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I feel like ranting a bit. There’s a radio DJ who I often have the misfortune of listening to while driving to work. In the past, I tuned in while she was whining about how she was once in a cab, and she was like, so busy BBMing on her Blackberry, and all of a sudden, she went flying into the window divider between the front and back seats. Because, “Like, WHO wears a seatbelt in a NYC cab???” I do! (When you’ve had your front teeth knocked out of your face in a car accident, while sitting in the back seat, you realize what a difference a seat belt makes.) I couldn’t believe that this DJ was whining about seat belts to a wide audience, which may have included impressionable youngsters tuning in on their drive to school. From that point on, I was completely annoyed by this chick.

The other day, inbetween Maroon 5 and “California Gurls,” she starts giggling about how, “Oh muh G, I don’t cook! Like I totally don’t cook…” And then she gushes that even heating something up in a microwave is a big deal for her. 

I love me some NYC pizza. But unlike Carrie, I can make my own at home!


This jogged my memory of a discussion that a friend and I had several months back: Girls we knew who seemed to think that others should find it endearing that they haven’t a clue what a spatula is. That they think that making a simple salsa is hardcore complicated gourmet. That their ovens are only good for storing Louboutins…as if they came up with that—not the Queen of Anti-Domesticity herself, Carrie Bradshaw. 

This isn’t a city girl vs. suburban girl thing, but I do think many Anti-Domestic Princesses happen to live in the city and use their cramped apartments and chaotic work/social lives as excuses not to surf around on Epicurious instead of However, not every 20-something professional chica in NYC knows more about her smart phone than her stove. My old roomie in SoHo often went for runs after work and then made herself incredible, protein-packed vegan dinners. And my friend Carey, who lives in Manhattan, works for several publications and still manages to somehow prepare three healthy meals a day. She says it saves her money, and bonus: she knows what she’s eating!

Therein lies the power of cooking for yourself. It’s not anti-feminist or hip urbanista behavior. Knowing how to use your oven is not giving in to some 1950s, subservient, Leave It to Beaver social trap to DIY in the kitchen. It’s empowering, because when you make your own meal, your health (and your wallet) is in your hands. Admittedly, when I was a single girl living in Boston, L.A. and NYC, I was a huge fan of takeout, delivery and going out to dinner with my friends or dates. I probably spent more money on eating out than anything else, except, well, maybe sundresses. (I have a penchant for sundresses.) But guess what? I regret it! I don’t regret every delicious meal. No, some maki special deliveries, Poquito Mas carry-out trips or Toast to-go runs were totally worth it. But not caring enough to learn how to make myself a healthy lunch or dinner on a regular basis stripped me of cash and left me at the mercy of the sushi chef or burrito guy. While leading that takeout-frenzied city life, I also fell off the bandwagon with Weight Watchers and gained back about 18 lbs. of my hard-won 40 total lost. Thinking back to the all the Washington Square Park falafel pitas and Bleecker St. ahi tuna burgers, I’m shocked that I didn’t gain more.

It's not necessarily retro to be a Domestic Diva. (Image via


These days, Dan and I cook dinner just about every night. We definitely get bored with the same old recipes. But that’s when I go online and do some research (one of my fave things) or talk to my friend Lisa about what she is making lately (she gave me a killer marinade recipe this past weekend) or buy rainbow kale, because we’d never eaten it before and need to mix it up in the greens dept. Yeah, we spend a significant amount of our paychecks on some organic produce and antibiotic-free, hormone-free meat. But it’s still less than what it would be if we were ordering out every night. And I also think that we’re saving money in the long run, because there’s a high price for the scary health consequences of eating cheaper, processed or pesticide-laden food. Also, because we cook every night, we have the extra cash and calories to go out on a Friday or Saturday night for a really delicious meal with our friends, at a restaurant like our new favorite Greek place in Bloomfield that is out of this world.

The best part: It feels like I’ve accomplished something when I make a souvlaki pita myself or when we’ve made a grilled vegetable casserole together. I’m capable. I’m in control. And hey, I am honing my kitchen skills! No, I’m nowhere close to being a Top Chef. But I’m taking care of myself, which I’d venture to say is one concept that will never go out of style.

Do you cook?

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Circa 2001, I began a personal love affair with the life and times of Carrie Bradshaw & Co. (Thanks for the ripped DVDs, Hemant!) Even though I dreamed of working as a writer at a magazine one day, my idealistic 17 year-old self knew that an Upper East Side walk-in closet filled with Manolos and DVF wrap dresses on a freelancer’s budget was fairy tale and legend. Fantasy aside, the show was woven with glistening truthful threads on relationships, men, dating, love, female sexuality, self-image, self-esteem, oh yeah, and sex. I would credit the show for encouraging me to own and assert my needs and desires: a gratifying sex life, a meaningful, successful career and true love. Oh yeah, and to someday also be a mom. Thanks to SATC, women nation-wide discovered or were reminded that these needs didn’t have to be mutually exclusive.  

Word on the street is that the Sex & the City franchise has lost its “sparkle.” That with the big screen sequel that hit theaters last week, it’s no longer empowering—

it’s just saggy, sad and filled with wrinkly, menopausal women “pumped full of Botox and hormones.” One friend told me that it was a monumental fail. Another said that she wished for those two hours of her life back.

It appears that many of these haters fall into several categories. (Warning: A few spoilers ahead.)

-They are menopause-misogynists, set out to bash the film if only because it is carried (no, no pun intended here) by successful, sexy women who happen to be well over 35. These critics are having a field day picking apart how the cast looks so friggin’ old and by default, of course, unattractive. When they make Oceans 113, no one’s going to say anything about George Clooney looking like the Cryptkeeper, but SATC2 is fair game. As Jezebel puts it, “It’s rare to see a writer attack a male lead with this kind of vitriol. Does the “leatheriness” of her skin really make the movie that much more unbearable?” Oh yeah, bear in mind that the Men-Hate-SJP factor also plays a role in this catty free-for-all.

They jumped on the hater bandwagon and drew the conclusion that the film sucked well before the credits rolled. Case in point: Newsweek‘s review decided to go with the popular argument that the flick turned the original series’ the feminist vibe totally backasswards: “The characters go from trailblazers to conformists, suddenly telling us that work and child-rearing actually don’

t mix…” False. Yes, in the beginning, we see Miranda quit her job…and leave behind a boss who is chauvinistic and abusive. I was completely empowered by that plot point, because being a feminist means being able to say, “I deserve better!” in the work place. That’s exactly what happens here. At the end of the film, our favorite attorney is working for an employer who appreciates her, and she’s incredibly happy.

This, to me, is the biggest fail. A PhotoShop disaster, courtesy of New Line Cinema. Guess what? We like how they REALLY look.


-They weren’t fans in the first place. I’ve always been ahead of myself in the maturity department, but I’m starting to feel like I can relate more to 52 year-old Samantha, shown slathering estrogenic yams on her inner arm, than to some of the tween, teen and even college-aged viewers who are flocking to the theaters to see the big screen versions of Sex. Yep, some of them (like my 21 year-old sister) watched the series on DVD or TBS. And they get it. (Well, the TBS viewers get like 85% of it.) But, there are a ton of them who have only seen the films… Of course, lots o’ critics for big media outlets are straight, likely old, white men, who never cared for the show in the first place either. In other words, if you haven’t been aboard the Sex ship for 12 years, you aren’t emotionally invested in the plights of Carrie/Charlotte/Miranda/Samantha and simply do not get it. Much like Twilight, this is a flick made for fans.

A flashback that only a fan could love. (Photo via


They’re mistaking SATC2 for a documentary about women in NYC. Like this great review on Women & Hollywood says: “This movie is not a hard look at reality. It’s a summer escape movie just like all the movies that blow shit up.  You don’t think that guys who go see Iron Man have any expectation of becoming like Iron Man (except in their fantasies), just like I don’t expect to ever be able to fit in or wear a Versace skirt. Women know this is not real, in fact 76% of the people (mostly women) who took a survey on look at the film as a “great escape.”

It’s true. The beauty of the series and its audience was that we loved the friendship among the four leading ladies, and we loved the web of whimsy and reality that the show wove. Yes, there’s escapism and fantasy galore: a first-class “magic carpet ride” to Abu Dhabi (as played by Morocco), a romantic run-in with an ex halfway around the globe, as always over-the-top fashion, a gay wedding featuring Liza Minelli… (All brought to you via creator Michael Patrick King, who said he wanted to take his audience on a vacation you maybe can’t afford right now.) OK, OK, and there are also somewhat cringe-inducing antics, puns and questionable stereotypes. But there were threads of truth, too. Carrie recalls, “I was this girl running around New York City like a crazy person, looking for love…” and I actually teared up. That was me too! When Miranda and Charlotte talk about how hard it is to be a mom, I’ll bet plenty of my pals-who-are-also-mamas can relate! (At least that’s the impression I get from their sleepy Facebook statuses.) When, in the middle of a crowded marketplace in the Middle East, Samantha scrambles to pick up a spilled purse full of condoms, and screams, “YES, I have sex!” the audience I was sitting in leapt up, roared and applauded. Seems to me that a flick that brings women together to celebrate their sexuality and friendships will never really fail. In fact, sign me up for round 3.

Further reading that falls in the non-haters camp here.

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