"You're like Carrie," my daughter Lex would say.
"That's nice, honey. Who's Carrie?"
Lex will grow up to be a comedy writer. She wants to be a doctor she says, a plastic surgeon, even, sucking up to me. But I am afraid I can sense that she is born to suffer a different life. It's not based on intuition or some other ether excuse, no. When she was five and six, when she was fearless and full of herself, she would say things that would stop adults on the spot. They would turn and look at her and start to belly laugh. Ten years later she was hooked on
Family Guy. I didn't even know what it was, and I would walk in and say, "Hey, that little guy is a creep. Why is his head like that. And are people hearing what he is saying or is he using baby speak and it is translated for us for the humor value? This is annoying. That baby is annoying. Why are you watching this?"
"Shhhhh," she would respond.
Two years later, I get it. I don't want to get it, but I do. It's out there and sideways thinking and free association comedy, I don't hate Stewie. As much.
So she knows comedy. She has a gift. And when she is done with this teenage stuff, when she can write about me without the fear of instant and proximate reprisal, she will be set for life.
None of this was my point.
My point was that she watched two series when she switched to a new school and hated everything and mostly me:
Family Guy and
Sex and the City. And I let her. We have a rule in the house. Sex? Okay. Violence? No. Violent Sex? No. Animated crudeness and nudeness? Whatever. I can't keep up. In fact, the only thing she would ask for for a holiday gift would be a season box set of one or the other. No music. No clothes. It was all very sad.
But I wasn't following any of these programs, so when she would make remarks like the Carrie one above, it meant nothing to me. Now that I know who Carrie Bradshaw is, I think back and ask, "Why?" No, "How?" I ask, "How can I remind you of Carrie." She has great clothes, a fabulous career, and racehorse pony legs. She'll drop hundreds on a pair of shoes. I have three pair with worn out heels, and if I even think of spending more than $79.99 on a new pair, I start to hyperventilate.
Maybe she thinks I'm Carrie because I sit in front of the computer too much. Or complain.
But anyway, one cold winter weekend, as she rested completely withdrawn and wrapped to the max in my king size duvet, she said, "Come and watch with me. You'll like it." And because I sensed that finally a bigger thaw was appearing on the horizon, I did. That's how I know about
Sex and the City series and that I'm nothing like Carrie (but Lex doesn't need to get filled in on that detail).
"C'mon mom," Lex texted, two years later. "We're seeing the movie tonight." Lex already had seen the movie, but was excited at the prospect of seeing it with me. "You're gonna love it. I cried. Oh, and if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. No bad mouthing. No criticism. You
will love it."
I've reviewed the movie
here. I want to show it to Lex, but maybe it's best to think fondly of our time in the movie theater together, while I ate popcorn and bit my tongue, and she texted her friend.
