There are very few things this New Yorker loves
as much as Sunday brunch.
You can sleep until noon
and still get eggs anywhere in the city.
Alcohol is often included with the meal,
and Sunday is the one day a week you get
"the single woman's sports pages,"
The New York Times wedding section.
This is so depressing.
The oldest woman on this page is 27!
I don't want to hear that.
Now, I'm all depressed
and I haven't even had my coffee yet.
Well, at least you have a boyfriend.
That doesn't mean I'm getting married.
It means I'm getting laid.
Yes, on a regular basis, no less.
I'll drink to that.
"Until recently, the bride, 24,
worked as an account supervisor at Ogilvy & Mather."
Twenty-four!
Okay, honey, no more reading aloud.
I love how they say, "Until recently, the bride..."
Yeah, meaning she quit her job
as soon as she found her soulmate-slash-investment banker.
It's so retro.
"Okay, I've got a big rock on my finger.
Now, I can stop pretending to care about my career."
Until recently, the bride had a life of her own.
You know who those women marry?
The roman numeral guys.
Charles Duffy Anderson IV.
Ding ding ding.
I find the higher the number, the worse the sex.
I went out with somebody the third
who couldn't even get it up.
Imagine how bad Henry VIII must have been.
Yeah, you give him head, he cuts yours off.
This couple met on a bike tour.
I can barely make it through spinning,
and all the men in there are gay.
It's amazing how upset women can get
over the marital status of strangers.
-What was that? -Nothing.
-Lemme see. -No, nothing to see.
Oh, you're such a bad liar.
And then, there's the occasional familiar face.
Well, it's official.
He's married.
Where are my home fries?
It's, it's fine, alright?
It's fine.
I was prepared for this, guys.
He-- They had an engagement party at the plaza.
But sometimes engagements break off.
This one didn't, let's move on.
I just don't understand why their wedding
gets to be like a short story.
Why not just an announcement?
I mean, what's next? Big and Natasha, The Movie?
It's fluff, it's P.R.
Anybody can be the story.
Anybody who's getting married.
See, this is what I hate about The Sunday Times.
This and all the country houses I can't afford.
So, you want to rent a movie or something?
No, Charlotte, it's okay.
I'm not going to slit my wrists.
I know, I just thought you might want some company.
Know what? I think I want to be alone.
Alright.
-I'm just gonna take your paper. -Would you stop?
I know what you're gonna do.
I mean, you can't not read it.
And you're going to cry, and it's going to be awful,
so, let's just read it now and get it over with, okay?
"The couple met in Paris on the Île Saint-Louis"
Oh, how original. They fell in love in Paris.
"'I was sitting alone at a café when the waiter
brought over a bottle of their finest pinot noir
from a very handsome man at the bar,'
the bride said, her brown eyes sparkling."
"'By the time we finished the wine,
I knew I wanted to marry him.'"
Oh, please. You were drunk and he was rich.
This is just bad journalism.
"Marry they did, yesterday in South Hampton
at the bride's parents' estate.
There were only 50 guests.
'We wanted to keep it intimate,' she said.
'Just family and close friends.'"
Yeah, and The New York Times.
Really, how intimate is that?
You know what? I don't hear Big anywhere in this article.
Natasha's calling the shots and he's just along for the ride.
"The bride carried calla lilies tied with a red ribbon."
Well, that's nice.
"And as she walked down the aisle,
a saxophone played, 'When A Man Loves A Woman.'"
Well, that's tacky.
No, that's Big.
Jesus.
What I wouldn't give for a working fireplace.
He wasn't the right man for you.
I know that, I know, it's not him.
It's the whole wedding.
And it's her. It's... her. Her!
You know, she's just--
You know, she's shiny hair, style section, Vera Wang,
and I'm, you know, the sex column
they run next to ads for penile implants.
Big wasn't the only one taking the plunge.
After more than a decade of domestic independence,
Miranda had finally opened herself up to a relationship...
Good morning!
...with a cleaning lady.
Oh, good morning, Magda.
Do you know where the coffee mugs are?
Ah, I move them here.
See? Now, all glasses are together.
Oh, sure. I guess that makes more sense.
Um, you know what?
I always drink my coffee out of my law school class of '90 mug
because it's bigger and...
It's just what I always use.
I bring you nice herbal teas.
Tea is better for you.
Oh, thank you very much, but I prefer coffee.
Thank you.
Why do I have a rolling pin?
It's for you to make pies!
Uh-huh.
It's good for a woman to make pies!
Do you have a rolling pin?
-On me? -In your kitchen.
Are you kidding me? I use my oven for storage.
Okay, my cleaning lady brought me a rolling pin.
It was like she couldn't believe I didn't have one.
-I can't believe you have a cleaning lady. -Oh, don't even start.
I feel guilty enough.
I hate being home when she's home,
because I feel like if I'm home, I should be cleaning.
Or making pies,
because according to her, that's what women do.
Where did you find this person, in a time capsule?
I know! I don't need to make pies.
I'm practically a partner in a major law firm.
If I want pie, I can buy it!
You know what? I think I need this in a smaller size.
Um, I'll get it for you, just hand it out to me.
There's no need for you to...
Carrie?
And there she was, Mrs. Big.
All five-foot-ten of her.
Hey, hi, Natasha.
Um, I, uh, I heard, well, I read--
Um... Congratulations on the thing,
on the wedding.
Um, this is Miranda, she's shopping with me.
-Hi. -Nice to meet you.
That looks, uh, nice, that, um, what you have on there.
You think?
Yeah, I, uh, need something for this
"Women In The Arts" luncheon I helped organize.
I'm on the steering committee, so...
Oh, really? I'm a member.
Because, you know, I write, so I am a woman in the arts.
I go to that lunch every year...
in clothes.
So, you're going then?
Uh, yeah, yeah, I'm going.
Great. I'll see you there.
Alright.
Great.
Oh, my God.
And now, I can't find the invitation.
Well, why did you tell her you'd go?
Because I have a deficit now. I've talked to her twice.
Once I was in a cowboy hat and once I was in my bra.
I'm like freakin' "Annie Get Your Clothes On."
I would just... I would like her
to see me looking normal.
Just normal?
Okay, yes, I would prefer to look amazing,
but not like I'm trying amazing,
just effortlessly striking.
I see. And will Big be at this event?
No, it's a "Women In The Arts" luncheon.
This isn't about Big, it's about Natasha.
Okay, but it seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a woman.
Can you just help me find out when and where
this stupid thing is?
I can do better than that. I'm coming with you.
Oh, so, now you support women in the arts?
I support you, and, honey,
these bitches need to be put in their places.
That night I modeled my entire wardrobe in my head
and vetoed everything.
Why did I care so much?
What was it about Natasha
that always made me feel like the charity case?
Was it just that she had Big or was this bigger than Big?
I started to wonder...
Are there women in New York who are just there
to make us feel bad about ourselves?
For Miranda, that woman was a certain Ukrainian housekeeper.
You're early.
Yes, good morning!
Um, did you bring me this?
It's gift. -Oh!
To make nicer your bathroom.
Thanks. And, um...
did you move my hair dryer?
It used to be under the sink.
-In the middle drawer. -Oh.
Last week, I organize for you.
No! That drawer doesn't need organizing!
Magda had discovered Miranda's goody drawer.
Look, I have a boyfriend,
so, it's not like I'm sleeping with a bunch of different men.
There's one guy, and for a long time, there was no guy,
and that's why I have the other thing.
Okay?
You like him, this boyfriend?
Yes.
You want to marry this man?
I don't know.
Everybody want to get married.
I am married 28 years.
Well, we'll see.
I don't know if I want to get married.
God bless you!
I don't need you to bless me, I don't need God to bless me.
I'm perfectly fine with my life as it is.
It's like I hired my mother.
Luckily, Manhattan has spas
where a woman can pay to feel good about herself.
I just can't believe she opened your goody drawer.
I mean, everybody knows the nightstand is private.
What do you have in there?
You know, the usual.
Condoms, vibrator.
Massage oil, cigarettes.
Nipple clamps.
Really?
Not for me, for them.
That's freakish.
What's in your goody drawer, Robert's Rules of Order ?
I don't have a goody drawer.
Oh, everybody has a goody drawer.
I have a goody closet.
I don't need to know what's in your goody closet.
Ditto.
Nipple clamps will suffice for today.
I'm not in the mood for steam, it's too hot.
Then take off your towel and relax.
I-- I don't feel like being relaxed in, in here.
There goes a woman who desperately needs
a goody drawer.
Charlotte, honey, what's wrong?
Nothing, I, I was just hot.
Okay. And...?
And...
I'm just, I'm just not comfortable being
naked in public.
Well, this isn't really public.
It's a ladies' locker room.
I didn't grow up in a naked house.
Well, I didn't either.
I bet she grew up in a naked house.
She might still live in a naked house.
Oh, Charlotte, sweetie,
who cares how you look to other women?
You don't care because you have a perfect body.
Oh, my God, you're deluded.
Charlotte!
Sweetie, you have a beautiful figure.
-Really? -Yes.
Then why was that woman in the steam room
looking at me like my thighs were too big.
Samantha always felt good about herself.
But after her 80 minute massage, she felt even better.
I just had the most intense massage.
Kevin goes down on you.
Samantha's was good, but not that good.
Are you serious?
Yes. He's incredible.
You should try him.
Samantha smiled politely,
but a woman with a goody closet doesn't need to pay for head.
Celia...
-You forgot your key. -Oh.
Thanks, Kevin.
Then again, you could never have too many massages.
Samantha immediately got on the wait-list
for Kevin's next available appointment.
That night, Steve wasn't available either,
so Miranda decided to do the next best thing.
Apparently, Magda was not only cleaning,
she was performing an exorcism.
Later that week, I had a religious experience
at Manolo Blahnik.
I need your honest opinion.
You can't afford them?
Can I get you something?
Oh, yeah.
I'll have that incredibly rich looking
flourless chocolate thing and, um, a café au lait.
I'll have a fruit cup.
Oh, well, now you're making me feel bad.
No, no, you get what you want. Thanks.
You know, this place has the best desserts in New York.
The whole point of coming here is to splurge.
I know, but that was a splurge. Fruit has a lot of carbs.
Okay, is there a new Zone book out or something?
I hate my thighs.
The problem is not your thighs, sweetie.
The problem is your head.
Now, about the shoes...
-Hold on.
I need these for the WITA luncheon.
Now, the heels are almost high enough
to put me face-to-face with Natasha,
if Natasha wears flats.
But why would she wear flats?
Do you think they make the right statement?
Well, what statement do you want them to make?
I am beautiful and powerful
and I don't care that you're only 25 and married my ex.
I thought you didn't have a complex about how you look to other women.
Oh, no, it's not a complex,
it's a Natasha-specific obsession.
Which will be over as soon as she sees me
at the benefit looking fabulous in these shoes
and this dress I saw at Bergdorf's
that's gonna cost me a month's rent.
Oh, listen to you.
You don't have to prove anything.
You are stunning and intelligent and funny.
And what is she?
Married.
That's all.
You could go to that luncheon
wearing what you're wearing right now
and still be the most incredible woman in the room.
Wow!
Why can't you do that for yourself?
That afternoon Charlotte faced her fear.
I'd kill for your breasts.
Meanwhile, Samantha had spent the last half hour face down,
picturing Kevin's face down on her.
Is this pressure okay?
Oh, yes.
That is just fine.
Ready to turn over now?
I most certainly am.
Is this okay?
Yes.
Is this okay?
Mmm. Yes.
Is this okay?
Yes.
Since they were running out of time, Samantha decided
to take the matter into her own hands.
Is this okay?
Apparently it wasn't.
What kind of person does such a thing?
To molest a trained professional
while he's trying to do his job?
Helena Rubinstein is a civilized place for civilized people.
I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you to come back here.
I have to protect my staff.
Clearly, she meant Kevin's staff.
Look, this isn't my fault.
I know for a fact that Kevin went down on another customer,
and that's why I booked the appointment.
The following Monday,
Samantha and I were the definition of civilized.
We officially became ladies who luncheon.
I'm telling you, it was entrapment,
false advertising and blatant discrimination.
You can't just randomly go down on one person and not on another.
I paid good money expecting to be eaten out.
This is not the conversation I wish to have
as my most amazing self.
Do you see her?
No. Ooh, but I do see Wendy Wasserstein and Gloria Steinem.
Well, believe me, you look absolutely stunning.
You know what? I believe you.
Oh.
Hello, um, Mimi.
Ms. Carrie Bradshaw and Ms. Samantha Jones.
I'm a member. I just haven't been to an event...
ever.
It's Bradshaw.
Ah! Here you are.
Okay, please wear your name tags.
Last year we had an unfortunate incident with Joyce Carol Oates.
Oh.
I'm not really sure the "Hello, My Name Is..."
goes with the ensemble.
Hello, my name is fabulous.
Oh, Natasha's not here yet.
Oh, you know what? Natasha's not coming.
-What? -She's got a terrible cold, poor thing,
and she didn't want to get everybody sick.
Here are your drink tickets.
I can't believe that bitch is a no-show.
I'm the one who's sick.
I charged another outfit I can't afford,
probably bounced a check to a charity
just to prove I'm amazing.
I've never felt less so...
-Let's just go, alright? -I paid $85.
We're having our two drinks.
What do you feel like?
Um, a loser on the rocks.
Gimme those tickets.
Who is this and what is she doing in my bedroom?
It is the Virgin Mary.
And where's my other thing?
What thing?
You know, the thing, the thing. Don't make me say it.
The thing you moved and replaced with this lady.
In bathroom, middle drawer, next to hair dryer.
But no man will marry you if that is by bed.
It mean you don't need him.
Magda, what I don't need is another mother.
I have one in Philadelphia and that's close enough.
I need a housekeeper who will clean my apartment
and stop judging me
because I'm a 34-year-old single woman living in New York.
I drink coffee and have sex and buy pies
and enjoy battery-operated devices.
If you can't deal with that,
I will find another housekeeper who can.
I also head up the committee to match mentors
with underprivileged children.
It would be wonderful if you'd be willing to work
with some of our kids who want to write.
I write about sex.
Is that something they'd like to learn, these kids?
Writing about blow jobs and stuff?
Or...
We can always use help in fundraising.
Carrie, this is Jenna.
Hi, Jenna.
Nice to meet you.
Jenna went to college with Natasha.
Go ahead, Jenna, tell her what you told me.
Okay, well, Natasha lived in my dorm freshman year at Tulane,
and once she showered with a guy in a community bathroom.
And...
Oh, and she gained like ten pounds sophomore year.
Wow.
Ten pounds.
Thanks, Jenna.
Okay.
Merry Christmas.
That's supposed to make me feel better?
Six years ago she was a cheerleader
with a weight problem?
Well, it's something.
You had to love her for trying.
Samantha thought a woman could make me feel good
by making Natasha sound bad, but it only made me feel worse.
Another drink?
Another one and I'll be a lady who loses her lunch.
Well, trust me. When you get home tonight,
you're gonna smile about the fact that she was a porker in college.
Ten pounds does not a porker make.
Uh, you're Samantha Jones?
Yes.
Oh, we met at Helena Rubinstein. You're--
Katy, Leisle, look who's here.
It's the woman who got Kevin fired.
Thanks a lot.
-Yeah, thanks. -Who's gonna fuck me now?
Kevin fucked you?
Turns out I wasn't the kind of member
those women in the arts really needed.
And that night in her spotless apartment,
Miranda knew she'd done the right thing
taking a stand because of her nightstand.
Magda realized that while single women in New York never make pies,
they sometimes make guys.
A couple of weeks later I got something in the mail
from "Women In The Arts."
It was a "thank you" for attending,
signed by Natasha.
Game over.
I had to accept the fact that in life
some women are simply better,
and no amount of shoes or lack of pastry
or making of pies will change that.
I will never be the woman with the perfect hair
who can wear white and not spill on it...
and chair committees and write thank-you notes.
And I can't feel bad about that.
"Sorry I couldn't be 'their.'"
"T-h-e-i-r!"
But I could feel good about this.
Hello? -Miranda...
it's a good thing she got married.
The woman's an idiot.