I’M SITTING HERE propped up in my bed as I ...

I'm sitting here propped up in my bed as I write this, guzzling red wine, wearing a stained wifebeater and no underpants, having just watched the season premiere of Sex and the City. I can't afford cable, so I watched it at my neighbor's house while she was out with friends (I have a key). People who don't know me always bring up Carrie Bradshaw's name when they hear what I do. People who do know me wouldn't dream of it. They've seen my apartment. They've met my dates. They've witnessed my excitement upon learning that "overdraft protection" means I can take money out of the bank even though there's a negative balance on my account. In fact, the only thing Carrie Bradshaw and I have in common is a taste for impractical footwear. Though my entire shoe wardrobe isn't worth as much as a single Jimmy Choo, this slim similarity got me thinking about other possible parallels between us.

One of the highlights of this episode was Carrie bravely taking the subway after her cab got caught in traffic. Me, I take the subway constantly. In fact, the other day, in a subterranean variation on the Walk of Shame, I was taking the L train home the morning after a sleepover date, when I caught a glimpse of the vile bass player who'd pulled the always-humiliating fuck 'n' dump on me last fall. I was horrified. He looked great?all freshly shaven, neat and clean. I, on the other hand, was rocking clothes that had spent the night crumpled on someone's floor. My hair was wild and stringy, topped by an attractive fuck-snarl, and the mascara that had once graced my eyelashes was now busily accentuating the already-dark circles under my eyes. I was just glad I'd wiped the residue of what I suspect was dried semen off my chin before leaving Dateboy's house. Happily, I'd thought to purchase a newspaper and so slunk down low into my seat hoping the Newsday was enough to render me invisible. But as I pulled a one-eyed peek into the facing window, I watched as he saw me see him in the reflection. I tried to busy myself with the sports section.

In another startling bit of Bradshaw/Dategirl synchronicity, Carrie also ran into her ex-boyfriend Aidan in this evening's episode. Like me she also looked like crap when she saw him. In fact, her nightgown-like shirt worn over a pair of jeans with a shrunken cardigan and a schmatte topping the whole look off, she may have actually looked worse than I did. Unlike me, she wasn't aware of it. And her ex had been fired for being too nice. That never happens in my world.

Carrie's date for Friday night called her on the telephone, helpfully listing times of the movie he'd hoped they'd see and dropping all manner of charming, and flirty bits. Go figure, but I've also had several interesting phone encounters over the past couple weeks. What have I learned from them? No truly asinine deed goes unpunished.

Making out with someone else's boyfriend is stupid. Then providing him with your correct phone number pretty much crowns you the Queen of Moron Manor. Which is why I don't feel I can complain about the fact that Mr. Lives-With-Girlfriend keeps booty calling me in the middle of the night. Even though I've informed him that there would be no sequel to our stupidity, he remains unconvinced. "Let me come over and lick your whole body," he's given to whispering by way of saying hello. As the phone generally rings after I've been asleep for a couple hours, and he has the same Brit accent as my boss, these calls are inevitably deeply unnerving. "I just want to touch those beautiful tits," he'll then insist. Boobie-banter is usually enough to jolt me awake, and though I holler at him to go home to his girlfriend and then hang up on him, he will not be dissuaded. A couple days later, and he's back at it. The thing is, I know if he were single and I were interested, he'd find me far less irresistible.

Sex and the City episodes generally revolve thematically around One Deep Thought. These themes come to light while Carrie is busy writing her wildly popular column in the privacy of her apartment. (FYI, I write at home too!!!) Tonite's ODT was that relationships are like the stock market?though prone to crashing, we still keep investing in them. Why is that? Why indeed? Hmmm. Try as I might, I'm not a gal given to profundities, so I decide that it's probably time for a snack instead. Salty or sweet? These are the kinds of questions I prefer to ponder.

Carrie's half-hour ends as she prances off to the movies with her cute date, secure in knowing that even though she's dressed like a thrift store mannequin, everything's gonna turn out alright.

Me, I just feel a little gassy.