I was looking forward to seeing Sex and the City, because I had a nostalgic spot for it - when my daughter was a newborn, several people asked if we had named her after one of the characters in the show. We hadn't, but it got me curious, so I rented Year One, Disc One from Netflix, and for the next several weeks, alone with my baby, sleep deprived walking and rocking in the middle of the night, with spit up on my shoulder, I watched all six seasons, vicariously tripping around Manhattan with my imaginary friends. So they got me through a rough spot, and I was grateful.
But the other night, I felt lonely after seeing Sex and the City with three other women. Lonely, because they only gushed about how wonderful it was, and none of them seemed to want to hear my tentative attempts at discussing the emptiness of Handbags and Huge Walk-in Closets as Gods.
And I'll tell you another part that stretched suspension of disbelief to the breaking point. When Anthony sees Stanford at a big event and grabs him, says "Thank God you're here," and plants a big kiss on his lips. In the series, Anthony loathed Stanford, so what happened?
Yes, the movie was fun and cute, and even touching and somewhat redemptive, but holy mother.