(No) Sex And The City – Part Quatre “Baby Steps”

Before the curtain rises, a quick word from our sponsor.

Letter From Elba will not be in your mailbox this coming Sunday, September 7.  To celebrate National Grandparents Day, I will be in Boston with my grandson, Sam.  There will be a new post awaiting you all on Thursday, September 11.

And now, let the play begin.

The Cast:  Charlotte, Miranda and Carrie.  All BFF’s

The Time: 12:30 p.m.

The Place:  Charlotte’s chic living room.

The ensemble meets.  Air kisses all around.

Charlotte (sweetly): Carrie!  My God!  You look so old.  Still with the gray hair?  What are you trying to prove?  Miranda, dear.  Lovely to see you.  Perfect- as always.

Miranda (speaking into her iPhone):  I’ll have to call you back, babe.  I’m actually meeting IRL with Charlotte and Carrie.  Later, gator.  Hello, girls.  Charlotte, you look fabulous. Uh, Carrie…not so much.  Did you gain weight?

Carrie:  Well, two pounds.  I admit it.  But I just got back from from Eagle River and…

Charlotte (sweetly):  I know.  They serve fourteen meals a day there.  Spare us the horrific details.  In that case, I know you’ll be only to happy to hear that today, no lunch is served. I’m on a cleanse.

Miranda:  Works for me.  Do you have a celery stick or a cherry tomato I could snack on? I’m good.

Carrie:  Well, I do need to lose all this post camp weight.  I’ll just have a Seagram’s Diet Ginger Ale, please.

Charlotte (sweetly):  I wouldn’t have that swill in my house.  Prosecco or San Pellegrino?

Miranda (pulling an iPad and a can of Diet Coke out of her bag):  I’m covered.  And now, hold on a sec while I check on this thing.  It won’t list my “sent” emails.  I was up ’til midnight last night trying to fix it.  Can I have absolute silence, please?

Charlotte (sweetly):  No, you may not.  This isn’t the Genius Bar at the Apple Store. I’ve convened this meeting to discuss plans for Mimsy Farrington’s baby shower.  Let’s first decide on a date, shall we.  Get out your books, ladies.  Alright, how does Saturday, November fifteen look for all of you?

Miranda:  No good.  I’m going to be in Naples.

Charlotte (sweetly):  That old people’s home with sand traps?  What do you do down there? I’ve always been curious.

Miranda (not looking up from her iPad):  I play some golf and I lie in the sun.  It’s relaxing.  Now why doesn’t this thing show my sent emails?

Charlotte (sweetly):  “Lie in the sun?”  I don’t know you.  I don’t know who you are. Alright, November fifteenth is off the books.  How does Saturday, December six look?

Miranda (texting furiously on her iPhone):  Works for me.

Carrie:  Gosh, that’s Snowmass Mountain’s opening week.  I was planning to kick off ski season and…

Charlotte (sweetly):  Oh dear lord, enough with that skiing already.  Aren’t you too old or too crippled or something to continue that juvenile activity?  Cancel it.  You have better things to do. Fine.  So that’s settled.  December six it is.  Now venues?  How many guests do you think?

Miranda:  Well, there will be Mimsy’s friends, all her mother Bootsie’s cronies, and we can’t forget their country club friends and Nantucket friends and Mimsy’s Junior League group and all her old bridesmaids.

Charlotte (sweetly):  Only too true, dear.  So a conservative estimate puts it at 250. Ideas here?  Such a pity the Shriner’s Auditorium had been repurposed.  And Navy Pier is unsightly in the wintertime.  I know.  Vapiano.

Carrie:  What’s that?

Charlotte (sweetly):  If you’d stop writing that inane blog of yours and actually get out once in awhile, you’d know that it opened in the old Carson Pirie Scott building.  It can easily hold us all.

Miranda (not looking up from her Macbook Air):  Ix-nay on that joint.  I like the Pittsfield.

Carrie: I’ve never heard of it.

Charlotte (sweetly):  I rest my case  You live under a rock.  It’s on Jeweler’s Row and it’s perfect.  Atrium, Art Deco, two stunning balconies.  Done.  I’ll contact them immediately. Decor?

Miranda (binge-watching True Detective on her Macbook):  Mimsy’s having a boy. Bootsie was sworn to secrecy, but she told her colorist who told my manicurist who told me.

Carrie:  A boy.  How nice.

Charlotte (sweetly):  Don’t be absurd.  Boys aren’t that fabulous.  The clothes aren’t nearly as adorable.  Oh well, if that what’s she’s having, I’ll have to make the best of it.  Color scheme?

Carrie:  Blue, of course.

Charlotte (sweetly):  I know that, Carrie dear.  I meant what hue?

Miranda (eyes glued to the screen) :  This was so great.  Matthew McConaughey got robbed at the Emmys.  Color blue?  Well, teal and aqua seem too summery for a December date. What about sapphire or indigo?

Charlotte (sweetly):  Too bold, Miranda.  I’m thinking “Tiffany.”  There, that’s settled. Menu?

Carrie:  Gosh, can I be in charge of that?

Charlotte (sweetly):  Certainly not.  You’d undoubtedly pick something ludicrous- like sliders or chicken salad.  Out of the question.  I will speak with the caterers.  Perhaps a kale juice bar.  Flowers?

Carrie:  I’ve got the greatest florist.  I’ll just call him and…

Charlotte (sweetly):  Nooo.  I don’t think so.  The last time we let your florist do an event, I believe he actually used flowers in the centerpieces. No imagination at all. I’ll contact Oswaldo.  He never uses flowers.  Well, that about covers it, I think. Questions?

Carrie:  Gosh, Charlotte, why did you want me here today?

Miranda (speaking into her phone):  Hold on again, babe.  Yeah, Charlotte, why exactly did you drag us out here?  And tell me quick.  I have to get back and walk Brunhilde.

Charlotte (sweetly):  What are you both whining about?  Don’t you realize that I gave up valuable time when I should be monitoring the Boko Haram assault in Nigeria?   Not to mention giving my full support to NATO re the Ukraine situation.  Instead, I  was forced to divert my attention to this.  Checkbooks, darlings, checkbooks.  Just leave me two blank checks- signed of course- on the way out.  That will be all.

The curtain falls as Miranda impatiently rips out a check from her book and Carrie looks slightly queasy.

Fin