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Friend and The City
June 14th, 2008 | 4:53 pm
There are some days I'd just like to bottle: When all the pieces fit together... how you feel, how you look, how
you feel you look, and who you're with.
I don't have three friends like Carrie Bradshaw does. But I have at least one. And we planned a Sunday from
start to finish: Dress up. A matinee of Sex and the City at The ArcLight in Hollywood. Drinks and dinner at The
Hungry Cat. More drinks at Velvet Margarita. A show at Hotel Cafe.
Sometimes I feel sorry for men... that they don't have the delicious opportunity to be ladies: To wear sparkly,
spiky heels and shiny lipstick and dangly earrings and to smell like ginger-lily. To slather on rich buttery
lotions and wear silky underclothes. To be soft.
Men can't go away together for a birthday weekend and treat themselves to a strand of real pearls rather than
souvenirs. They can't shop together. They can't compliment each other without it threatening their
masculinity. They can't stroll around the town together and giggle at catcalls from passing cars. They can't
put mirrors up all over the bedroom without it seeming creepy. They can't go to The Sound of Music
sing-along at The Hollywood Bowl without being gay. They can't admire each other's Christian Louboutin
knock-offs and share lip-gloss that tastes like dessert. And they can't go to see Sex and the City.
It's made to be viewed in a place like The ArcLight, in the heart of Hollywood at Sunset and Vine. The ArcLight
is civilized: they have assigned seating and ushers and an enthusiastic staffer who personally introduces the
movie and reminds everyone about their cel phones. And you'll usually run in to someone famous, even if it's
just Larry Flynt in his gold wheelchair.
The movie was my favorite 140 minute escape in years. At some point during the show, I realized that I had
no idea where I was and what day it was--I was completely immersed in what might happen to Big and
Carrie and Miranda and Steve, and yes, what they were wearing.
People like to pass off the story as shallow and unrealistic. But isn't that what's best about it? I need a good
fantasy just like I need a good dress-up day. If I wanted a story that wasn't a fairytale... a story that involved
people NOT ending up together and NOT having babies and NOT being brave... I'd stay home and just
personally recall my own life.
When we emerged from the fantasy, we were still in one. We strode in our heels down the huge main
staircase that spans three stories, dramatically carpeted in red. We felt beautiful.
After a four-hour leisurely meal of lots of seafood and even more wine, we walked into a tattoo parlour
thinking it was a bar. We laughed at our naivete and we loved that they're still called "parlours"... it's so
old-fashioned. At another place, the bartender flirted with both of us, and we flirted with him right back.
We don't have to talk every single day to still know each other. We don't take ourselves too seriously. We let
each other make mistakes. We can talk about anything. We don't have to wonder, "But what did she MEAN by
that?" and "Where is this relationship going?"
I would have liked every lady I know to have joined us on our Sunday, dressed up and lost in the story. And I
must be living right, because there are more and more days up on my shelf, glowing in their colored bottles.
Comments
June 14th, 2008 | 4:53 pm
There are some days I'd just like to bottle: When all the pieces fit together... how you feel, how you look, how
you feel you look, and who you're with.
I don't have three friends like Carrie Bradshaw does. But I have at least one. And we planned a Sunday from
start to finish: Dress up. A matinee of Sex and the City at The ArcLight in Hollywood. Drinks and dinner at The
Hungry Cat. More drinks at Velvet Margarita. A show at Hotel Cafe.
Sometimes I feel sorry for men... that they don't have the delicious opportunity to be ladies: To wear sparkly,
spiky heels and shiny lipstick and dangly earrings and to smell like ginger-lily. To slather on rich buttery
lotions and wear silky underclothes. To be soft.
Men can't go away together for a birthday weekend and treat themselves to a strand of real pearls rather than
souvenirs. They can't shop together. They can't compliment each other without it threatening their
masculinity. They can't stroll around the town together and giggle at catcalls from passing cars. They can't
put mirrors up all over the bedroom without it seeming creepy. They can't go to The Sound of Music
sing-along at The Hollywood Bowl without being gay. They can't admire each other's Christian Louboutin
knock-offs and share lip-gloss that tastes like dessert. And they can't go to see Sex and the City.
It's made to be viewed in a place like The ArcLight, in the heart of Hollywood at Sunset and Vine. The ArcLight
is civilized: they have assigned seating and ushers and an enthusiastic staffer who personally introduces the
movie and reminds everyone about their cel phones. And you'll usually run in to someone famous, even if it's
just Larry Flynt in his gold wheelchair.
The movie was my favorite 140 minute escape in years. At some point during the show, I realized that I had
no idea where I was and what day it was--I was completely immersed in what might happen to Big and
Carrie and Miranda and Steve, and yes, what they were wearing.
People like to pass off the story as shallow and unrealistic. But isn't that what's best about it? I need a good
fantasy just like I need a good dress-up day. If I wanted a story that wasn't a fairytale... a story that involved
people NOT ending up together and NOT having babies and NOT being brave... I'd stay home and just
personally recall my own life.
When we emerged from the fantasy, we were still in one. We strode in our heels down the huge main
staircase that spans three stories, dramatically carpeted in red. We felt beautiful.
After a four-hour leisurely meal of lots of seafood and even more wine, we walked into a tattoo parlour
thinking it was a bar. We laughed at our naivete and we loved that they're still called "parlours"... it's so
old-fashioned. At another place, the bartender flirted with both of us, and we flirted with him right back.
We don't have to talk every single day to still know each other. We don't take ourselves too seriously. We let
each other make mistakes. We can talk about anything. We don't have to wonder, "But what did she MEAN by
that?" and "Where is this relationship going?"
I would have liked every lady I know to have joined us on our Sunday, dressed up and lost in the story. And I
must be living right, because there are more and more days up on my shelf, glowing in their colored bottles.
Comments
