i'm always samantha
August 12, 2003, 2:13 am
I spent my day in the fine company of Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha.
Nine hours of Sex and the City, Season 4. That's nine hours that I could have spent scrapbooking, doing laundry, shaving my legs, or vaccuuming my car.
I might bitch heartily about how stressed I am during the schoolyear, and I may have bitched quite a bit about how I spent a whopping 21 days actually WORKING this summer and not wasting away in Margaritaville (Florida was purely business, folks, really), but man, when you can spend a whole day camped out in front of the tv waiting for Samantha to bust Richard and crying (out loud) when Aidan moves out of the apartment, that's a JOB. I know I'm lucky I have my summers off, I know. I'm not complaining. I am gloating.
The danger of watching Sex for that long is that one easily falls under the Bradshaw spell; I feel like every sentence should be punctuated with a metaphor for single life and/or a bedrocking orgasm. I also feel that spending $400 on a pair of Manolos is NOT AT ALL a waste of money, but a sound investment in moving up the with-it ladder. Not to mention after watching the show all day, I'm ready to go to the gym so I can actually wear some facsimilies of the clothes (if not really afford them).
For as fabulous as I feel in having done nothing, the show does put a major dent in my ego: why can't I be so ridiculously fabulous as the fearsome foursome? Where's MY rent controlled apartment on the upper east side? Where is my long line of impossibly gorgeous suitors vying for my attention and I for their wallets? The answers are not in my bedroom in my parents' house nor in the bottom of the bag of Burger King I had for dinner.
"Dude," you're yelling, "It's a SHOW!" And you're right. I have absolutely no business judging my self-worth based upon impossible standards of a decent show. I do know, however, that as a person, I would be a real find for a character study for future scripts. As Samantha would say, "That sounds promising!"
Extremely random mention in Weetabix's diary has brought a number of new lookers. That's right; lookee at the random diary link, and it brings you RIGHT HERE. Oh, did I mention that this was Weetabix's DIARY?!?! As in, THE Weetabix, Her Highness, the Empress of Diaryland? WEETABIX. Believe it, kiddies, I'm moving on up. Next thing you know, Uncle Bob will mistake me for the Pool Goddess and Bobby will email me (oh wait, that already happened).
I really should go to sleep and do something productive tomorrow; the car needs cleaning, as do my ears.