Skirting the Issue

The root email started from Jen Minniti trying to lasso the girls for cheap dinner and “Priceless” at the Lumiere. Audrey Toutou, formerly from the whimsical wonderful “Amelie,” was back to shine on the big screen. In return, it flickered a response from Jeeun expressing her anxious anticipation for opening night of “Sex and the City.” That was the start of it all. Finding the perfect date and time ricocheted back and forth. This was one of those movies that would be a hoot to see on opening night, synergized in skirt power and the San Francisco gay population. That evening was met with no conclusion of date or time. Meanwhile, Jen’s proposal for “Priceless” was priceless as it was brushed under the rug, never to be seen again.

On the eve of possibly the biggest skirt flick ever, all skirts world wide unite in a flurry mimmicking the fluff: sipping cosmopolitans in their designers and J. Choos. Barf. We’ve settled for next Saturday cocktails, dinner, and sex. Ironically, Angela and Jen Minniti aren’t fans of the show. Angela’s genuine response, “I tried to get into, but I couldn’t.” My husband's no stranger to that phrase. As a fashion academic, fellow New Yorker, and former fashion designer, Jen Minniti finds the show lull with no heart beat.

In good sport, I demand these skirts get their panties in a bunch like the rest of us - for the sake of skirts night out. Perhaps I lightly coerce them like that gentle scene from Clock Work Orange and pin back their eye lids with razor sharp claws. Although I can see Jen tackling her way to the nearest exit in her best Philly fashion, “Get me the fuck outta here,” because the wardrobe was vulgar and lacked luster. On the other hand, Angela might discover that she is a little like Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte all rolled up into one. Me, as a wife and mother, I will take any opportunity to enjoy the company of my fellow skirts. Personally, I’ve been waiting to see Smith Jerrod on big screen. That's it. That's all.

“Sex and the City” has created a glossy movement for women, Manhattan, cosmopolitans, the rabbit, and J. Choos. A bunch of wealthy cougars in Manhattan in search for the perfect hero. I get it, it's only a show and it doesn't exist. Besides, having to face our day-to-day isn't as splashy, we need the fluff to avoid smothering our husbands to their death. On the opening weekend of “Sex and the City,” Jen is in Paris speading perfectly tempered foie gras torchon on an exquisite slice of baguette dusted lightly with fleur de sel (bitch!), Sofia is in Chicago, Angela is finding an excuse like a baby shower, Jeeun's moving, Aussy's Aussy. That's my nitty gritty fact. “Sex and the City” is a conduit for all skirts to sit in a dark room and be whisked far away for 2 hours and 15 minutes in enjoyment and hassle free from our husbands. Priceless.

This is Shellie dying to have sex in any city back to you Bob at the studio.