Ceci n'est pas une usine.

Botox, Burka, Bedouin jokes, oh, my!

"Sex And The City 2" has premiered, and I'd rather poke my eyes out with a Malono Blanick dark grey suede, pointed toe, spike kitten heel than see it. And I am one of those 40-something women who watched the "SATC" series unabashedly, enjoying each little episode as a confectionery treat which sometimes hid, in its gooey center, an issue of actual meatiness. Cheating, abortion, lousy sex, fear of asserting one's own needs --- SATC was known to occasionally serve up a small tray of provocative along with the round of Cosmos.

Here we are, some nine years after the series debuted, and the writers have worked to give each character some growth and change. Charlotte was foolishly romantic and rigid in her world view; she opened her heart and her big brown eyes wide enough to take in the love of a mench. Samantha redefined her self-image and ability to commit. Miranda stopped being so angry all the time and saw how lucky she was. And Carrie? Once naive and quirky, in love with the city as well as a series of wrong-for-her men, she slowly morphed into a self-absorbed, whiny, spoiled brat. But, hey, small screen, 30 minutes. We could handle it, while waiting to see how she'd evolve again. And then it was time for the big screen, where it seemed the writers lost all sense of the heart of the show; the last SATC's pivotal "healing" moment was when Charlotte had exploding diarrhea and they all laughed at her. Actual shit hitting the fabric, it seemed, was the one thing that could mend being left at the altar.

Trailers for SATC2 show a breathless 40-something Carrie cooing "We're not in Kansas anymore," and every time I hear it, I cringe in embarrassment -- for her, the writers, and for me. What was soul-searching at 25 -- the waffling over men, the obsession over shoes, the complaining that life isn't enough of a fairy tale, simply becomes, at 45, self-indulgently creepy. And then there are the tent pole (pun intended) items: a gay wedding; swirly "ethnic" outfits, references to Arabian Nights, Liza. It's as if some producer put together a list of things "the gays" find attractive (Liza! Sheiks! Liza! Bad puns about genitalia! Liza!) and checked them off one by one on the master shot list.

To be honest, the real reason I won't see SATC2 is that it's lame as well as outdated. The entire SATC franchise, should it survive this latest round, needs to catch up with the rest of us. Here are some ideas for the third installment, should they be so lucky:

 

"Shock And The City." The four gal pals travel to the far reaches of suburbia, where, facing 11 percent national unemployment, they try to make food stamps stretch enough to feed a family of four for one month.

"Sick And The City." The ongoing debate over universal heath care takes a turn for the worse when aging sexpot Samantha needs new dentures and Carrie suffers debilitating, surgery-serious bunions.

"Slick And the City." The fab four don designer protective gear and set about cleaning up the oil spill in the Gulf Coast, saving thousands of miles of wetlands and wildlife. Carrie holds an international bidding war over her shoe collection and makes enough to cover the rescue cost for countless numbers of suffering sea life.
 

Someone once described the women of SATC as "those skinny bitches in designer britches," and she got it. Outspoken, unapologetic, outragous outfits -what's not to love? While I need fun and fluff right now more than ever, a little relevance would also be nice, or just less of Generally Stupid and Culturally Insulting. The ocean is poisoned, the economy is in shambles, and the concept of truly equal rights in this country continues to be a joke – do I really want to spend two hours and twelve dollars watching women in designer shoes contemplate cheating on their better-than-they-deserve partners while making fun of gays, Muslims and Middle Easterners?

Not a chance in Chanel.

Repeat: NOT crazy.

Not You. You.

Happy Mother's Day!

 

I did this: My friend lives in a state far from here. It was her birthday recently. I found her wish list on Amazon and sent her a book she had listed, feeling terribly clever and sneaky. "Oh!" she will exclaim. "How ever did she know I had this on my wishlist?"

 

Then, time passed and she didn't mention receiving it and commenting on my thoughtful cleverness, so I tracked the package, and apparently there are several women with her (very common) name in the same area of the state far from here. Who (who isn't me and therefore has a working cerebral cortex) knew? So some OTHER Ann now thinks she has a stalker and I am out $15.