SSB

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about SSB (secret single behavior), coined, I believe, by Sex and the City, episode 13, season four. When Aidan moves in with Carrie, she complains to her friends that she can no longer engage in SSB—which for her, is standing in her kitchen and eating a stack of saltines and jelly while reading fashion magazines. Charlotte empathizes and reveals that her SSB, before Trey, was studying her pores for an hour every night. Miranda’s is conditioning her hands in Vaseline while watching infomercials. Samantha of course has no SSB because she has no shame, which isn’t such a bad thing.

So I’ve been thinking about my SSB (unfortunately more disturbing than the SATC girls’) because after living alone for two years, I’ll soon be cohabitating in a new apartment with my guy. (Yay!) Some of my SSBs, like eating an entire tub of Merkts sharp cheddar while watching episode upon episode of The Hills, I’m sort of looking forward to having a reason to kick. But others... I’m afraid I won’t be able to suppress.

Which got me wondering: What if bringing our SSB out of the closet is just the next step in the relationship spectrum, phase two of the big reveal? Phase one, I believe, is unleashing the crazy. In the beginning it’s relatively easy to act out near-perfection—but as lunch becomes brunch and dates turn into weekends, it becomes virtually impossible to keep unruly emotions in check, especially when alcohol is involved. But if the other is in fact significant, they actually find your “quirkiness” rather adorable—and any insanity that ensues after a fifth glass of wine mostly bearable, at least forgivable.

So then after the crazy comes the weird, phase two—which is where SSB comes in. While the former reveals your emotional issues, the latter brings your habitual oddities to light. That would mean you don’t have to give up your SSB completely—only in the sense that it can’t really be a secret anymore. That’s probably the symbolism of the end of the episode, when Carrie opens the curtains she had closed between her and Aidan, after he agrees to be quiet and let her be weird by herself on the other side. But then again, Carrie completely freaks out and breaks up with Aidan before the season’s even over, much to this dismay and tears of viewers across America.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see how well my theory pans out in real life... Because, as people keep reminding me, Carrie is a fictional character, and SATC is just a show. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing either.

What came first—the crazy or the Carrie?

I like to watch the Sex and the City series (and now movie!) in chronological order, over and over, and I’m currently on the first season again... originally with the intent to watch with my boyfriend because he hasn’t seen it (shocking!), although last night he slept through episodes 10 and 11 (but somehow magically awakened, just for a minute, in time to see ex-city girl Laney flash Samantha’s party). Oh, how I wish I could sleep through Family Guy, but I think the sound of Lois’ voice would make that impossible...

Anyway, I think it was during the very first episode, when the girls are discussing women having sex like men, i.e. “feeling nothing,” and the BF wasn’t exactly official yet so he was still paying attention, when he said something along the lines of, “Oh boy, this show is a bad influence on you.” At the time, I laughed it off, saying if that were the case, I’d obviously be way past the point of no return—10 years deep into SATC fanaticism. But as we’re getting further into Carrie and Big’s Season One dysfunction, I’ve been thinking more and more about that comment.

This time through the early episodes, Carrie’s crazy behavior is making me cringe even more—and I think it’s because I see myself in her (not her career, or her clothes, or her social life, of course—just in her ridiculousness). Episode 11, “The Drought,” hit way too close to home.

After she accidentally lets one rip in bed with her new boyfriend, Carrie proceeds to OBSESS to all of her friends—convinced that the fart is to blame for her tapering sex life. Three friends. The same conversation. Four times. I too enjoy having the same conversation multiple times—as long as it’s all about me. Sometimes when I’m rambling on and on, saying the same things over and over, telling a never-ending story in excruciating detail, I actually feel my sanity float out of my body before it looks down in disgust and screams, “SHUT UP! No one cares! You’re lucky these people even want to hang out with you!” Yes, that’s right, I’m aware. But I can’t stop. Because. I’m. Crazy.

Toward the end of her obsessing, Carrie decides to take matters into her own hands and visit Big. Unfortunately, he isn’t expecting her and is more interested in watching some pay-per-view fight (also, he’s just kind of an ass), so she ends up making a complete fool of herself and then storming out—(mistakenly) expecting him to follow. While I usually don’t leave in a big huff, I do like to make a dramatic exit when I’m feeling ignored—by sneaking away. Once I wandered off into the North Woods while I was staying at my high school boyfriend’s family cabin. Nothing says love like a search party, apparently. Carrie’s response to Big’s eventual, “What was that all about?” was, “That was me, having a meltdown.” That’s a good one—vodka is another useful scapegoat.

After trying unsuccessfully to confront the problem, in her own special way, Carrie obsesses some more and then assumes the relationship is over, a defense mechanism with which I’m very familiar. I lost count of how many times I jumped the break-up gun by deleting my college boyfriend’s number, sans discussion. We dated for three years.

Eek. That’s some pretty disturbing herstory. But maybe it’s not all my fault—maybe I’m just the victim of a dangerous role model... I wonder: Did my inherent insanity attract me to Carrie, or did all these years of hanging on every cosmo turn me into the near nutjob I am today?

Sell-Out and the City

I’m about a month late on this “news,” but I recently bought the Sex and the City movie to complete my collection, and watching it this week reminded me of how annoyed I am that author Candace Bushnell is writing a teen novel about Carrie Bradshaw’s high school experience. Even before I read about this project, I’ve been saying I would LOVE there to be a prequel about how the girls met in New York when they were in their 20s, but I think a book for teens is kind of f-ed up.

The show even addressed this issue in episode 15 of the third season, “Hot Child in the City,” when Samantha has to organize a Bat Mitzvah for a brat who could pass for Blair Waldorf’s little sister: (Apologies for the amateur photography.)

While the show may be crass, this episode draws the line between sexy/smart and slutty/sad—when kids who are too young to understand sexuality try to use it to their advantage like they see on TV, they’re more likely to end up doing things they regret and allowing themselves to be taken advantage of. By now turning around and actively marketing Sex and the City to young adults, I think the brand is selling out.

It’s true that I watched the HBO show when I was in high school… and it’s true that teens and tweens today are watching and doing all kinds of disturbing, f-ed up things… so I guess what bothers me isn’t that it’s irresponsible of the brand to take advantage of an inappropriate market—although it is—what bothers me is that it’s lame. The Sex and the City movie is like the Carrie necklace: deliciously over-the-top. But this teen book thing is like Aiden’s first engagement ring: all wrong. Distracted by her unplanned pregnancy and (let’s be honest) being the least stylish of the foursome, Miranda defends her part in picking out the disastrous gold ring by comparing it to the gold necklace. But fabulous in one context can become tacky in another.

SATC movie satisfies, SATC media coverage annoys

Much like I approach everything else in my life, my expectations were low, excitement high for the Sex and the City movie. It is most definitely my favorite show EVER—I have the fabulously hot pink velvet box set and can pretty much recite every episode by heart—and I knew the movie could never be as groundbreaking and outrageous as the HBO series, but I also knew seeing the characters five years later would be tons of fun.

What I wasn’t prepared for were some of the reactions to the movie and its success. Why is the media so shocked that it beat Indiana Jones in box office sales? Indiana Jones has been open for a week, and Sex and the City fans have been counting down the days until the SATC movie premiere for years. Matt Lauer, who I normally love, annoyingly told Meredith Vieira on The Today Show this morning that he thinks he’s figured it out: Men must have bought tickets to Sex and the City with their wives and girlfriends and then snuck out and gone to see Indiana Jones instead. I guess that’s supposed to be funny?

Why do so many men hate Sex and the City so much? This blog goes through a list of things men would rather do than go see the movie, which includes being mauled by one of Michael Vick’s pit bulls, although it stops at being shot: “We would definitely choose seeing Sex and the City over being shot. Sex and the City promises to be a somewhat tacky, thoroughly ridiculous movie that we would like some parts of and hate other parts of. Getting shot is scary and can kill you!” (Okay I admit that is funny.) Another article gives guys five excuses to get out of seeing SATC: “If you go see Sex and the City in theaters you’re going to be laughed at by all of the guys who managed to get out of it.”

I guess I’m surprised by these reactions to the movie (probably shouldn't be) because when it was just a crazy little show back in the day, guys seemed to like it … or at least the guys I hung out with. I remember turning the show on at a party in high school and heard no protests. The guy who was throwing the party (i.e., the guy whose parents were out of town) said he liked watching it because he could find out how girls think (I guess that could be problematic as well, but I appreciated the enthusiasm). And my college boyfriend loved the show. He even downloaded the intro music to be my ringtone on his phone :) Actually, I got a text message from him Friday (Well technically Saturday morning. There may have been alcohol involved...) asking me how the movie was, assuming I’d gone on opening night. He wanted to know what happened because he was pretty sure he wasn’t “allowed” to see it in the theater, being a guy and all, no matter how metrosexual.

The only explanation I can think of is that Sex and the City got too big. When it was on the cutting edge, maybe Average Joe found it to be an interesting peephole into a certain kind of woman’s psyche, but as its popularity exploded, it became clear that A LOT of women connected with it, and for some reason that’s scary—that it’s not just about “a certain kind of woman.” Or maybe it’s just the knee-jerk reaction that anything labeled “feminine” must be hated by “real men,” while women are considered “cool” for liking stereotypically “masculine” sports and movies, which is why women aren’t embarrassed to go see Indiana Jones, but men are embarrassed to go see Sex and the City.

Nevertheless, women did “flex their box-office muscle” with its $55 million opening weekend, which might help begin to convince the movie industry that half of the population should not be considered “a niche market.” Now, if only we can come together like that for other, perhaps more productive endeavors… Cosmos & Campaigning has a nice ring to it…