A few weeks ago, a friend of mine approached me with an interesting idea. You see, he lives in Los Angeles and is one of those small town kids with Hollywood stars in his eyes, just looking to get a big break and leave his mark. He’s made some good headway thus far with aggressive networking, teeth-bleaching, and a moderate amount of ass-kissing. Anyway, he asked if I would be interested in allowing him to pitch “The Chase is On” as a possible TV project. I was flattered, but also hesitant. I mean, wasn’t there already a show about a single female columnist?
“Oh, yeah,” he replied, “But you’re like the Anti-Sex in the City.”
The last time I was on ABC News 4’s Lowcountry Live, they introduced me as the “Carrie Bradshaw of Charleston,” which, according to my friends, caused an obvious sudden twitch in my right eyelid. When you write a column about dating, you’re going be compared to that stupid show, especially by people who can’t see beyond “Single Girl Column” stereotype. And no offense to Candace Bushnell and Darren Star, but that show is a complete misrepresentation, a glossed-over fabrication, a fucking fantasy world. My life could not be more different from their portrayal, and I’m sure most females would concur.
I agreed to let my friend pocket the concept for his next pitch meeting, but I wanted to make a few things clear. I can just see him walking into some highfalutin studio, taking a seat in front of three stiff suits, enthusiastically pitching the idea, and the suits shrugging and asking the same question I did: “And this is different becaaaauuuse…?”
So I decided to put my screenwriting BFA to work and present him with a character description chronicling the differences between the fictional Miss Bradshaw and me.
For starters, I don’t make my living writing this column. I’m sure the good people at the City Paper would not like me to disclose the amount of money I receive for these little rants, but let’s just say it’s good “happy hour” drinking money. Did Carrie have another job, let alone a hobby that didn’t involve kooky designer clothes and loudly talking about dick sizes with her girlfriends in public places? Me thinks not.
I’ve always despised women who, anytime they’re around an attractive man, automatically start batting their eyes and acting like precocious, innuendo-spouting little girls, another horrible character flaw I’ve encountered with that damn show. When I’m around a guy I like, I actually bump up my personality to “11.” If I don’t scare him away, then we might actually have a shot.
Do I even need to harp on my relentless annoyance with the idea that a girl’s happiness is directly linked to her finding a man? Well, Sex in the City certainly didn’t. In fact, they seemed to really get off on the idea that here’s four single, smart women, but guess what? They’re not complete until they settle down with a man. Even the really slutty one, for God’s sakes! Screw you, HBO.
As I listed the differences, I also had to face the inevitable similarities between Carrie and me. Well, we’re both self-destructive commitment-phobes, and at the same time, we’re both cynical hopeless romantics. But deep down, isn’t that true for most women? Sure, I may buy my clothes at Target, drink Miller Lite, and enjoy the company of my straight, platonic male friends, but maybe we all have more in common than we’d like too admit. Let’s just hope the “suits” don’t see it that way.