"Quit It With The Cosmos!" - 5 Ways SATC Has You Acting Plum Crazy

I may be burned at the altar of Louboutin for this one, but I can't hold it in anymore. Ladies...

Sex And The City is making you act plum-dumb crazy.

*ducks stilettos*

I know, I know, some of you are going to demand to revoke my woman card, but this is America and I have my second first amendment rights, so back up. Let me speak.

Let's look at the celluloid life led by Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte, and Carrie: The clothes. The parties. The seemingly endless flow of disposable income. Oh, and of course the men. Yes, it certainly is delicious. It's also fake. Phony. Pure Hollywood. The Sex And The City franchise, while highly entertaining, is an elaborate color-by-numbers venture which has average American women of average means reaching for their fantasy glitter crayons. It's one thing to lose yourself in the fantasy. It's another to try to live it.

It's kinda nutty, to be honest. But since you're too busy J'adoring Dior, let me point out a few of the ways Sex and The City has you acting a little silly:

1.) SATC is making you dress up for the Magic Johnson 7. It's cool to get cute and put on your hottest frock for social gatherings. You'll be mixing, mingling, and you'll definitely be seen, so why not put your best stiletto-strapped foot forward. But for a movie theater viewing (read: not the actual premiere avec celebs), where the oldest person on staff is a 20-year-old humanities major and the selection of fine food includes overpriced jumbo dogs? Are you really gonna put on your best Baby Phat Calvin Klein, sit in a dark theater for two hours and then strike a pose next to the life-size cut-out for Marmaduke? I'm with my boys on this one -- it don't make no got-damb sense. Or as Roger Ebert puts it, "Do women wear their lowest-cut frocks for each other?" Which brings me to my next point...

2.) SATC has you dating your girls. Thanks to the girlfriend-power directive of SATC, women are going everywhere... with other women. To happy hour. To brunch. To the grocery store. To the laundromat. To Jiffy Lube. To the gynocologist. It's like every outing has turned into a field trip with no less than three but no more than five grown, female participants. ("Does everyone have their permission slip? Okay, now find your line buddy!") And then there's the inevitable wondering why you can't seem to attract the same kind of male attention you got when you spent solitary nights in the library during undergrad. Simple: y'all are cockblocking each other. A male acquaintance ended up on the wrong end of a side-eye last summer when he quipped, "Single women keep each other single." But now I'm seeing his point. It won't kill you to venture into the outside world on your own. If you're sitting in a lounge, flanked by two to four other women, all holding Cosmos wearing your best I'm-being-sexy-in-the-city faces, don't be surprised when everyone else leaves you in your dim corner. It doesn't look like you're out to meet people, it looks like you're taking your four best friends on that crucial third date. Who's going to insert themselves into that? (Other than this guy, I mean.) A perfect segue into #3....

3.) SATC has you looking for Mr. Big. I know. He was tall, dark, rich, handsome and irresistible. He was also flaky, arrogant, noncommittal and a bit of a narcissist. Why do you want Carrie Bradshaw's man again? Are you looking forward spending a decade hoping for a proposal? Do you like the idea of him marrying a sour-faced model in the meantime? Or will it all be worth the Manolos at the end of the rainbow? Not judging, just asking. Speaking of shoes, though...

4.) SATC is enabling Jimmy Choo dreams in a JC Penney reality. Let's talk. I know one of the biggest draws of SATC is the fashion. It's decadent and delirious and delicioso. (And I, personally, am a huge fan of Patricia Field.) But trying to re-create these looks in real life? Like, rent-is-due-the-toilet's-backed-up-and-I-got-hella-parking-tickets real life? Fail. As KP has seen first-hand, that will have you looking more crazy than couture. Either you'll mess up your credit score buying designer pieces that the general populace couldn't give two Greek dollars about, or you'll be raiding Filene's Basement looking for irregular duds to cobble together a Carrie Bradshaw "look" that could be better described as a "loss." Learn how to look good in jeans and a tee. Simple really is chic.

5.) Lastly... SATC is making you think you're Carrie Bradshaw. You're not -- let me say it again... you're not -- Carrie Bradshaw. Sarah Jessica Parker isn't even Carrie Bradshaw -- she's Sarah Jessica Parker in a Halston dress. The concept of proclaiming yourself to be the Black, Asian, or Aleutian Carrie Bradshaw has, quite honestly, always befuddled me. Mostly because Carrie Bradshaw is a character -- a fictional person with limited depth and complexity created to be used as a vehicle for a story. Aside from liking clothes and shoes and men, how much do you really have in common with Carrie (or Charlotte, or Miranda, or Samantha, or whoever the Facebook quiz says you are this week)? You are a real person, with real depth, quirks and complexities, and I shudder to think you'd want to sum up the whole of your being by taking on the name of a fictional character and sticking it on yourself like a shirt label. Be you. Ain't nothing wrong with being THE LeKeisha Marisela McFadden. Just own it. Nothing is more fashionable than that.

*Author's Note: I will go see SATC2 this week -- mostly to check out the clothes and find out whether Carrie bones Aidan. However, it'll likely be a matinee, and I'll be wearing Uggs, swigging beer and shouting obscenities at the screen. Gotta keep it gully.

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The Inherent #Fail-ness of the Street Holla

If you're a woman living in just about any major metropolitan area, you can always feel it coming. The intent stare. The sudden interruption in speech. The instant onset of Swivel-Head syndrome, with his head swiveling precisely in your direction.

Once you see these three things happen, you already know -- you're about to be subject to the Street Holla.

For the uninitiated, the Street Holla happens when a complete stranger ambushes you on the street and roughly demands politely asks for a moment of time, whether you have a man, or, if he's in a particular rush, just your phone number (your name, he figures, he can always ask about later). The line of reasoning behind a Street Holla-er is always, "Hey, this woman is walking down THIS particular street at THIS particular moment minding her own damn particular business... so she MUST want someone to be completely inconsiderate of her space and time and aggressively insert themselves into her day! Well if someone has to do it, I guess it'll be me!"

The thing about the Street Holla is that it should NEVER. EVER. WORK. The variable elements are too volatile to warrant even thinking that the intended interaction will yield any positive results. In fact, in the entire history of mankind, there's only one "successful" Street Holla on record, and that took place on Bryant Street Northwest in March of 2003. A young man approached a young lady, smiled, politely complimented her on her beauty, and then asked a few questions to garner pertinent information. (You know, her name, her hometown, whether or not she had three baby daddies or was a closeted axe murderer.) After a short but pleasant conversation, the young man then asked the young lady if he could call her sometime, so they could continue getting to know each other. She obliged.

It would eventually turn into the most-incompatible, ill-advised relationship I'd ever, EVER have, and teach me that I'd need to have more in common with a potential suitor than a sidewalk.

Ergo, the chances of a Street Holla actually succeeding with a woman that has some sense of dignity are slimmer than Gary Coleman's credit score. And yet, dudes keep trying. Why, I ask. Why? Your luck is highly unlikely to change, because there are several reasons why the Street Holla is inherently full of #fail.

1.) You don't know me. This is the most obvious reason the street holla is one big-ass roll of the dice. Yeah, I might be cute, but when you walk up to me, do you really know what you're getting into? I could have a stalker problem, an arrest warrant or a collection of shrunken-head dolls. I could be an identity thief or a master of check fraud. I could have a colorful assortment of communicative diseases. The point is, you have no idea. And yet, here you are, trying to establish a relationship with someone who just happens to have on her "good" pair of jeans today. I just might be doing you a favor by turning down your advances. Don't be mad.

2.) You ain't doin' shit. Clearly I'm going somewhere. Hence why I'm walking down the street. And I'm walking fast, which means I'm probably late. So how is it that you have the time to not only just stand there, but to also stop me and try to begin a conversation? Do you not have some business to attend to? Are you off today? Did you call out sick? Are you waiting for a bus? A jitney? What's going on? Why are you standing here? Oh, 'cause you ain't doin' shit. Which brings me to number 3...

3.) You're causing an inconvience. As stated before, most women aren't walking down a street secretly wishing, "Talk to me! Please, someone, stop me mid-gait and interrupt my day!" We're walking down a street because we have a destination to get to, and when you decide to insert yourself in our path, you've just created an obstacle between Point A and Point B. On top of that, since you lack a consideration for others, you have most likely chosen not be polite, but rather to be quite abrasive in your approach. Now not only are we annoyed, but we also have to figure out how to get rid of you.  Quickly, but as carefully as possible, because we don't know whether you might be that one crazy dude to throw bottles or fire shots when we reject your advances. All of this becomes one large inconvenience, and its even more irritating because we have to be fake, smile and be polite to you -- because we'd like to make it to our next destination, and because we're advocates of self-preservation.

4.) Ain't nuttin' going on but the asphalt. I mean seriously. Even if I do choose to be cordial toward you, Strange Stranger Man, the only thing we have in common is that we're both on 14th and S Streets at 4:32 on a Tuesday afternoon. You have no context on me, and I certainly have none on you. And yet you want my number so you can call me and talk about... what? What will we discuss? Your non-productive day or my penchant for Ginsu knives? You pick. Go ahead, I'll wait....

Those are just a few of the reasons why street hollas almost never, eva work. Can you think of any others?

What's on Your Resume? Typing, Dictation, Wang-Slanging...?

The title of this one comes courtesy of @basseyworld.

We were discussing the ridiculousness known as Trey Songz lyrics, on, of course, Twitter. (Bassey: "'Your body is a problem, they call me the problem solver.' Is this song about sex or math?") I mean, all this guy sings about now since his previous efforts couldn't sell a can of beans is getting it in. Seriously, peep the song titles:

I Invented Sex
Scratchin' Me Up
Neighbors Know My Name

While I'm slightly impressed that he's managed to take individual hallmarks of intercouse (screaming, scratching) and make entire songs out of them, I can't help but wonder if sexing is the only thing Trey finds himself qualified to sing about. Hence Bassey's musing over what he would list as "Skills" on his resume -- "Typing 75wpm, taking dictation, inventing sex..."

Basically, I'm wondering if Trey thinks his penis is the best thing he has to offer the world.

Because I'm seeing a lot of that lately. Guys distilling their value down to how well they can thrust. (Honestly... how hard is to thrust?) I mean, there once was a time where almost every male R&B artist sang about loving, honoring and adoring their women, and even -- perish the thought -- making love to them. Now we have dudes that simply want to "clap clap clap from tha back back back" and "beat your body like the Congo."

Not only does that not make sense, it also sounds a little violent.

(And potentionally offensive to the people of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.)

But this is not limited to Trey. All kinds of guys -- singers, celebs, reg'lah-ass dudes, are jumping on the wang-slanging train. And not just figuratively.





...

No, I will not attempt to comprehend.

And it wouldn't be nearly as disturbing if I didn't experience this in real life. Well, not ^this^ exactly, but as in otherwise seemingly-normal guys resorting to verbal dick-slanging as a last-ditch effort to sell themselves as "a catch." In one case, a male acquaintance used it to try to convince me (for the umpteenth time) to visit him -- after I'd already said no.

"Seriously, Veronica... just one weekend. We'll have a great time."

"I've already given you my answer. You're really gonna have to convince me."

"Well... you'll get some good dick."

....

That was supposed to make me pack my bags.

iCan't. iCannot. I can no longer with dudes using their penis as their prime selling point. Is that all you got? Is that all you have to offer? Of all the qualities boast and brag about (ambition, talent, leadership, possession of an actual moral compass, hell, even money at this point) you choose to sum up your value as a man with your peen? Women needed an entire movement to start seeing themselves as more than sexual vehicles, and now you're willingly submitting yourself to that sort of exploitation? Like, "Fuck it, all I need is my piece (and I don't mean gun... heh)"?  Not to mention there's a whole history of white supremacist efforts to paint black men as sexual beasts who need to be controlled and contained in order to protect society from their "savagery"? It. Does not. Compute. I want you to think more of yourself.

So, even though it's trendy, and the songs sell well on the radio and in the clubs, following the example of Trey (and a few others) and putting your pride on your penis is the quickest way to get yourself NOT taken seriously. Sure, you may come across a girl or two who's intrigued (and a few misguided souls who may actually think that's the measure of a man), but if all you have to offer is your peen, that's all anyone will be interested in.

Revise your resume. Just sayin.

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