There is something to be said for ambient music in restaurants. Last night, we had dinner at our yacht club (and, no, we most certainly do not own a yacht — in our seaside town, there are five yacht clubs, six if you count the children's club; yacht-less families like ours join for the pools and the cookouts and drinks on porches overlooking the harbor). Anyway, they used to have a player piano in the dining room. This provided a nice atmosphere and, to some extent, kept you from hearing the conversations at adjacent tables. If there had been music last night, we wouldn't have had to listen to the slightly inebriated (and more than slightly obnoxious) foursome next door as they recounted their recent world travels.
"Blah blah blah MILAN blah blah blah LONDON blah blah blah PARIS blah blah blah BARCELONA."
Then, somehow, the topic migrated to shoes ...
"You know, those shoes that the girl always wore in Sex and the City."
"Mano-somethings."
"Manolo Blahniks."
"Right, the ones with the red soles."
"No, those are Jimmy Choo."
My husband gave me a warning look, a decidedly evil eye that clearly said, "Yes, even I know that they're wrong, but please, don't embarrass us." I held my tongue.
Helllloooooo? If you're going to practically proclaim your in-depth knowledge of European cities, HBO original programming and designer shoes, for pete's sake, get it right!
L-O-U-B-O-U-T-I-N. Christian Louboutin.
Sheeeesh.
Yes, I know much about fashion footwear. And about Carrie Bradshaw and her gal pals. My teenage daughter and I have watched every episode of Sex and the City. (More than once.) We own a fancy gilt and purple suede DVD box set. In fact, I would credit the series with much of my daughter's sex education, a subject which her high school, in all its post-modern wisdom, has chosen not to offer. Apparently, if we don't teach it, they won't do it.
Say what?
But, I digress.
I was late to the game where Sex is concerned. When it was in its first run, we didn't have HBO. I did have a toddler daughter and a much-more-than-full-time job in Boston. Leisure hours were few and far between. Also, as a native New Yorker, I resented the fact that a television show was purporting to expose everyday life in my hometown. No, the girls I grew up with didn't drink cosmos and pay obscene amounts for sandals. Not often, anyway. "Is that — sigh — what it's really like to live there?" people would ask. Um ... no. (And, in a more modern twist, it ain't like Real Housewives of New York neither.)
Eventually, I stumbled on the show in PG-13 reruns on E! and Style Network. I grew to appreciate it and my then tween daughter came along for the ride.
Last week, we were headed out somewhere (couldn't tell you where though since my memory is shot — too many cosmos, I guess), and my husband needed another fifteen minutes. I was dressed; I had shut down my computer. Nothing to do but pick up the remote and zap. I landed on Sex and the City, one of the really good ones towards the end. Samantha was losing her hair because of chemo so Smith shaved his adorable head. Miranda was getting used to a new life in Brooklyn. Charlotte was trying to adopt a baby. And our girl Carrie was debating a move to Paris with Baryshnikov (hey, can we really blame her?).
Commercial break. I switched channels.
Cue the parlor music. Replace the vintage Chanel with an empire waist. Drop the heels by about four inches. Suddenly I was swept away and into the Bingley's ballroom. Pride and Prejudice! I was struck by the similarities. After all, both shows boiled down to this: the timeless hunt for true love. Each focused on a group of sisters (either by birth or by choice) searching for their soul mates. And, despite a two century shift in hemlines (and acceptable after-hours behavior), dresses and shoes were still very much a part of the process. And, btw, Mr. Big doesn't hold a candle to Mr. Darcy.
Commercial break. I switched channels.
About this time, my husband walked through, nearly ready for us to leave. He watched me switch between NYC and the English countryside, and he laughed out loud.
"Pornography for women," he wryly observed.
Guilty as charged.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I confess. I wasn't a Sex and the City fan when it first came out.
I could be smug and say "Yeah, because I had a life." But, really, I had too much of one. I had a toddler at home and a more-than-full-time job an hour's commute away. Not a lot of discretionary time for cosmos or shoe-shopping. To top it off, we didn't even have HBO (despite many years working for the cable industry); we never sat down together, so it really wasn't worth it. But, that's okay.
The show eventually moved to basic cable (minus some of the nudity and language), and it wasn't hard to catch up. There was a while there, actually, when back-to-back episodes seemed to be playing non-stop on E! and the Style Network. I caught a few and caught the bug. The writing was clever, the girls' adventures were enjoyably over-the-top, and the whole series, all six seasons, was really an epic poem in honor of my beloved hometown.
Soon, my pre-teen daughter wanted to watch. I've always believed in speaking honestly about sex and sexuality. As you can imagine, the series gave us lots to talk about. (Before you call Social Services, remember we were watching the PG-13 version, not the original.)
My daughter had an interesting perspective:
"Which of the girls do you think you are, Mom?"
"I don't know. Which do you think I am?"
"Carrie because you're a writer ..."
(Cool.)
"... and Miranda because you're a workaholic."
(Um.)
Let's stick with the writer part (although, to be honest, I always loved Cynthia Nixon's performance as the compulsive achieving lawyer turned single mom, and bonus: the talented actress went to my high school). When I started my blog nearly three years ago, some people joked about it. "You're the real-life — midlife — Carrie Bradshaw." Very funny. But, had the show been created 15 years later, I have no doubt that Carrie would have been a blogger.
Over the years, people also encouraged me to publish Lovin' the Alien as a book. At the end of 2013, I finally did. It was a bit of a dream come true. My first book, The New Marketing Conversation, was well-received, but not exactly light reading.
Lovin' the Alien, on the other hand, had everything you could possibly want: drama (oy! such drama!), romance, drama, timely topics, drama, sound advice. Oh, and did I mention drama? Successfully raising a tween girl (or trying to) clearly resonated with many moms. The response to the book, like the response to the blog before it, was terrific. Sales, yes, but even more exciting, I received fan mail. Most of it was very positive ("Your book is like a virtual support group."). Some ... um ... not so much. ("You are a pushover and you are spoiling your daughter.")
Hey, I never said I knew what I was doing. I just invited you along for the ride.
Nevertheless, my book is out (in three formats: hardcover, softcover, and for those of us with a pair of reading glasses stashed in every room, large print). And, this past month I reached another milestone.
My first bookstore reading.
Unlike Carrie (who, if you remember, had to share the podium with canine author Mr. Winkle), the whole event was about me, me, me. It was pretty cool, I have to admit. My daughter even attended and (despite genuine fears earlier in the day) didn't die of embarrassment. I welcomed people. I read three essays from the book. The store sold some copies and I signed them. That was about it. We would have had champagne afterwards, but there was homework to do. C'est la vie.
So, for one evening this month, I was Carrie Bradshaw. More or less. More less, I guess. Less hair, less lovers, less shoes.
Lovin' the Alien is my story and my daughter's. It's certainly not Carrie Bradshaw's. After all, there's no sex yet ...
And very little city.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
My husband, teenage daughter and I just spent a long weekend in New York City. We do this a lot.
People often ask me where we stay, thinking I might have the inside track on an inexpensive bed and breakfast. Well, I do. But, unless they want to spend their visit with my sainted mother, they might want to go elsewhere. (Although her warm croissants are to die for.)
On this trip, however, there was no room at the proverbial inn. But, I happened to find a wonderful guesthouse in Harlem, for a lot less money than a midtown (or anywhere in town for that matter) hotel. It was elegant but a little faded, much like the places we stay in New Orleans. I immediately fell in love with it. My daughter, meanwhile, spent an evening with a friend, then ended up on a couch at my mom's for the rest of our visit.
My trips back to New York always include long long long walks. This is how I reconnect with my hometown: people-watching (beyond compare people-watching), passing by familiar landmarks and, even more often, seeing everything that's changed. Staying in a new neighborhood gave me a chance to explore and to extend my usual walks an extra mile or so north.
The first day, I toured around the Upper Westside (my old 'hood). From our guesthouse to 110th, then South on Columbus to 72nd, then back uptown on Amsterdam. The second day, I set out early and walked all the way down to Times Square to pick up my niece for a day with my daughter (her "sister-cousin"). By the time I dropped the girls off at the Loews 84th multiplex for Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 in 3D, I felt like I was home again.
Home again, with very very sore feet.
We had a little time to kill after brunch, so my sister and I left my husband in a pub and pursued another important New York pastime: shoe shopping.
Before you picture a scene from Sex and the City, let me explain. This was not about fashion or fetishes. This was about pain relief. Did we go to Christian Louboutin? No. To Jimmy Choo? No. Gucci, Manolo Blahnik or Tory Burch? No, no, no. We hoofed it down to Aerosoles.
I discovered Aerosoles many years ago. Some supermodel said in an interview that when she wasn't working, she wore Aerosoles. I figured if they're good enough for Heidi or Naomi or Christy or Linda (or whoever it was; I don't remember), they're good enough for me.
We went in and in short order, I tried on every pair of flat, black ankle boots they had in my size (10, yes, 10; if they get any bigger I'm going to the drag queen department). There wasn't much of a competition. One pair felt better — way better — than any of the others. I sank into them with an audible sigh of relief and pulled out my wallet.
For one brief shining Carrie Bradshaw moment, I had second thoughts.
"Do these make me look like a lesbian?" I asked my sister, patiently waiting on a nearby bench.
"Uh ..."
"A geriatric?"
"Uh ..."
"A lesbian geriatric?"
While she searched for a politically correct non-answer, I shrugged and bought them anyway.
On my last morning in Manhattan, I walked across Central Park to Fifth Avenue, visited my old high school on Park, and then walked about thirty blocks down Madison. The sidewalks were filled with tiny children in school uniforms. The weather was gorgeous. The window shopping was fabulous. And, my feet were fine.
Within a couple of hours, we collected my daughter (had a couple of those croissants for the road) and headed back to Massachusetts.
"What do you think of my new shoes?" I asked my 16-year-old fashion consultant. I pulled up my pant hems so she could get the full effect.
"Um, cool," she said, without taking her eyes off her iPhone.
Um, maybe that was a good thing.
If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
In Sex and the City (episode seven, season six, not that we're keeping score or anything), Miranda celebrates a milestone moment. An event of life-affirming, unbridled joy. It's one that women everywhere can relate to.
She fit into her "skinny jeans."
Charlotte: How'd you do it?
Miranda: Well, I got pregnant, became a single mother, and stopped having any time to eat.
Samantha: Oh, that's a diet I won't be trying.
What is it about skinny jeans? Let's start at the beginning. We live in a culture where the word "skinny" doesn't just mean slim. It means beautiful, desirable. It connotes self-control, righteous discipline. If I am skinny and you are not, I am somehow more worthy than you. If you are skinny and I am not, I will hate you — or, at least, avoid you until you put on a few.
And, what is it about jeans? They are supposed to be comfortable. They are supposed to be casual. But, deep down inside, we all envy the emaciated starlet who can get away with skin-tight denim (paired with stilettos and a lamé top) on the red carpet. She doesn't need a fabulous gown because she herself is so fabulous.
We sneer at her.
We want to be her.
The night before our recent vacation to New Orleans, I was packing and on a sudden urge, I pulled out my favorite pair of jeans. Did I dare try them on? The last time I did, it was not very pretty. But, I'd been on a strict diet and exercise regime since New Year's, and I knew I had lost some pounds. Would the jeans fit? If they did, I would be ecstatic. All my hard work would have paid off and I would be ecstatic. The jeans would go with us to Louisiana, and I would be ecstatic. (Did I mention I would be ecstatic?) If they still didn't fit, I would fall into a deep despair and probably drown my sorrows in a bottle of pinot grigio and a pint of Ben & Jerry's, thereby undoing a month and a half of progress. It was a risk I was willing to take. Lo and behold, they not only zipped but there was room to spare! I could breathe and walk and shake my money maker. With great happiness, I dropped them into the suitcase, anticipating an even sweeter week off now that my skinny jeans and I were happily reunited.
At this point, I should probably mention that there was a time when these skinny jeans were not skinny jeans. They were just my regular jeans. In fact, I have two other pairs of skinny jeans (skinnier and skinniest) that haven't been out of the closet for years. And, that's where they will most likely stay, short of my contracting an intestinal infection or having my hip bones surgically removed.
The other day, my teenage daughter and I were at the mall exchanging some shirts at Forever 21 and looking at bathing suits. "There's one more thing I need," she told me. "New jeans."
I had been a good sport (and muchos generous mom) all afternoon, but there was a line to draw here. "No way," I told her. "You have a million pairs of jeans." Of course, I was exaggerating a bit. She doesn't really have a million, but she has about a dozen. How do I know this? Because every couple of weeks, I can't take it anymore and clean her room. Finding, folding and hanging her vast assortment of denim is no quick or easy task.
She pouted and begged and cajoled and bargained, and I finally agreed to let her spend her own money on the coveted distressed skinny jeggings. In truth, I am a sucker mom of the first order — and more than a little in awe of anyone who can get away with jeggings. (Heck, it's three weeks later and I'm still ecstatic (ecstatic!) about squeezing into my size 10 Liz Claiborne mom jeans.)
At least she didn't ask me for the latest in skinny skinny, recently launched by American Eagle Outfitters. These are a study in minimalist casual, pants that are (exactly) as unique as you are, jeans that truly let you be you (for all the world to see).
The campaign stresses that the skinny skinny is available in limited quantities, and when you try to order these one-size-fits-all jeans in a can, you learn that they're sold out. But, American Eagle, smart marketers as well as adept practical jokers, asks for your email address.
The funniest thing about the promotion, however, isn't the video or the copy ("contoured through the thigh, knee and ankle, they fit like a second skin") or the product shots ("two signature washes"). It's how many people apparently bought the idea and would have bought the products had they actually existed. Really.
Because, when it comes to jeans, less is most definitely more.
A few years ago, my then tween daughter begged to watch Sex and the City with me. At first, like any conscientious mother, I resisted. I mean sex and cosmopolitans and sex and Manolas and sex. (Did I mention sex?) Oh my!
Soon, she grew up a little (and wore me down a little), so I let her watch the basic cable version of the show, which was by then in syndication on E! and Style Network. This was the kinder, gentler Sex and the City. No nudity, less profanity, more euphemisms, more commercial breaks.
We had to laugh at some of the rules for bleeping out foul language. For example, they could say "ass" but not "hole," so if Carrie or one of her BFFs was putting down a particularly jerky guy, they would call him an "ass-BLEEP!" Shouldn't it have been the other way around?
If the adult content was a bit much for my daughter at times, I was right there beside her. Explaining, demystifying, assuring her that some of it was a little far-fetched. Let's not kid ourselves, though. Teens today know more (way more!) than we did about ... well, about pretty much everything. I'd rather have my daughter learn about the details of sex through an entertaining show than through some shaky handheld video on YouTube. I know a lot of moms wouldn't agree — and that is absolutely their prerogative — but this is how I saw it.
At one point, my daughter asked me, "Mom, which are you? Carrie, Samantha, Miranda or Charlotte?" I didn't know what to say. She had already decided for me, apparently, and informed me that I was half-Carrie because I'm a writer and half-Miranda because I'm a workaholic. So, I was spared the slut and the romantic. Okay, I guess I can live with that.
At any rate, we were both fans, and it gave us something to do together. I also hoped it might make my daughter appreciate my hometown a bit more. Sex and the City is as much about the city as the sex.
And so is the new prequel series, The Carrie Diaries.
Set in the mid-80s, the new show follows the adventures of a starry-eyed young Carrie Bradshaw, a small-town high school student who is just beginning her love affair with the big apple. Recovering from her mother's death, Carrie takes an internship at a law firm in Manhattan. She immediately (as in on her very first lunch break) meets some fabulous urban types — editors, artists, fashion designers — and the rest is, as they say, history.
It took a little while to accept that this was the same Carrie even in the hands of a young pro. AnnaSophia Robb is no newcomer, having acted half her life. In fact, a younger daughter and I knew her well as the very first American Girl in the very first American Girl movie. (How I miss those days sometimes!) More starring roles followed, including Bridge to Terabithia, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Because of Winn Dixie. She's very good as Carrie, it's just that it's hard to think of anyone other than Sarah Jessica Parker.
Then there's the issue of the backstory. We have seen all six seasons of Sex and the City (many times, too many times — just ask my husband), and I don't remember ever hearing that Carrie's mother was dead. Or that she had a sister. Or a father. Or any old friends either. Hmmmmm ...
Then again, part of the magic of New York is that it is a place where people reinvent themselves. So can we really blame Ms. Bradshaw for leaving the past behind?
The 80s references in the new show are fun, as is the fashion. (I keep telling my daughter "Yes, we really dressed like that!") The teen angst is familiar from countless other shows my daughter's already addicted to. I let her watch them on her own; I just can't quite get my arms around The Lying Game.
But, I think I'll stick with The Carrie Diaries. For a while anyway. Being "on the groundfloor" of a new show? Nice.
Having a reason to share something with my daughter for an hour every week? Priceless.
