Tag Archives: Sex and The City

When is Procrastinating a Good Thing?

When procrastination is a good thing


When is procrastinating a good thing? I’ll tell you when procrastinating is a good thing. When his name is Mr. Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Procrastinating happens. It happens but it never feels good and it never gets any easier.

I was in motion;  working, biking, conversing, but what I had to get done, truly done, was not getting done.

I had sent files to an embroidery and printing store Tuesday morning, only to be told that they weren’t the correct resolution. I spent the next three days, talking to friends, emailing Photoshop, and watching CNN, but nothing transferred those files to a higher resolution.

The printer was only ten blocks from my apartment. It would’ve made sense to walk over on Wednesday, and deal with it in person. In all fairness, though, six of those blocks were of the long variety, and super ass annoying. Can blocks be annoying?

The timing never seemed right; I was either teaching, or Pole-ing. I had lunch dates, dinner dates, and The Voice. Or just maybe I was making excuses, or er, procrastinating. By Friday, I was beyond fed up with myself and CNN, so I took the walk.

I had been in the store not three minutes, when he walked in; wearing a long black distressed leather coat, a black Fedora, and that infamous boyish grin. Mr. ‘White Nights’ himself, Mikhail Baryshnikov.

There are celebrities and then there are, well, others. These others have impacted our lives in ways that is almost indescribable. Indelible. Misha is one of those others.

Watching Baryshnikov on stage, (Baryshnikov on Broadway thank you) equally at ease pirouetting, step ball changing or pop and locking, made me want to dance. His strength, grace, and sheer powerful was a sight to behold.

I saw him dance in a stage production while no longer in his prime, and he still took my breath away.

I was interning at Columbia Pictures when the movie, White Nights came out, and I remember going back to my dorm room with several posters in hand, ready to wallpaper my room with them.

Around this time, my father was dabbling in the restaurant business and was a partner in a place called, Columbus. It was an immediate hit and a popular celeb hangout. It didn’t hurt that De Niro and Baryshnikov were also partners. Oh, sorry, let me pick up those names that I inadvertently dropped.

Mr. Baryshnikov, now 66, walked in, all 5’6 (more like 5’4 now) of him and I became a giddy school girl. I looked down to see if he was wearing his leg warmers. He wasn’t. I held my breath, hoping that he would ask the salesperson a question, so I could hear his sexy Russian voice.

Misha knew exactly what he needed and made a beeline for the boxes of buttons, stacked on shelves against a wall. This shelf happened to be directly behind where I was standing. I am not exaggerating when I say that our tight Pilates (I’m guessing that he practices Pilates) asses were practically touching.

I remained calm, and went about my business, but I did not lose sight of Misha and his frantic search for a button. Was it for a costume for a new show perhaps? Had he found the meditative benefits of arts and crafts?

I finished my business, which took all of five minutes. For a moment, I chastised myself for wasting three days and not coming to the store sooner, but then I looked at Misha and knew that if I hadn’t procrastinated, then we wouldn’t be sharing this moment.

Of course I lingered, I’m a warm blooded woman.

I texted the Girlfriend Mom daughter (because I’m a giddy schoolgirl) to tell her whose ass was next to mine because she and I were recently talking about Misha’s guest starring role as Aleksandr Petrovsky, on Sex And The City. I did have to school her when she innocently admitted that she didn’t know who Baryshnikov was.

She immediately texted back that I should say, “Hi Aleksandr.” I declined. I told her that I wished that he’d mistake me for SJP. It sometimes happens and my hair was looking especially curly with very low frizz. She fired back, “Oh, now you’re going to play the SJP card?!” She was right but it was Misha for crying out loud.

Lingering turned into loitering. I was pretending to sift through a bin of random patches. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Baryshnikov take off his Soviet spy leather coat, and say something to a seamstress (lucky bitch), at the back of the store. I was out of earshot.

He handed her his KGB overcoat and one lonely button. Baryshnikov had lost a button. Mystery solved. I screamed from the front of the store, “No! I know how to sew! I know how to sew! I took sewing in 8th grade in Bell School. Let me sew it for you. Please. It’s no trouble.”

I walked back to where he and that bitch were standing, grabbed his USSR coat, the single button and smiled. “Hey, how about those burgers at Columbus? Weren’t they juicy?”





Post Divorce: Where’s My Bubble Bath For Three?

Post Divorce


Bravo is premiering it’s first scripted show in December called, The Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce, based off the books by Vicki Iovine. It promises to shed light on the bright sight of being single.

I have not seen the show in it’s entirety, nor have I read the book. My opinions are based solely on the show’s trailer. But from what I saw in the preview, “Damn, divorce looks sexy, fun and au courant.”

Shit, I want to get married again, just so I can get divorced. Who wouldn’t when you see the main character in the show, living in a beautiful house with a pool in the Hollywood Hills, with a 360 degree view of the city of angels, with all of it’s sparkling lights and broken dreams.

Of course, this is where sexy fun lives, so of course divorce, (and being single) looks fabulous. Our lead is a famous author, with a series of published books, a literary agent, book signings and money.

One of her quirky funny best friend is played by Janeane Garofalo. That has to help with the depression and sadness that, from the looks of it, only lasted a week, because Janeane will bring the comedy and lift her best friend’s spirits.

Her other best friend tells her that, since she’s now single, (although she’s seen with a father from her kid’s school), she should have a threesome. So easy, and breezy, that it looks as if one simply has to open their front door, and poof, bubblebath for three! I wish it were that easy. What?

This recently divorced playground portrayed in the show is insulting to those of us who have been divorced, or have had a break-up from a longterm relationship (or both) because the fallout from these intense events looked nothing like this impeccably dressed and fit author’s life.

The show is like one big ass cliche.

This recently divorced woman is now free, and did what we all did when we found ourselves single again; we went to a dance club, and hoofed it up to ear bleeding thumping and pumping dance beats, screaming, “Yeah, I’m free!” Then we picked up a random young guy and made out with them outside of the women’s bathroom. It’s uncanny how this show mirrors my own life. How did Bravo know?

Our lead character is shown swapping saliva with a complete stranger. Ew! Double ew! What is this, Studio 54, circa 1982? Helloooo, Ebola? Is anyone watching the news?

If the gals in Sex and The City got divorced, that’s what this show looks like. I never watched SATC when it first came out, but I’ve seen the reruns, and it’s depiction of single life in New York is just a wee bit far fetched, or rather, identifies only a teeny tiny faction of the population.

So it is the same with The Girlfriends Guide to Divorce. Yes, it’s television. Yes, it’s eye candy. Yes, it’s fantasy, but I wonder if divorced women watching, might not feel worse than they already do, because their post-divorce, or break-up, lives (for the most part) and I’m only guessing, looks nothing like the ones in this show.

Do these women watching now wonder, “Where are my champagne wishes and caviar dreams, with the hot bartender at the cocktail party, hosted by my famous friends in their Malibu beach house?

One of the tag lines is, “Sometimes you have to start over in order to find yourself.” I have done nothing but start over again, and again and again, throughout my life; men, marriage, jobs, locations. Starting over is exhausting. Besides, wouldn’t it be romantic if you could find yourself while in the company of someone else?


Ghosts of Blogging Past

I am linking up with Mommy 2 Cents and Chosen Chaos for a Ghosts of Blogging Past party. All the cool kids will be attending, and they’ll be linking up one of their earliest posts.


Here’s mine:

Before anyone reads the title of this article and thinks that I’m refusing sex, let me explain. 

I love sex. I mean I really love sex, and as much as I’d like to write about the sex that I love, I’m actually talking about Sex and the City, the movie, that’s currently filming on the streets of Danitown. Someone apparently asked for this movie because Sex is back.

Sweet baby Jesus people, I do not need nor want to see Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha, now in their 40’s, and do I dare say it out loud, 50’s, still kvetching about their high class problems, and glorifying women as materialistic, Martini chugging, bed-hopping sex addicts, in Manolo Blahniks. And my feelings have nothing to do with the fact that I don’t know a Blahnik from a Choo. Unless you’re talking about the Beatles song, I am The Walrus, coo coo ca choo.

We had eight seasons, 94 episodes, a jump in Cosmo sales at bars throughout the world, and Kim Catrall’s books, educating novices about sexual intelligence, and the female orgasm. Isn’t that enough? I’m not sure that I see the point in a SATC movie. Then again, I don’t see the point in showering everyday either.

The movie was supposed to begin filming right after the series ended in 1998, but since the money wasn’t talking, some of the ladies went walking. And I’m embarrassed that I know that.

According to the website I found chronicling the New York City shoot, fans have been chomping at the bit for a SATC movie. Really, because when I logged on, there were only three different postings expressing dire love and devotion for Carrie and the crew.

There are some set photos of the ladies on the website as well, and from what I can see, the Annie Hall look just might be coming back to haunt us, complete with vest, loose tie and button down shirts.

And the shoe on those bitches? Let me tell you something, I can’t walk outside my building and to the bus stop, a hundred feet away, in anything higher than sneakers, let alone traipsing along Fifth avenue in stilettos. Who does that? It’s not like I wouldn’t want the sexy high end fuck me pumps, but with my bunions, it’s a nice Merrell walking sandal for me. I marvel at the SATC gals and those like them, who are able to clickity clack around New York City without falling and breaking something.

It’s been three years since last we saw our ladies and according to reports, the movie will not be picking up where the series left off in 2004 because of the slight aging of the actresses. Slight aging? I’ll tell you what slight aging has meant to me in the last three years.

That pesky little thing called gravity is a f’in she-bitch. It attacked me from above and from behind. And just when I thought I’d be able to get away with five simple Botox injections twice a year, my nasolabial fold now needs filling. Note to self: make an appointment with Dr. Gottlieb. But that’s just me. I’m curious to see what slight aging has meant to the gals.

So, do these characters now or have they ever represented a cross section of contemporary women? No. Although in the movie version Jennifer Hudson, a woman of color, will be playing Carrie’s assistant. I hope that she’ll be a singing assistant, because that sista’s got pipes.

The SATC way of life was never my way of life- mainly because the last time I lived in NYC I was in my 20’s. But now that I’ve moved back and I’m in my early 40’s, which is the new 30’s, and in a relationship, maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally be able to relate to the SATC ladies.

And maybe, just maybe, I will get myself a pair of wood Flaminia brown strap pumps, a black Filth Mart floral print dress, a black Club Monaco saddle bag, and sashay my ass over to the bus stop. A girl can dream.