STD and the City

Good promotion is key for any film. And “Sex and the City” did a strong job of it. Commercials at every break. Media appearances on every relevant show. Not to mention the onslaught of ads on the internet. Every day, Facebook would ask me: “Are you a Carrie? A Charlotte? Miranda? Samantha? Take the quiz and find out!” I never bothered to take it because I already know: I’m a Sandra. But whether you ended up as a Carrie, a Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha, which one do you think happened to have Herpes?

According to a city Health Department study, released on 9 June, about 26 percent of New York City adults have genital herpes, compared to about 19 percent nationwide. That’s more than one in four. So, statistically, either Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha is a carrier.

But, let us not forget the men of the City. Statistically, either Big, Harry, Steve or Smith would have it, too. And, playing the odds, it would be unlikely for a couple to share the simplex, thus, chances are two out of the four girls would have been exposed.

I couldn’t help but wonder why Smart Water was so prominently displayed in the film and not Trojan? Why Vitamin Water and Mercedes were linked to the movie in commercials instead of condom companies and related prescriptions? Even PSAs didn’t make a move on the movie, because, even with the study just out, it’s not like this is news in New York.

So, for a show that seems to have talked about everything women in the city face (don’t forget, Carrie was even mugged once), why wasn’t Herpes ever mentioned? They had story lines on Chlamydia, breast cancer, infertility, funky spunk and flaccid junk. So, how come none of women or their men ever had a sore? I suppose it wouldn’t exactly be sexy to see one of the ladies dashing into Duane Reade to pick up her Valtrex refill, or to mention over brunch that she and/or her lover were in the midst of an outbreak. Or having that conversation before engaging in sex with a new partner about transmission and precautions. Maybe it wouldn’t be sexy. But it would be real. And responsible. Have we all forgotten that Carrie was supposed to be a sex columnist? I think after season two the writers did.

While “Sex and the City” implies that a purse nabbed from Bag Borrow or Steal will help make an impression, that a pair of Manolo’s will aide in establishing status, or fabulous friends will help make everything all right, it’s never bothered to say that one of the greatest statements an empowered woman can make is, “Hey, put this on.” And I’m not talking a designer label.

Without a doubt, “Sex and the City - The Musical!”, is bound to hit Broadway. Do you think STDs will be written in? Would they include such ditties as: “Mister, Is That a Blister?” or “Ain’t No Lovin’ Without Some Glovin’”? What about, “Got That Itch, Ain’t It a Bitch”? Not that sexually transmitted diseases are funny. I get pissed when a guy gives me a cold. But pretending cooties are not part of sex in any city, town, suburb or hamlet, is a stretch beyond fiction.

Going Deep

When you haven’t had a facial in five years — and by “facial” I mean one performed by a licensed professional; not a DIY version, such as a Queen Helene’s Mud Pack Masque, at-home microdermabrasion, or self-inflicted “extractions” — you kind of have to make up for lost time. Or, at least that’s what I told myself. I’m going deep. I got my first “peel”.

Okay, stop. Please remove the visions of burn victims from your head. Really. I had a hard enough time imagining what I might have done to myself. There was an episode of “Sex and the City” that kept playing in my head...and I was without a handy black hat and veil to hide behind.

When I saw this specific facial done on TV (yes, that’s one of the problems of living in L.A.; you see it and have to have it...and it’s usually located around Robertson), it boasted a recovery time of about four days. I made specific plans to allow heal-time to happen over a weekend when I booked the appointment. However, as we were finishing up from the procedure, the esthetician sweetly said to me, “You are going to have a good peel.” Then I believe the word “sheets” was used in reference to the skin I would be shedding.

Whattha?

I was told I had about two days before the anticipated reptilian molting would take place. Just enough time to run out and get supplies (Cetaphil and Aquaphor) and my hair done. The hair appointment was put on the books weeks before and, even if I was scary, I was going to get my roots done dammit. It’s all about looking good, even if you are looking bad. And I do enjoy the irony of the ugly one must go through to get to the beauty. It borders on ridiculous, doesn’t it? All this for a little sun-spottage and melasma from the Pill. The Pill. Oh, how I rue the day I went back on it.

The upside was that I had this done over the Spirit/Oscar weekend, my high holy holiday. I was more than happy to stay in, glued to the telly, cheer on the winners while I (theoretically) worked on a screenplay and survived on delivered pizza. The pizza guy has already seen me (repeatedly) in sorry writing shape. I’m sure he wouldn’t blink if I looked like I had just returned from Nuclear Winter.

It was going to be easy taking four days off. Oh, the writing and housecleaning I could get done! Yeah, right. But, with the news that it would take a tad longer (7-10 days), I was disappointed that I couldn’t (wouldn’t) go to the gym to shed some of that writing weight. Not if I was going to be leaving epithelials all over the place. I do have some pride. Besides, during a peel-heal, you are very shiny. There’s no way to be in any way incognito when you are basically a walking, talking beacon. I thought I’d spare myself that indignity.

Yet, in spite of “Sex and the City” flashbacks, I didn’t resemble Samantha at all. It took about a week to completely molt (which I sped up on about day five by doing a DermaNew), and no children or old people were frightened in the process. There are still some spots I’d like lightened but, overall, it was worth it. And I won’t be waiting another five years to get another facial. As I was being examined by the facialist she complimented me on my small pores, and advised me to “keep it that way.” That’s just word-crack. You want to be sure to hear that again. And, there’s nothing like a threat veiled in a compliment to stir one’s vanity. Now I am looking forward to another splurge. Ole Henriksen, I’ll soon be calling.

The Bitch is Back

Every once in a while, a girl needs to take a break. A little time off. Like, say, three months or so. A respite of sorts. And, sometimes, she doesn’t even know she needs it. It just sort of happens.

The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.

I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.

I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.

I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.

But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?

Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.

Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.

Yeah, I’m back.