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.”