Remember when we were all so excited about “The Carrie Diaries?”
I have a complicated relationship with “Sex and the City.” I could say I like it because it’s “so bad it’s good,” but that’s not exactly true. I mean, I actually cried when Miranda and Steve got married. I really laughed when Carrie ate shit on a slippery floor inside a Chanel store in Paris. I REALLY laughed every time she said she “couldn’t help but wonder” about something. And It’s not a “guilty pleasure” because if I let myself feel guilty about the things I watch on television I’d have several bleeding ulcers and costly addiction to opioids. I own the entire series on DVD. I almost gag every time Samantha says anything about sex (which is always) — but I like the way it makes me gag.
A huge plot point I shouldn’t neglect to mention: when we meet Young Carrie, her mother has just passed away, and her devoted if harried father is doing his best to get it together for his two young daughters (there’s a little sister, too — the CW’s version of an ’80s goth; they dug up plenty of Cure and Joy Division posters to get their point across).
