I Couldn't Help But Wonder...

This here bloggity-blog is called Flâneur in the City. As it is called "Something" in the City, that must mean I am a high-heeled wearing, Carrie Bradshaw wanna-be, typing my little heart out on my laptop whilst running through life on impossibly expensive, teeter-totter shoes.

(Pictured: Not me. My laptop is too small for this shot.) 

 

Not so much.

The name comes from Sharon Mesmer, who read one of my stories, and wrote in the margin in sprawling blue ink, "You're the flâneur in the city." And if Sharon Mesmer gives you an awesome fucking moniker like that, you not only name your blog after it, but consider laminating it, framing it, and buying a mantel to hang it over. 

True, I was in New York City at the time of the naming, tromping about in the rain in brown leather boots that reminded me of a storm trooper, with my requisite skinny jeans and lugging around my much-loved, beaten-up, red faux-leather tote from Target that still serves as my book bag. I even stomped down to Magnolia Bakery on a lazy Sunday, but the queue was too long to stand in and I opted for a bakery on Bleecker Street instead. But all that? That's not Carrie Bradshaw. I don't think Carrie even owned a pair of boots.

It's not to say I don't like Sex and the City. I do. I was barely 17 when it first came on, and caught episodes on my parents HBO without them knowing. It had little hype or grandeur then. I told the "Christian" guy that I mistakenly on-again, off-again dated during high school about this new show I liked and he told me I shouldn't watch it, because it was porn. I'm sure he went home to pray for my soul, while I went home and watched Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda banter out the details of anal sex.



A sheltered, barely 17-year-old girl was not the target audience, but come Sunday night, I found myself curled up on my favorite battered, green armchair; TV volume turned low so my parents wouldn't hear Samantha's moans, and completely engrossed in the lives of these flawed women who had more sex than I ever dreamed possible.

It was, after all, a really great, fun, candid show. The ladies were a bundle of flaws and scars and strengths, all bouncing off each other, coming to conclusions that were not always neat and tidy.

(In case you seriously don't know: Charlotte, Carrie, Miranda and Samantha)

 Just look at them!  Carrie's wearing a Ziggy Stardust shirt while watching her neighbors have wild sex in the company of her besties! Her apartment's kinda dingy and there are books on the windowsill instead of magazines! They talked about sex with 20-something-year-olds, one-nightstands, true love, and the most important thing that women never talk about on TV anymore: Work. Yes, jobs. Lives. They weren't housewives or horny teenagers or vampire slayers or warrior princesses. They were normal women with jobs and lives and money* to earn.

(And seriously fun. Who doesn't want friends to laugh and drink with?)

It was a good show, but we all know what happens next. Sex and the City becomes a thing. A huge, big thing, to be analyzed and discussed and reduced to stupid catchphrases – "He's just not that into you!" – that would spill over into every aspect of pop culture and suddenly the little secret show I watched in the dark was a huge deal that needed to be watered-down and made palpable for TBS (an American basic cable television station, where boobs and butt are not allowed) and the big screen.

Now here I am in London, a good decade-plus years past since I was 17, and I find myself in a HMV theatre in Wimbledon that boasts a fully stocked liquor bar/ ticket booth, being offered a pitcher of Cosmopolitans for £35, pink drink in hand, paying to see Sex and the City 2.

The movie? Well. Um. Well. Hmm.

Let's focus on the positive.

These are four ladies who love each other.

There are so few representations of women who are actually friends in mainstream media. And our SATC ladies? They talk about aging, their children, their fears about being the "Perfect (Fill in the Blank)" – Perfect Mother, Perfect Wife, Perfect Woman. They pass the Bechdel Test*** with flying colours.

It's as if as young girls, the Sex and the City ladies were handed two toys, a Barbie and a babydoll, and told to choose only one. The SATC girls opted for Barbie as their lifelong role model. And Barbie, for all her body-image worries, did get to be anything she wanted. Any job. Any role. And every girl knows that Ken is her accessory, not the other way around. Ken, you can do without. Other Barbies? A must-have.

For Sex and the City 2, the fab four are now playing with babydolls, and don't quite know what to do with them. Neither do the writers and producers of the movie. So for all the real, charming moments of friendship and fear and dealing with relationships, there are moments when the Barbies are dusted off and thrown in the sandbox for a whole new adventure.

And I couldn't help but wonder**** ... surely, surely there could have been a way to have the ladies grow into their new roles as wives and mothers without completely leaving those lives behind for a good chunk of the movie? Because, you know what?

You can have both.

You can still be your same flawed, scarred, strong beautiful self and grow and learn with a partner and baby and still have a conclusion that may not be neat and tidy, but it works for you.

And always, always, always, you can have your friends by your side.




* NOT Flan or Falconer in the City, Spellcheck! Although some flan in the city would be very tasty right now. Satisfying Mexican food is the one thing that I have yet to find in London. Dear London eateries: Salsa is not the same tomato sauce that one would put on spaghetti. The closest to the Mexican food my American tongue found – an American tongue that refuses to eat Taco Bell, by the way – was a place near Covent Garden that was pricey and served delicious, delicious margaritas in half-pint glasses (such a small serving is really a sin in any country), and wee little nachos that while above par, were not the cheesy goodness my taste-buds craved.

** Unrealistic money, as it were, since Carrie's job was freelance writing, and freelance writing doesn't pay for Manolo Blahniks. Freelance writing barely pays for Payless (a shoe store in the Southeastern half of the States). (Which is why my Facebook status now says: "Having a business card that reads, 'Natalie: Freelance Writer' is better than the honest, 'Natalie: For the love of all things holy, hire me to write pretty words so that I can eat!')

*** The Bechdel Test! Created by Alison Bechdel! Are you ready for this?

For a movie to pass the Bechdel Test (or the Mo Movie Measure or Bechdel Rule) it must:

(1) Have at least two women in it, who (2) who talk to each other, about (3) something besides a man.

Does your favorite movie pass?
Has any movie you've seen in the past year passed?

**** Oh, Carrie. Her next line is, "Meanwhile, across town..."