Ramble on.

The only rant about Valentine's Day I will ever commit to paper... or screen.

2010-02-11T20:21:00.000-08:00

I have nothing against Valentine's Day. Even when I was single (the many, many, many years I was single), I was never the girl that railed against Valentine's Day. I don't hate it. I just don't need it or get it.

When I was single, Valentine's Day was just another day. I never cried about not getting flowers or chocolates. I never lamented my singleness because of that big looming date on the calendar (I did, of course, lament my singleness for other reasons). Valentine's Day was a blip, and that was fine with me. I always assumed that it would become more important to me once I nestled myself into a twosome.

And I was wrong.

Sure, I look forward to spending Sunday with my boyfriend. But no more than I look forward to spending any Sunday with him. Because here's the wonderful thing: with him, every day is as good as Valentine's Day should be.

We don't go a day without saying 'I love you' - usually more than once. We leave notes for each other around the apartment. We bring each other treats on an unpredictable schedule - they are usually as simple as our beloved iced coffee or the disgusting Pork Krackles he loves, and that's exactly how I like it: cheap and unexpected. He doesn't come home with something yummy or cute for me every day, but he does come home to me every day. And that's what counts. That's enough to keep me extremely satisfied. Obviously we do have days that are more stressful or harried than others - but we just don't let those days get in the way of us.

To steal a sentiment from SATC's Charlotte, I am happy every day that I'm with my boyfriend. Not always all day - sometimes it is all day - but every day I am happy and grateful for what I have. I don't need to be kept in blue boxes (thank you, Cordelia and Joss Whedon) to know he loves me or to satisfy any of my needs. I'm not a girl who relishes being spoiled. Don't get me wrong, I like presents... but more than that, I like knowing that his hard-earned paycheck is going towards bills, groceries, and savings. Because living a happy, full and comfortable life together is what's really romantic, not spending money on trinkets for this fairly arbitrarily - and certainly ambiguously - chosen day.

Some might say that if I don't believe in Valentine's Day, I shouldn't believe in any other holidays, either. Even my birthday. Rubbish. My birthday was an actual event - and an awesome one at that - that definitely occurred on the date it's celebrated on. Our anniversary? I could go either way - I don't need presents (although he gives great ones), so maybe just a nice meal and some time spent together to acknowledge the day that our awesomeness levels were made twofold. Because, again, that's a day when something actually happened. I have it in writing (which is handy, because we keep forgetting what date it is). And as for Christmas - I love Christmas. Christmas feels joyful and warm to me all month-long. All I need to be happy at Christmas is for people to let me decorate their houses and hair with tinsel and baubles. Presents are a bonus.

My problem is not even the day itself, it's the expectation that comes with that day. The idea that I should be any happier or more in love because someone bought me a gift (let's face it - men are under far greater pressure to perform on Valentine's Day) on this specific day is strange to me. It's by-and-large fauxmance - something utterly contrived and unnecessary.

All of this said, I get why people want to take this day, and celebrate the love in their lives; I really do understand why it's liked. It's cute, and can be a lot of fun. I just hate when people let this one particular day carry more weight than it should ever be allowed to - it's just a day... a day chosen for no concrete reason at that. Does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things, if you don't get that white gold pendant you've been hinting at? If it does, then I propose that you have bigger issues than Valentine's Day. Gifts and grand gestures do not a strong relationship make. The 15th of Feb is as important to your relationship as the day before - because it's the everyday that builds the foundations (yes - we're using the 'relationships as a house' metaphor). Valentine's Day should just be the decorative pillows. They're nice and all, but your house is just as cozy without 'em.

Cough It Up: Talking About Life with Cystic Fibrosis.

2010-01-08T05:37:00.000-08:00

My relationship isn’t normal. My relationship is a threesome.

Me and Simon and his cystic fibrosis: we’re one happy little family, living in our happy little home.

For the most part, Simon’s CF is hardy noticeable to me anymore. The nebuliser in the morning, the dozens of enzyme pills with every meal, and the physio are all part of the rhythm and rhyme of our everyday life. Even coughing has become part of my sonic landscape – I no longer flinch at the morning lung clearance, and his regular coughs are as familiar to me as his voice (it’s great, actually; I can never lose him in a shopping centre).

Keeping up with CF news has also become kind of normal: I read the 65 Roses newsletter, search the Internet for new therapies and studies, and stalk CF and chronic illness message boards and forums… my mum even sends me CF-related news. I like being involved and informed when I go with Simon to his appointments, and I’m very lucky with his doctor, Judy Morton; not only is she a lovely doctor, she’s been fantastic at explaining Simon’s treatment and aspects of his particular CF to me. As a wee bit of a control freak, knowing about CF is my key to feeling less lost, and a hell of a lot less scared.

Those things said, the part of CF that impacts most on my day-to-day life is the way it has impacted on Simon’s life: the way it has shaped him as the man he is today – the man with whom I live my life. Of course, much of the man I love is the result of nature and nurture, but as any lifelong illness does, Simon’s CF played a role in informing his adult personality; where some respond to illness by living their lives as patients, Simon lives his life with impatience (wordplay!). He is strong, ambitious, independent, shrewd and incredibly passionate – CF has been the monkey on his back, pushing him to achieve, to follow his passions and live an engaged and honest life.

He is also relentlessly funny, handsome, thoughtful and charming, and – I am glad to report – smarter than I am (always marry up, folks). But above all, it is his extremely strong sense of self that separates Simon from so many others – and while that’s easily attributable to his inherent nature, I have a theory that those who have had illnesses from an early age often have a stronger sense of identity or purpose, and more maturity, simply by force of circumstance. I believe Simon fits that bill quite nicely.

So, with him being that lovely gent that he is, and me being a lady of good breeding and marriageable age, the idea of a life spent together it something that has been brought up on several occasions. Neither of us takes ‘happily ever after’ for granted, but we’re a strong couple – we manage to avoid a lot of the relationship hiccups with common sense and regular maintenance… and even when those hiccups do pop up, I have indefatigable faith in our ability to overcome them.

But, as much confidence as I have in our relationship, planning to spend your life with someone with a chronic illness, like CF, can be a scary thing to do. Big life decisions raise questions that I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to answer:

If we get married, how does that affect his disability pension?
What If he loses the pension?
What if he gets sick and can’t work?
What if he gets so sick that I can’t work?
Can we save enough to survive without me working full-time?
Will we have kids?
How much do we need to save to have a baby (couples with a CF patient typically require IVF to conceive)?
What if the IVF doesn’t take?
How many times will we try?
What if we have multiples?
Can we afford multiples?
Is selective reduction an option?
What if I’m a CF carrier (if I am, we have a 25% chance of having a baby with CF)? Would we keep a baby with CF?
Is me not wanting a baby with CF hurtful to Simon?
What will happen if we do have a kid with CF?
How do I feel about adoption?
What happens if Simon gets sick while I’m pregnant, or as soon as the baby arrives?
How do we explain CF to our kid?
How do we explain CF to our kid if our kid has CF?

And the one question that I let myself think about only every few months, and only ever fleetingly: what will I do if Simon dies too soon?

The thought of it knocks the wind out of me, and if I let myself think about it too long, I worry it will inch further into my everyday thinking… and that’s just not an option. Thinking like that does no one any favours, and gets us nowhere. So I give myself a few minutes, just every now and again to think about it and to cry (I cry… it’s my reflex reaction). Those are the moments when I let the CF get to me, when I let the reality of the immense decisions I will have to make in the future creep out of the recesses of my brain, and I allow myself to wallow.

Sometimes it’s worse than others; Simon was in hospital for a tune-up recently, and it was the first time I’d seen it. I’d prepared myself mentally for the hospital visit… but not enough, apparently. Driving home from hospital one night I cried from the second I closed my car door to the second I slipped my key into our front door. Generally speaking though, it’s not that bad; it’s usually a quick, quiet moment with a few girly tears, a little self-pity and then there’s just moving on. Because yes, CF is always in the back of my mind… but that’s all the brain space it deserves at the moment.

Ultimately, as much as the questions above can hover in my noggin, they aren’t questions to be answered right now. And that’s what my relationship with Simon - and my relationship with CF - has taught me; I used to have a 5-year plan, now I think about the future, but I try not to let it define the decisions I make today. Every day is important – yes, planning for our future warrants some attention, but so does waking up every morning together, and being happy and grateful for those opportunities. Simon makes CF the impetus to achieve and live as honestly as possible – I make it the impetus to savour every moment we have together and live my life with perspective, a sense of humour and love. There’s less time for bullshit, which I’m grateful for.

I once watched Sick with Simon; it’s a film about an artist, Bob Flanagan, who had CF. After Bob passed away his wife calmly took photos of his body, still lying in his hospital bed. I remember thinking to myself at the time, “How could she do that? How can she be so composed? Hell, how is she even still breathing?” But, of course, the experience of CF is different for everyone, and we all deal with it in different ways; I’m still learning mine.

And while I’m adjusting to CF’s role in my life, so is Simon; when he was younger, CF was a secondary concern to him, but as he gets older it becomes a larger part of his life – he said to me recently, “I now feel like I have CF – like I have a disease”. The luxury of putting CF in the backseat is no longer something he has… breathing is important, y’all. So is work. And, potentially (no pressure yet, dude), having a family.

Our relationship has changed things for him – the consequences of Simon’s decisions no longer impact only on his life, they’re part of mine as well. And many of them are decisions he’s never really thought about before. It’s an interesting thing to be privy to – the evolution of a lifelong illness as someone moves into a new phase of their life. There are so many unknowns for both of us; but the one thing I do know is that CF will always be part of our life, but it’s not the defining part of our life. I think about CF, and the sadness or anger I feel towards it is utterly dwarfed by the love I have for Simon, and the faith I have in us as a couple. All of my questions and fears are insignificant compared to the happiness a life lived with him offers me. There will be times when CF makes our life hard. There will be times when I will be scared. But CF can suck it. In those times, I will choose happiness, love and hope (and, as a former cynic, that’s saying something big) over yuckiness and sadness. When it comes to my relationship with Simon, that’s just how it is - those are the things he brings out in me. So if this is my journey, I can’t think of a single person I’d rather be on it with.

Learn more about CF here or check out Cystic Fibrosis Victoria to find out what's what, and how you can help.

Also, if I know you personally, you'll be buying 65 Roses Day merch from me come Friday, 28th of May, so start saving those gold coins!

PORN: It's got four letters, but is it really a dirty word?

2009-11-02T23:46:00.000-08:00

The other day I read an extremely disturbing advice column. It was about porn.

A woman - let's call her Mrs. X - had written in about her husband's "porn problem". She had caught her hubby browsing some blue content, and was "devastated" and "betrayed" at the discovery. Mrs. X was hurt and angry that that Mr. X had been looking for some e-satisfaction, and had no qualms likening his behaviour to infidelity. She said that while she had tried to come to terms with it, and Mr. X had apologised and tried to explain himself, she simply could not reconcile herself to the fact that her husband was, on occasion, a porn-watching skeezebag. He had denied this particular predilection in the past, but Mrs. X had held onto her suspicions - which were now, sadly, justified.

Mrs. X just couldn't understand what would drive a man to porn; she gets "regular Brazilians" and takes care of herself... so what could her husband possibly have to gain from a little Internet indiscretion? She did make a point of saying that they still have sex - but she "won't do anything extra in bed" since the incident. Too disgusting, apparently.

Aside from the many, many problems I have with Mrs. X's close-minded attitude towards her husband's sexuality, I took the most offence at the reply she received.

The response from this alleged 'sex expert' - let's call her Blerg - started with general 'I'm sorry you're feeling blue" spiel... and then went into two paragraphs on the dangers of porn addiction, and how damaging pornography is to those afflicted.

Not only is this an extreme interpretation of what was portrayed as an run-of-the-mill – albeit secretive – venture into internet porn, but by presenting that information first and foremost, Blerg has planted an incredibly unnecessary notion in Mrs. X's head that all pornography viewing is the result of some depraved addiction to iGasms. Utter bullshit.

Let's be honest: pretty much all men have, at one time or another, looked at porn. Whether it's Playboy magazine or MILFHunter.com, it's a fairly universally accepted truth that dudes - especially the teenage ones - have given porn a go at least once. Some – although I would wager most - have developed a healthy relationship with porn; whether it's as an "I'm alone, and might crank one out" go-to for men left to their own devices, or a "Let's get revved up and go have some shit-hot sex" tool for couples, pornography can be an fantastically gratifying and fun part of one's sex life.

But when women like Blerg start attaching the stigma of addiction to a casual and healthy interest in porn without seeking more specific information or presenting the other, lighter side of XXX entertainment, it plants a seed of thought in the minds of women like Mrs. X that porn is dirty, and the men who watch it are depraved.

By all means, address the issue of porn addiction - but how about prefacing it with a statement that says something like: "the viewing of pornography is, in most cases, a healthy outlet and a common activity for men (and women). As long as the material features consenting individuals of legal age, and the person's porn viewing is not interfering with your personal sex life, there should be no reason to assume this activity is unhealthy, or punish anyone for seeking alternative methods of stimulation." No, child porn is absolutely not okay. No, rape porn is not okay. No, porn that replaces a personal sex life within a couple is not okay. But a husband seeking a nice, solo 'gasm? Where's the harm in that? As a friend of mine puts it, "it's a different animal". Maybe the dude just wasn't in the mood for sex. Maybe a quick handskie was all he was after. Maybe - get this - he LIKES it. And maybe that's ok.

It doesn't always mean that he's not interested in you. It doesn't mean that he doesn't love you. Sometimes, frankly, it has nothing to do with how he views you. The dude might just be trying to relax; maybe he doesn't want to bother you. Maybe he's just a good guy who wants to watch some porn and not be made to feel bad for it.

Blerg suggested that maybe Mr. X didn't divulge his secret because he was "ashamed". Did she then also suggest that it was nothing to be ashamed of? Hell to the no. I was extremely irked by the use of the word "ashamed". Because there's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, and women like Mrs. X need that reinforced. Sexuality is something to be celebrated and people who are free and happy to enjoy that sexuality (even in front of a computer) should be applauded. Anyone else should get the stick out of their ass. Maybe replace the stick with some special beads... see if you like it, you saucy minx.

I do not think that men who look at porn love their wives/girlfriends/whatever any less for looking at porn. I do not think it's cheating. Is having a sexual fantasty about Brad Pitt cheating (even when cranking one out)? No. Because it's not something that's acted upon. If Mr. X was having a 'chat' affair with some Russian webcam girl, that would be different - that's just flat-out cheating. But if the dude was just having a little Han Solo time on a regular porno site, then how about you get off your puritanical high horse, cut the man a little slack, and try to understand - hell, try to get on board with - his enjoyment of pornography. Even if you can't and you'll just never like it, at the very least, please try to understand it. Compromise is the watchword.

George Michael had it right - and doesn't he always - when he said, "Sex is natural, sex is good. Not everybody does it, but everybody should". Have fun with your sex life - take your partner's peccadillos and integrate them into your joint routine. Hell, develop your own routine. Most of all, be tolerant and embrace the quirks of the people you love. Sure, don't let porn viewing get out of hand - but also don't smother your own relationship out of spite, or drag your guy through the mud because you have a different opinion to him. Don't make feel ashamed of his sexuality - understand his sexuality.

A little porn shouldn't be a dealbreaker. If it is, then there's a whole set of other problems that need to be addressed.

If my apartment ever burned down...

2009-09-29T00:02:00.000-07:00

I am a pathological pack rat.

Everything I own, no matter how innocuous, is imbued with memory and experience, and I am loathe to cast that aside... or I'm just too lazy to clean. Sometimes it's a little more from column B.

If my apartment burned to the ground (on my list of Things I'd Rather Didn't Happen), these are the things that I would save, forsaking all other shit and rubbish I have accumulated over the years (no offence, silver shoe that no longer fits me and has no matching pair. You've served me well).

Charcoal Zeus

Charcoal Zeus was a gift from my mum; he was drawn by my great grandfather (or uncle? I can never remember...), which was a great shock to me considering almost no-one in my family has any artistic talent whatsoever. I like it because it's equal parts creepy and beautiful.

Enamel Box

This box was given to me by my dad after my grandpa died - I was a wee little lass, and I don't really remember much about him. What I do remember is his scratchy beard, the smell of his old Range Rover (and the Dr. Seuss books in the back), and the special wave he always gave us as we drove away. He was awesome. This box reminds me of him - probably because it has a photo of him on the inside.

Bose Headphones

A birthday present from my boyfriend - they're a thing of beauty. If only I wasn't so terrified of them being stolen, I'd take them with me everywhere.

Blue & White China Pots

When my grandma died and her house was cleaned out, there were a million things that I wished I could have kept. Everything in that house reminded me of being little and with my family, from the giant loom upstairs to the Tap Tap set in the playroom. I got these porcelain pots and a few other knick-knacks - most are still safe from my clumsy hands in my parents' house, but these I'll take with me everywhere.

Simon's Stripy Jumper

This is far and away the comfiest, squishiest jumper ever. Irreplaceable.

Bose Speakers

Yes, I am a Bose whore. These speakers are amazing - they could kick your speakers' ass. Not irreplaceable, but they're so beautiful that they make the grade.

Baby Simo

Last but not least, this gorgeous photo of my man as a baby. He's got the cutest punum in the history of the world! Look at his handsome little smile!

This is our last dance...

2009-06-29T06:16:00.000-07:00

If you haven’t already heard Ben Harper’s Like a Version cover of Queen and Bowie’s Under Pressure, check it out before you read this. Hell, even if you don’t continue reading this, please listen to the song. You will be better off for it.

It's here

This is everything a cover should be. Everything.

It’s respectful, but reflective of the artist, it’s impassioned, but most of all, it’s thoughtful. Ben Harper knows this song; he has thought about it, and he has made an effort to understand it. He’s engaged with this song. And that’s what makes it so phenomenal.

He takes what was wonderful about the original – the fundamental dissatisfaction with the world, but hope that the better angels of human nature will overcome… and the awesome friggin’ climax – and gives it a new spirit, a new voice. He makes it about the song, not about the singer. And in doing that, he draws attention to what an incredible vocalist he is.

It’s no secret that Ben Harper is not the vocalist that Freddie Mercury was (Harper fans, settle down. Hardly anyone is the vocalist that Freddie Mercury was), but for the love of all that is holy, Harper’s voice is freaking phenomenal on this recording. It gives me chills.

I’ve always thought that the ultimate difference between a good singer and a great singer is the innate ability to infuse your voice with emotion. It can be taught, yes; but it will never have the rich, authentic timbre that comes with natural ability. I’ll never in a million years believe a Christina Aguilera song as much as I’d believe an Otis Redding song, because she’s a performing monkey, and he’s a singer and a songwriter. Her idea of true emotion is Beautiful. His is Cigarettes and Coffee. No contest.

To me, Harper proves his worth a dozen times over on this cover. He makes me believe in him, and in the song. He makes me want to hug my family and friends, and give money to the hobo on the corner. It makes me want to buy every Big Issue in the city, and be a better girlfriend, daughter, sister and friend. It makes me want to change my way of caring about ourselves… because this is our last chance; this is our last dance; this is ourselves... under pressure.

Sex, the City and Myth of Carrie Bradshaw: Part Three

2009-06-25T05:46:00.000-07:00

People to whom I have expressed these opinions often tell me to lighten up; it’s just a show/movie. But it’s not. It could never pretend to be. A product that has such resonance with, and influence over, its viewers, and encapsulates the zeitgeist of modern womanhood is not just light entertainment. It ceases to be light entertainment as soon as it informs the decision-making of young people watching it. At that point it begins to carry a moral and ethical obligation to show good decision-making and healthy role models. Not women who buy Vogue instead of food because fashion “feeds” them more. That’s pathetic, silly and utterly nauseating.

You are NOT a Carrie or a Samantha. You are you, and that’s great. You do not have to spend $500 on a pair of silver leather Manolo peep-toes (fabulous though they are) to validate your life choices. You need to put that money into a savings account so you can keep a roof over your head in the years to come. You do not need to have sex with many, many hot, young random dudes to prove you’re virile and sexy and to validate your life choices. Nothing says lifestyle validation like a healthy retirement plan and a clean STD check. Life is not like Sex and the City. If you spend all of your money on shoes and none on capital investment, you will NOT be saved by a handsome millionaire. If your job is writing a weekly paper column, you CAN'T afford Manolos, If you fuck around as much as Samantha, you WILL get an STD of some kind.

I admit this: Carrie’s fun. She embraces the glamorous side of life and runs with it. She has a fantastic job, fabulous friends, the ultimate man, and the wardrobe that goes with those things. She’s a good friend (when it suits her), with many nice qualities; but overall, I suppose my point is that I think the character of Carrie Bradshaw has been put on a ridiculous pedestal with very little to warrant that placement. Let her be a fashionista and a (sometimes) witty sex columnist, but also remember that she’s selfish, vain, incessantly analytical, self-absorbed and a chain smoking cheater, so - for the love of all that is good and holy – please don’t make her your role model.

Sex, the City and the Myth of Carrie Bradshaw: Part Two

2009-05-21T05:56:00.000-07:00

Where was I? Oh yes:

The idea that watching this show, and Carrie in particular, has shaped my outlook on life is not awesome. It’s scary. Why? Because Carrie Bradshaw is an awful, fatuous woman… who also happens to be the heart of the program.

I’d always thought this about Carrie but have laughed it off as the show’s dramatic interpretation of life… until one day, I was watching a cut scene from the movie. In it, Carrie and Big are arguing about their wedding; when Carrie doesn’t get her way, she pouts (literally pouts…) and gives him the silent treatment until he gives in to her ridiculously transparent emotional blackmail. Part of me was outraged at this selfish and childishly manipulative manoeuvre, but another part of me knew that that’s how many women went about winning arguments with their partners. Uncool. I’m not saying that I’m perfect and that my boyfriend and I don’t disagree – but I’m also not 5 years old. When I’m upset with him, I say why, and we work it out. I do not expect, or want, him to fall to pieces at the sight of a quivering lip, or chase after me in a dramatic argument, and I do not see how constantly making him compromise his desires and values is building a healthy relationship. No wonder Big spent 7 years trying to escape. And yet, Carrie is painted as a role model?

This is a woman who is so self-absorbed that when she realises that, thanks to her own imprudent financial planning, she can’t afford to buy her apartment, attacks and emotionally bullies her best friend into selling her old engagement ring, and giving Carrie the money. Those of you who know the situation can dress it up however you like – that’s what happened.

Many defend Carrie as saying that she’s “flawed” and therefore a realistic character, but what they fail to recognise is the reason it’s called a flaw. It’s a flaw because it’s wrong. It’s not a quirk, a peccadillo or a habit. It’s a problem. And these flaws can be fixed… that’s the beauty of being a self-aware human being: we can recognise our flaws and can make moves to correct them. But in the case of Sex and the City, they seem to promote the inherent values of being an egomaniacal, materialistic, insecure and incessantly analytical and critical nutter – and on top of that, rewards those behaviours with a fabulous lifestyle full of material benefits.

In that vein, Carrie actively pursues (and the show condones) a pursuit of material wealth. Now, I’m no Commie; I think being wealthy is great, and that all young people should actively pursue a healthy bank balance. But for crap’s sake, don’t blow it all on shoes. Carrie places value on ‘things’, but they’re not even things of value. The US$40,000 she’s spent on shoes can’t get her a home loan, nor can she sell them later to make some retirement money. Carrie has no capital, and so basically, unless she marries rich (which, of course, she does), the lady’s royally fucked. It’s basic home finance, and this allegedly life-savvy woman can’t even figure it out.

More reasons why I want to slap Carrie Bradshaw in the mouth will come with the third and final installment of Sex, the City and the Myth of Carrie Bradshaw.

Sex, the City and the Myth of Carrie Bradshaw: Part One

2009-05-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

I’m aware that I may have to hand in my membership card to the Female Legion after writing this blog; however since all I received with said membership was a box of tampons, some catty friends and the promise of my vagina being cleft in twain by the birth of an infant one day, I’m going to go ahead and take that chance.

First, let it be said that I adore Sex and the City, and watch it often and with love. However...

It’s fairly well recognised that Carrie Bradshaw is a defining symbol of modern womanhood. Female viewers have long gazed upon their couture-clad heroine and dreamed dreams of Dolce, dating and drama. Through Sex and the City, Carrie has been influencing generations of women in how they live their lives; but this little bird couldn’t help but wonder… should she be?

Sex and the City was the launching pad for an alleged cultural revolution – these four sassy city women talked about sex, relationships and shopping in a way that made ladies the world over sigh with relief and say ‘finally; that’s sooo how it is’. And as the juggernaut took form over the years, the relationship with Sex and the City and its female audience only became more intense. What Carrie wore, we wore; what Samantha ate we ate. We wanted to be writers, PR executives and gallery curators. We wanted to have it all, because these women - these real, funny, smart, successful women – had it all.

When I was a girl watching SATC, I thought, ‘this is awesome; women to look up to and learn from’. As a woman watching the show, I think “this is hilarious and terrifying”. The grown-up me sees that these aren’t real women living in the real world. Yes, the show deals with real issues (infidelity, illness, intimacy), but in such an utterly heightened reality that it makes it absurd to compare the show with real life. Even the show’s stylist, Patricia Field, knows this: she’s often defended the ludicrous fashion choices she makes by re-emphasising the show’s place in a fantasy world. The idea that watching this show, and Carrie in particular, has shaped my outlook on life is not awesome. It’s scary.

Why?

Stick around for the next entry to find out (or, if it's already been posted, just keep reading...).