A Reader’s Gripe With Carrie Bradshaw

If you detect a hint of jealousy: yeah, that’s there. I write in pajamas, not elaborate faux-fur arrangements, and I have no room full of Manolos. But perhaps there are also fair reader-beefs to take up with the woman who made heels seem like a good idea again:

1. She has a weird attitude toward books. Carrie has bookshelves aplenty, but they’re laden with Vogue; you rarely see a title that’s not a monthly release. Carrie talks about books like they’re a matter of armor, rather than pleasure; to dine out with a book, in Carrie-land, means that you’re hiding behind pages, not leaping into them. Carrie’s friend Samantha goes so far as to try to rebrand books with Carrie skeptically asks of turning her columns into one, “is this a good idea?” That’s right:
2. She is reticent to take a book deal that falls in her lap. Agh! A small press approaches Carrie (whilst she’s worried about losing her columnist gig) to ask to turn her columns into a book. It’s literally not even her idea. All she has to do is write an intro, and she’s on her way to:
3. Her fabulous book release party, where books are again rebranded (“You can quote me on that. ‘Books are back, -Isaac Mizrahi.'”), where the cocktails flow freely, where tiny cakes and opulent fashion abounds, and after which “an advance from France!” comes. Literally, all she did was add an intro to her columns. That’s some return on minimal (new) work.
4. She spends a shockingly limited amount of time writing. Her responsibility to the New York Star is a column a week. One. Column. She is often late with it. Sometimes she writes about things that aren’t even sexy—like the perfect french fry. Her puns are often stupid. And all of that amounts to: a huge apartment near Barney’s and a room full of designer clothes.