Coinciding with the debut of Sex and the City on HBO in 1998, my world changed. I had just gotten married, moved from Toronto to Calgary (where I knew no one, except for my husband) to park my MBA and consulting career on my fabulous new taupe-colored Montauk couches. I had outgrown my Friends – Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, and the guys, though I still loved them – and was desperately seeking new ones. I kept myself busy enough during the days, but my nights were empty, boring, barren. I missed my Cosmo-fueled girls’ nights out and even the late nights at the firm. One night while channel-surfing and working my way through a microwave bag of popcorn, I saw a big yellow taxi flash by and Miranda’s crotchety-ness wrapped up in a power suit, marching down Madison Avenue in white Reebok high tops. Add to that Charlotte’s determination to live behind her rose-colored glasses, Samantha’s cougar pride, and Carrie’s neuroses on love, relationships and her Jimmy Choos, and I was hooked. This collection of beautiful, intelligent, vulnerable, powerful, sexy and shoe-addicted women represented every woman I’d ever known, including me – at my best, at my worst and every version of me in between.
Since then, I have always wanted to be Carrie, musing and writing, amusing and enlightening legions of appreciative fans. And to go to work in a wife-beater and underpants with a chopstick through an incredible mane of hair is a huge perk. But how do I fit the kids and Big into this picture? My Big is lovely and very supportive of my literary pursuits, but there are lunches to be made, tables to be tidied, homework to be supervised, children to be chauffeured to school, then hockey, soccer, and swimming, and quite frankly my dear, there is love to be made.
And then there is the issue of just 1 new visitor to my blog this week. Sigh.
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Well my dear reader, this one is for you! Carrie on!