Yeah, Carrie, we watched. Girlfriend, you stole my gig. I’m the doll that writes scathing, snarky comedy about widowhood. I’m the girl that carries grief in her pen and starting over in her notebook.
Don’t think we didn’t notice you and pals drinking dirty martinis, two olives instead of your signature Cosmos. For shame. You not only stole my gig but my drink? Need more proof? Wearing pearls with your pajamas? Girlfriend, you’re on thin ice. Isn’t it enough you got the satin blue Manolos, the to-die-for closet, and the bestsellers–now you venture into my territory ‘cuz you’ve run out of material?
Big’s heart attack as you watch him leave this world–have you been reading the Diaries since the start? You, my friend, are no longer a Duchess Doll.
I can predict what’s next.
There will be dates with silly, silly men who will never measure up to Big. Scenes of you trying to do the man things Big used to do. Squealing over killing spiders on your own. Nights drinking yourself to sleep. Meeting the remote for the first time since you married. Finding solace with girlfriends and diving into work to stifle the searing pain.
The first anniversary, Christmas, and New Year countdown alone. The inability to get out of bed on the anniversary of his death every year. That one never stops–just a heads up. Leaving dinner parties when you’re the only one unpaired, not because it’s dull but because seeing someone brush their partner’s hand, lean in and whisper, or tell a private joke rips your heart to shreds.
Been there, lived it, Carrie.
The group text is called, “Gals.” It’s myself and the biological female chickens. It’s where we send thoughts, pictures of cats, and private info meant for just us. After the premiere, I say:
“Have you seen it yet? GDFSOB–we should have sold that story years ago.”
“What?” from Baby Chicken.
“New SATC. Now no matter what happens, it will never seem like mine.”
Baby Chicken: “Most people are really shitting on the new season and saying that it’s awful so it might not have as big an effect as you’re thinking.”
Bless you, Little One. Me versus Carrie Bradshaw? Nice try. Instead, I say, “Next blog: Carrie Bradshaw Stole My Gig.”
Percolating feelings into thoughts on a page requires a stewing period. Like a good coq-au-vin, it has to simmer.
Meantime, Baby Pea, beloved daughter-in-law, (not on Gals) texts: “Have you watched? I wanted to warn you. That was hard to watch. You should write a blog about her stealing your story.”
Your wish, Baby Pea, is my command. Carrie–you’re on notice. I see you.