A chic, unnamed café in a chic, unnamed part of Manhattan. CHARLOTTE , MIRANDA, and SAMANTHA are sipping chic, unnamed cocktails as they wait once again for CARRIE to arrive from her book tour in Paris.

MIRANDA There she is! There’s our girl!

CARRIE Oh my God, I am so glad to be home again! This was a whole lot different from my last trip to Paris with Aleksandr Petrovsky, let me tell you. But after I found Big in bed with two idiot-stick-figures-with- no-souls—twins!—just a couple weeks after we got back to New York, I knew I had to dump him forever. Luckily my latest book, All Men Suck, which bombed in the States, was a huge hit in France, where it was called Tous les Hommes sont Poo-Poo Têtes. So off I went on a spectacular book tour, though when I tried to check into the Plaza Athénée, where I lived with Alexandr, I got a shock—that suite we had was $1,900 a night! Guess those “large-scale light installations” brought in a lot of dough. Oh well, I was perfectly happy around the corner at the Hotel de Poubelle.

SAMANTHA Did you meet any men over there?

CARRIE Only poo-poo têtes. Um, Miranda, excuse me, but what in God’s name are you wearing?!

MIRANDA Leather chaps. Maria loves me in leather chaps.


MIRANDA You remember Maria, Samantha’s girlfriend from Season Four, Episode 51? She’s with me now.

CARRIE Oh my God, you’re with Sonia Braga? What about Steve?

MIRANDA Oh my God, Carrie—after he talked about Scooby-Doo to the senior partners at my law firm’s annual dinner for three hours, I knew he had to go. I mean, even Brady Hobbs-Brady doesn’t watch cartoons anymore. Don’t worry about Steve—he’s living over that bar he owns with Aidan, and I’m paying him a fortune in alimony.

CARRIE And what’s that in your nose?

MIRANDA A diamond lambda stud. I’m at Lambda Legal Defense Fund now, working for kids who have two mommies, just like Brady Hobbs-Brady.

CARRIE Speaking of kids, what the hell is that racket at the next table?

MIRANDA Charlotte’s brood. She had to bring them with her—nanny’s day off.

CHARLOTTE (voice rising): Mai Pang Goldenblatt, settle down and study your haftorah portion! Hussein Goldenblatt, a yarmulke is not a miniature Frisbee! No, Krishnamurti Goldenblatt, you may not go parasailing Friday night, that’s the Sabbath! Latifah Goldenblatt, stop pulling Hiawatha Goldenblatt’s hair or I won’t help you with your Queen Esther costume!

CARRIE (whispering): How many kids does she have now?

SAMANTHA Nine—or maybe seven. She gave two to Sanford and Marcus when they got married in Provincetown.

CARRIE Samantha, I’m so glad I got back from Europe in time for your big benefit.

SAMANTHA Oh, thank God. The Cancer Is Crap party just wouldn’t be the same without you, Carrie. You know, ever since I liquidated Samantha Jones Public Relations and dedicated myself to women’s health issues with my new business partner—that nun, Julia Sweeney, who I met in the cancer doctor’s waiting room—I have a whole new perspective.

CARRIE And talk about new perspectives—what’s that on your feet? Flats?!?

SAMANTHA Lanvin ballet flats, if you please. Bunions, honey. No more heels. But who cares? I need to be able to run around town raising money for Cancer Is Crap. To tell you the truth, those heels were nothing but a pain in the behind.

CARRIE Is Smith proud of you?

SAMANTHA Smith? Nah. Actually, we broke up. He wanted to have kids— he probably should have been with Charlotte in the first place. I mean, I’m not going to go through that petri dish business. When you’re in your fifth decade—I mean fourth! What am I saying? Fourth! Fourth!—it’s not so easy to have a little brat. Not that I want one . . .

CARRIE So no boyfriend now?

SAMANTHA Remember the rich guy from Season Two, Episode 20? Donald Trump’s friend?

CARRIE The old guy with all the money? The one with the saggy ass and the Viagra?

SAMANTHA His ass isn’t that bad with the lights out, and let’s face it, mine isn’t getting any perkier. And I’ll tell you something about Viagra, honey—it works.

CARRIE So you’re with that guy now?

SAMANTHA Honey, he’s the big bucks behind Cancer Is Crap. And I made Richard— that bastard—chip in a few dollars, too.

CARRIE You’re incredible!

SAMANTHA Well, this party is going to be incredible! We’ve closed all the streets in the meatpacking district, and everyone is coming: Candice Bergen—I mean Anna Wintour, with Wallace Shawn—the food writer; and the Turtle, and Charlotte’s sidekick Anthony, and Magda the maid. And just for fun, all of Miranda’s ex-boyfriends—Skipper, and the guy who liked to be spanked, the one who wanted do it in doorways, the jerk who was obsessed with models, the creep with the kid, the Catholic who made you feel dirty, and the phone-sex addict, and the sports-medicine doctor! And Carrie! Just for old time’s sake, I’m having the guy who talked to his mother about his sex life, and the one who was in the mental institution, the fellow patient you met in the shrink’s office, the youngster whose mom came home while you were smoking pot, the politician who liked to be peed on, and the friend’s husband who exposed himself to you in the Hamptons, and the model you laid next to all night and didn’t do anything with! And Berger, who broke up with you on a Post-It note! And the sailor from New Orleans you met during Fleet Week! And the . . .

CARRIE Stop! I need you to invite someone I don’t know! I’m the only one who’s coming to Cancer Is Crap alone. Miranda will be with Maria and Brady Hobbs-Brady; Charlotte is plus-eight; you’ll have Mr. Millionaire Viagra; and I’ll be alone with my notebook. Oh well, I can just spend the night making notes for my next book: The Crisis of the American Health System, or Why All Men Should Be Denied Necessary Surgery by Their Insurers Until They Ask Me for a Date.