But at least there's one good thing about the end being nigh.
I get to say nigh!!
Nigh! Nigh! Nigh!
You see, you can't just say nigh over anything. Nigh's one of those words reserved for major endings.
"Oh no, the end of lent is nigh!
"Thank god the end of this week is nigh!
See? You really can't just nigh whenever you want. Nigh must be saved for those special ends. Those really special ends.
And so, it is with a big fat fucking nigh that I now must deal with the end of Sex and the City. And it's biting just as bad as I imagined it might.
I knew it was coming. I've known for a long time. I actually read the HBO website. I actually mark on my calendar when The Sopranos starts. And when filming begins on Six Feet Under. And when there might be a Curb Your Enthusiasm marathon.
Yes, I am HBO-literate.
But it doesn't matter. No amount of cable-readiness can make up for the fact that I'm quickly approaching Sex-lessness. And it's hurting.
I thought maybe I could provide my own Sex.
I began wearing hats. And I bought new tights with crazy designs. I started mixing more than one hue of brownish gold shadow on my lids. And I switched my little purse from dangling on my side to hanging in front.
In New York, you gotta wear your little purse in front.
In New York, there are a million guys trying to steal your little purse.
So I switched my little purse to the front. 'Cause everyone knows that DC is just really a slightly more conservative New York. DC's really New York. Just not as cold.
And all those DC guys in blue shirts and ugly gray slacks? They just look completely uninterested in life and girls. They just seem to be disengaged because they're trying to look preoccupied with important politic and legal issues.
But really? Really they're scheming to steal your little purse.
Yeah, in DC you're lulled into thinking you're safely ensconsed in a town full of wonks. But no! Those wonks are faux! Beware the wonks!! Those "wonks" are really street tough jive humps just planning a clean sneak with your goods.
And a gal's gotta protect her goods.
So my little purse is down in front.
But I'll be honest. No matter how New York I look or feel, it doesn't change the fact that my Sex is ending. And I've been down with that.
No, really. I've been down. With that.
Until Bitch, that is.
It was Wednesday night. Just after a Board meeting. And it wasn't too late. And it wasn't too cold. And on the way to the Metro, I passed a Borders.
Well, I almost passed a Borders.
Instead of passing, I entered.
'Cause it wasn't too late and it wasn't too cold and I knew I had a gift card in my little purse down in front. A brand new gift card just dying to be swiped.
And so I entered.
And the girl at the front door warned me.
"We're closing in five minutes."
I asked if I could still come in. She said "if you know what you want." And I said "Yes!" since I knew exactly what I wanted! I wanted to swipe my new gift card!
With only five minutes, I headed straight for the closest and best place in Borders: the ladies room.
'Cause fast-track perusing's just not effective if ya gotta pee.
So I peed pretty fast, washed my hands even though there was really no time, checked for toilet paper on my shoes and headed toward the magazine section for my three remaining minutes.
I checked all the good stuff, but nothing caught my eye.
And the clock was ticking on my swipe action.
With one minute left, I asked myself: "How will I feel in the morning if I give in now and just buy The Economist?"
But I couldn't do it. So I began the turn of resignation that would point me toward the exit.
And just as I turned, I saw it.
BITCH.
I had never seen it before. It was light blue with touches of pink and red. And not too glossy.
It was the BITCH I was fated to find.
It was bashert.
BITCH bashert.
Since Wednesday, I've been floating on clouds. Riding the Metro, I don't even notice the idiots on cell phones and the random "I'm going to mommy's work today" whining for this or for that. Tonight I didn't even hear the drunk guy who kept wondering aloud to his even drunker friend if the girl in the combat boots would want to come to their house party.
Well, I guess I heard him. But I didn't care. And I didn't even mind that he mistook my chunky heel ankle boots for combat boots. And I didn't point out to him that his "house party" probably wasn't as raging as he was loudly claiming given the fact that he was on the Metro and not at his house to let his alleged houseparty-goers in.
Because I was so into my BITCH.
My BITCH pointed out the gender trap of the Real World, backing up its findings with the example of Steve and Trishelle who rarely used protection. Episode after episode, Trishelle lamented her stupidity for letting it happen again without a condom. My BITCH reminded me that Steve coulda laid his hands on his condoms before he got laid. My BITCH defended Trailer Trishelle.
And my BITCH totally railed on that awful rail of an anorexic Lara Flynn Boyle. BITCH questioned - or shall I say lambasted - little eensy teensy tiny ballerina Lara for her boldface lie that it's her "Irish metabolism" that keeps her so involuntarily skeletal.
My BITCH ragged on the new genre of lesbian kissing. My BITCH reminisced about the first televised lesbo-smooch on LA Law in 1992. That was a media-free TIVO-less kiss. It was authentic. Scripted, perhaps, but authentic, nonetheless.
And BEST OF ALL, my BITCH just went on and on and on about fake pigging out.
I LOVE MY BITCH!!!
My BITCH called the media on its relentless monitoring of Renee Zellweiger's "fattening" - her campaign to beef up to a whopping 126 so she could play a really obese Bridget Jones. And BITCH investigated Cameron Diaz's apparent fry-free devotion to french fries. Or her devotion to just saying she lives for french fries.
My BITCH turned me on to www.celebrities-eating.com - a site you'll also want to make a favorite. Natalie Portman was high on my list until I saw her definition of a full plate. I guess she thinks it's a full plate since you can see the whole entire plate even after you put your food on it.
I miss my Sex even though it's technically not gone, yet. But I love my BITCH.
And so do guys.
Carry a BITCH with you and guys talk.
More important, guys talk about you.
"What are you reading?" is a question I've now heard more than a few times over the past few days. I'm thinking about carrying my BITCH with me at all times. Especially those times when I'm feeling a little low. Or lonely. Or horny or hungry or hot.
Flash a little BITCH and get a free dinner. Plus a ride home.
My Sex has kept me really happy for several years now. But no amount of Sex brought hoards of men into my life.
One little light blue and pink BITCH, though?
Men. Men. Men.
Who knows....maybe less Sex and more BITCH will get this BITCH some sex.
I'll keep you posted.
But first I have to go to Barnes & Noble.
Turns out the BITCH swipe failed. Borders may be convenient and the girl in front may be happy to satisfy your urinary needs, but I'll fill you in on a little secret.
When you reach down into your little purse in front and you pull out that brand new swipe-ready gift card, even Borders won't accept it if it says Barnes & Noble.