of course...by a fan base or by editors who will make my dreams of a positive checkbook balance a reality.