Posts Tagged ‘Samantha Jones’

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Season 6, Episode 10: The Private Pool

Friday, March 9th, 2012

It was a “miserable hot summer day, which was the 14th miserable hot summer day in a row.” Samantha fanned herself as she trudged up 9th Avenue. A nasally Brit in a bikini top appeared out of nowhere. After a double cheek kiss hello, the Brit (played by former Spice Girl Gerri Halliwell) announced that she had just been swimming at the SoHo House. “I mean what else can you possible do in this heat except sit by the pool and drink cocktails while they midst you with Evian?” she asked.

The encounter got Samantha fired up, and she became fixated on getting her own membership at the SoHo house. She was put on “some bullshit waiting list,” and when she showed up in person to protest, the receptionist gave her the cold shoulder. She used the restroom to collect herself before leaving, and found that someone had left their membership card by the sink. She hatched a plan. She used the card, not only to relax by the pool with W Magazine, but to get Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte in as well.

SoHo House (for those of you who have never taken my tour) is a real place in the Meatpacking District—a private, members-only hotel and club that features a spa and rooftop pool. The annual fee is $1,800 ($2,400 if you also want access to the London facility), and the application requires a short essay explaining “why you’d like to be a member” and a photograph. From my bus, you can see the glass panels that ring the roof, and in the summertime you can just make out people lounging poolside in white beach chairs.

I had my own private pool experience this past Saturday, not at SoHo house, but the Samoset Resort in Rockland, Maine (better known to my contemporaries as “that place where we had the senior prom.”)

My sister and I had planned a trip to Maine to visit our parents several months ago, and while discussing our itinerary with my mother via email, she suggested the following:

It is 2 degrees…I thought we could go lie in the sun and read trashy mags via Samoset poolside…

The “go lie in the sun” bit is a complete metaphor—the pool’s indoors and what my mother meant was simply that we could so someplace warm. She’d been talking this pool up for ages: “What else can you possibly do in this cold except sit by the pool? And there’s even free coffee!”

My sister and I agreed that anything to get us out of the house would be just fine. And so, on Saturday morning, my mother packed three back issues of People that she had stolen from work, my father dug out his orchid-patterned swimming shorts, and all four of us hopped in the car for the 45 minute drive through slush and freezing rain to get to the Samoset.

The parking lot was packed when we arrived, and we all wondered if my parent’s secret had gotten out. Would we be put on some bullshit waiting list too? In the lobby, we found the source of the crowd: the 38th Annual Maine Fisherman’s Forum, an expo devoted to all things seafood. They weren’t there for the pool.

“My wife and I come here sometimes to swim,” my father said at the reception desk.

The woman looked him up and down.

“Are you a guest?” she asked.

“No, but we’ve done it before,” he said. “You usually charge us twelve dollars.”

“It’s twenty dollars now if you’re not a guest.”

“What about for students?” my father asked, pointing at my sister and me. We both finished grad school last year.

“Twenty dollars,” she said.

“What about for seniors?” he said, indicating my mother and himself. They each have five years to go.

“Twenty dollars,” she said.

This bitch had it in for us! On the other hand, the towels were included, and (as my father kept repeating), there was shampoo and conditioner in the locker rooms. And so, he shelled out the entire eighty bucks, and the four of us lounged by the pool for two hours with a few other families, none of which had children over the age of seven.

Just like a day in the life of Carrie and friends. Almost.

Charlotte, Miranda, Carrie, and Samantha...Or should I say Dad, Sister, Me, and Mom?

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Bellyaching

Thursday, January 12th, 2012

Downtown, Samantha woke up to discover that she did have it all, including the flu.

Sex and the City (Season 3, Episode 10—”All or Nothing”)

Last Saturday morning I woke up right as rain, excited to spend the day GSD (the acronym my husband and I use for “getting shit done”). Twenty minutes after I got out of bed, I got back in with a funny feeling in my stomach.  Ten minutes after that, I threw up, struck down with an intense and unwieldy stomach flu that lasted, not the requisite 24 hours, but a full 48.  After the first round of vomiting, I insisted that it was simply a fluke and that my husband proceed with his plans to play video games at a friend’s apartment in Queens, to which he replied he would wait a while in order make sure that I was truly alright.  After the second round of vomiting, we had the conversation again verbatim.  After the third round, I conceded that I probably did have a bug, my husband called his friend to cancel, and I gave in to the wallowing splendor of being disgustingly, deliriously sick.

It was at this point that my friendly husband, who had been so kind when I was still insisting I was fine, began his inevitable descent into a jaw-clenching, eye-rolling, huge-sighing jerk. He carried out his nursing duties with an increasingly nasty chip on his shoulder—slamming around the kitchen as he filled my glass of ginger ale, spitting out a tortured “Why?” when I asked him to bring me a teaspoon (because my mother told me to sip teaspoonfuls of water, that’s why!), needling me when I threw up in the trash can by the bed instead of in the toilet.  (When my husband read this, he had a different take—”I only started to get cranky after you bossed me around for ten hours straight.”).

This behavior was nothing new.  My husband and I have been arguing about our differing sick-time rituals ever since we met.  He doesn’t like, for example, how I moan and groan.  He says it sounds like I’m a bad actor in a bad movie, that no one in real life makes those kinds of guttural noises, that my melodrama is out of control.  He says that I revert to childhood, morphing from a grown woman into a little girl, becoming needy in ways that go beyond what are reasonable for an adult with the flu.  I say that this is insane, that perhaps this is some bizarre reaction to a repressed trauma from his own childhood or the result of faking sick too many times to get out of school and his mother—smelling a rat—refusing to coddle.  I myself never faked sick, and so when I actually am, I maintain that it is my basic human right to whine, cry, groan, and ask for certain pillows to be positioned around me in a circular pattern.  It is perhaps the ONLY time when it is perfectly acceptable and not at all creepy to act like a little girl.

I was thinking about Samantha in all this, situated in her beautiful new condo that she bought all by herself, sick as a dog and helpless.  She demands her mother’s “cure-all childhood remedy”—cough syrup and Fanta over ice.  Carrie works the blender while Samantha, glassy-eyed and disoriented, blubbers away.  Carrie then leans over and blows Samantha’s nose in what is perhaps Carrie’s most maternal gesture of the series.  “Oh Carrie,” Samantha sobs, “It doesn’t matter how much you have, if you don’t have a guy who cares about you, it don’t mean shit.”

Well Samantha—I’m here to tell you that when it comes to being sick, even if you DO have a guy who cares about you, it don’t mean shit.  Even the good ones, even the fabulous ones like my husband, can be lousy at certain things.  Just like the cough syrup and Fanta, I have certain needs—the bendy straws my father used to nick from McDonald’s so I wouldn’t have to lift my head, for example, and the round of Go Fish my mother always suggested to take my mind off the fever.  Committed relationship or no, sometimes we really are all alone.  If we’re really lucky, there’s a Carrie in our lives to blend us drinks or, better yet, a mother and father sitting in rapt attention as we moan and groan into the telephone.

Toasting to "having it all" the night before Samantha comes down with the flu.

 

Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Season 12, Episode 4: The Power of Female Thanks

Friday, November 25th, 2011

 

 

 

6:43 PM, Thanksgiving Day

Carrie’s cell phone rings.  It’s Miranda.  Carrie picks up.

 

Carrie: Is this the annual I’m-in-hell call?

Miranda: I’m in hell.  Are you in hell?  Please tell me you’re in hell.

Carrie: Well….

Miranda: Carrie, Steve is leading my entire family in a Piano Man sing-along.  Please don’t let me be in hell all by myself.

Carrie: I slept in my cousin’s room last night…the woman is 38 and there’s a Bon Jovi poster taped over her bed.  Does that qualify as hell?

Miranda: You’ve traded John James Preston for Jon Bon Jovi.

Carrie: John James Preston is having the time of his life.  My aunt told him that he’s as handsome as Burt Reynolds and now they’re doing tequila shots.

Miranda: Well, I’m hiding in my dead mother’s pantry so that I don’t have to listen to everyone fawn over Steve.  Why does everyone love him so much?  I mean, the man waited in line to see Captain America on opening night.  Does anyone else find this odd?

Carrie: Doesn’t that just make him a good father or something?

Miranda: Brady wasn’t with him!  Do you think I’d let him stay up that late on a Thursday ni—Oh shit, they’ve moved on to Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.  My son is screwed.

Carrie: Your son is fine.

Miranda: Carrie, my son is a ginger who knows every word to Billy Joel’s entire canon.  Would you sleep with a Billy Joel-loving ginger?

Carrie: Well, no but—

Miranda: There is no but, Carrie.  I just pray that he’s gay.  Gingers fair much better in the gay communit—why do you keep breathing like that?  Are you smoking?

Carrie: I bummed it from my Nana so it’s okay—Oh wait, Charlotte’s on the other line, hold on.  Char?

Charlotte: HAPPY THANKSGIVING!  How are—Lily, honey, we already had dessert, but if you still feel hungry, mommy will cut you another slice!  Carrie, I don’t know what to do, she’s already had three pieces, but I don’t want to give her a complex and make her A-N-O-R-E-X-I-C.

Carrie: Charlotte, she’s eight.  Can’t she spell?

Charlotte: Oh we had the most beautiful Thanksgiving!  Wesley and Leslie are finally trying for a baby!  I gave her all my old fertility books.

Carrie: I can’t believe they worked things out.

Charlotte: It’s the acupuncture Carrie.  She hadn’t had an O-R-G-A-S-M since her pony died when she was 15, but then she did three sessions with Dr. Mao and she’s cured!

Carrie: Nobody loses their ability to orgasm because their horse dies Charlotte.

Charlotte: It happened!  It happened to my brother Wesley’s wife turned ex-wife turned wife again Leslie!

Carrie: Charlotte, I’ve got Miranda on the other line, and she’s in the middle of an existential crisis.

Charlotte: Oh, she’s just cuckoo!  How could anyone have an existential crisis on Thanksgiving?

Carrie: Charlotte, my phone is beeping, I’m getting off now…Miranda is that you?  What’d you do, hang up and call back?

Miranda: You were taking too long.

Carrie: Well, Charlotte’s on cloud nine.  Wesley and Leslie are back together.

Miranda: Ahh, Wesley and Leslie.  Didn’t Samantha sleep with Wesley once?

Carrie: I have no idea, but I’ll go with yes.

Miranda: By the way, my sister asked about you.  She said, “how’s that little friend of yours, the one who was your date at mom’s funeral?”

Carrie: I gave that woman my last tampon at your wedding and she still doesn’t know my name?

Miranda: What can I say?  She’s a bitch.

Carrie: Okay, enough.  Tell me one thing you’re thankful for.

Miranda: Hmm…does Magda count?

Carrie: Samantha just texted me. “Going to Jean Georges for dinner and then he’s coming here for dessert.  That’s what I call a Happy Thanksgiving.”

Miranda: Huh.  I’ve never been attracted to guys with French accents.

Carrie: Well then I guess you’re also thankful Steve doesn’t have a French accent.

Miranda: Oh no, he found me!  Steve, I’m talking to Carrie.  Stev—Carrie, he’s mouthing the words to I Love You Just the Way You Are. Steve!  Carrie, what am I going to do with him?

Carrie: Okay, my friend, go be with your husband.  I have to make sure Big and my aunt haven’t run away together.  Cocktails Monday 6 PM?

Miranda: Are you kidding?  Of course.  That’s my only incentive for getting through the weekend.

 

Happy Thanksgiving,

Almost Carrie

 

Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”