Who are you?

The obsession with 'Sex And The City' is rearing it's designer head again. The movie version opens this weekend and it will be interesting to see the demographics of who'll be attending. Women and gay men alike have such affinity with the show that they love to figure out which they are; Miranda, Charlotte, Samantha, or Carrie. It's the next version of 'Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon'. Parlor games for the bored at work. I myself find me a Carrie wanting to be Samantha. Let me tell you a story. (photo's from socialitlife)

To attend this wedding this weekend has been an expense and a half, cash and energy. In the caribbean, I would have to look amazing and needed perfect shoes to compliment the seersucker (Sista Sal keeps saying c*cksucker, not completely wrong) blue and white number I have. I found them in DSW, little woven leather slip ons, brown. Size 10. Damn. Off on the broom I blow to the next two DSW's and a mall, nada. What to do? Back to the first store, stuff my 11's into them to guage the pain. As long as I limit my flailing around the dancefloor to a minimum I shouldn't suffer to badly, they just looked too good. Back on the broom. Home. Workout. Still in the gym shorts, shirtless with the mp3, thin socks and the new shoes I go to the road to scrape the soles so I don't end up ass over tea kettle. People driving by were quite perplexed, as was my buddy Steve who I called to tell me how 'gay' this scenario. We do this often, he's in Indiana and up to his chin in corn. Steve was especially amused with me not hanging up correctly and him getting two more minutes of me shuffling my feet. I am Carrie Bradshaw. At least I was in her shoes.

Don't forget your 'Rabbit Rabbits' sunday morning. I imagine when I wake up after the wedding my first word is going to be 'Owww'.