Dating is freaky business. In this episode, the girls deal with all varieties of cray: an S&M closet, compulsive oral sex (so timely this week — thanks Michael Douglas), a kleptomaniac, extreme body issues enabled by plastic surgery, and a guy who hasn’t left Manhattan in ten years. Oy. Isn’t anyone normal? All of this crazy certainly drove Carrie batty. 

 

Although Samantha doesn’t believe in first dates, she does believe in first date action. She was just getting steamy with Harrison, a sexy and successful sexual harassment lawyer, when tragedy struck: he called her old. What?!

 

Look at this woman! She might be knocking on forty-something’s door, but she is straight-up killing it in this hot keyhole dress. And sure, the hair and gold earrings are totally dated, but I assure you they were on-trend for the late 90s. 

 

Things continued to go sideways when Harrison got a bit too Fifty Shades of Freaky. I’m not sure how he got himself into this cedar-lined den of iniquity, but hopefully he can get himself out. 

On a side note, who has enough closet space in NYC to devote an entire area to an S&M dungeon?

 

The next evening, the girls rehashed Samantha’s evening while oozing Manhattan stereotypes: wearing all-black ensembles while sipping champagne at a book release party.

 

The bubbles must have gone to Charlotte’s head because she began cruising for men, and thus, met Mr. Pussy (real name: Mitchell Sailor). But do you see that face? Charlotte was none too pleased to learn Mitchell Sailor’s cunnilingus-themed moniker. She and her NYC-basic black dress are horrified! Horrified, I say!

Careful Char, if you keep furrowing your brow, you mind end up needing botox.

 

After a quick powwow in the ladies room, the girls returned to the party in time to see the conservatively-dressed Mr. Pussy showing off his moves on the raw oyster bar. Pass the mignonette sauce, this is going to be a long night!

 

But Samantha and Charlotte can’t keep all the freaks for themselves. Carrie needs some wack-a-dos, too. 

Her first blind date was with a documentary film maker who was only in it for the money (you picked the wrong career, buddy) and apparently, Carrie thought that meant she should wear something artsy, like this poncho. News flash: she is only wearing a bra underneath that thing. Talk about easy access.

 

Her second blind date was with a seemingly normal gentlemen who engaged in cute banter re: movie snacks…until shizz got real and he began screaming at the dude behind them in line. 

On the plus side, Carrie looked just lovely in her pink shawl, colorful bustier, and messy updo. Brava!

 

Third time’s a charm? Mr. Bonds Broker seemed promising until she saw him stuffing old books down his pants. Kleptomaniac aside, Carrie was radiant in her tried-and-true vintage fur and pop-o-color bag.

 

But seriously ladies, can you stop with the eyebrow crinkling? I swear it isn’t doing you any favors. 

 

You know who is getting favors? 

Charlotte. 

Mr. Pussy was very busy over in Charlotte’s sheets. Shhhh. I won’t disturb.

 

…except to say that I applaud Charlotte’s choice of negligees. So classic and sophisticated, just like her apartment, if not her date.

Wait, do you still call it a “date” if you never see his face?

 

Meanwhile, Samantha wasn’t taking her aging face sitting down. Just as she was feeling low, she bumped into an old friend, positively glowing from the fat injections in her face (fat harvested from her tush, no less). Call the plastic surgeon!

Although…Sam? Not sure if you want to take beautify advice from a women wearing a pink floral blazer. Florals aren’t Samantha’s jam, although I am digging her bold red wrap.

 

Samantha presses on, and does indeed fill her face with butt-fat. Fresh from the plastic surgeon, she shows off her new face and girdle. Amazing! She’s essentially in medical-grade Spanx. Where can I buy those? 

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Carrie’s Rainbow Brite knee socks. If Carrie were five, I would approve, but Little Carrie Bradshaw is in her thirties, and I just can’t support this legwear choice. 

 

After her dating disaster trifecta, Carrie retreated to the park to clear her head, and has a meet-cute with Adorably Preppy Ben. A few shy smiles, some light chit-chat, and eventually they get out pads of paper to exchange numbers. Awww! Remember what life was like before smartphones? 

Guys, I’m not sure that I’m on board with Carrie’s ensemble. Ok, twist my arm — I hate her outfit. The baggy sweater and the sofa-pattern skirt are no bueno. At least she has a cute purse?

 

Anyway, let’s take a closer look at Ben. Yes, confirming Adorably Preppy status with his dress shirt, blazer, and khakis. Even his glasses are charming. Amazingly, he seems nonplussed that his love interest is dressed in upholstery fabric. Whatta guy!

 

Several romantic non-dates later, these two writers take it to the next level. Carrie’s convinced that Ben has an inner freak just waiting to burst out, but nope. Just a Tweety Bird tat with a backstory.

Forget the tattoo — I’m more bothered by his leather necklace. Gross.

 

They then take a further step: fixing up their mutual friends. Things get serious between Miranda and Ben’s buddy when the conversation turns from favorite ice cream flavors to weekend plans. But oh no! Miranda’s on a non-date with “Manhattan Guy,” a mutant strain of New Yorker who never leaves the city! Suddenly, Miranda has to feed her cat…

Let’s put a pin in the date for a second and discuss something that’s bothering me: who talks about favorite ice cream flavors on a first date? And couldn’t Manhattan Guy recognize a fellow Manhattanite when he saw one? For Zabar’s sake, she’s wearing head-to-toe black! Was it the innocent purple turtleneck that gave away her tendency to occasionally cross the Hudson?

 

Before she could scurry off to feed Fatty, Miranda quickly warned Carrie that if Ben’s friends are freaks, he might be one too. Instead of discussing men, I kind of wish Miranda gave a bit of pro bono advice on Carrie’s horrible crocheted shawl. Verdict: NOT CUTE. 

 

Over at Ben’s apartment, the two love birds temporarily parted ways so that Ben could go to his soccer game, leaving Carrie alone in his apartment. In a fit of panic, she tore the place apart looking for a tiny bit of freakdom. 

So, in addition to crocheted shawls, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that “panic” is another look that’s not so good on Carrie.

 

Because it leads to this: being discovered trying to jimmy open a wooden box found in the back of Ben’s closet. Not your finest hour, CB.

Sweet Ben and his totally 90s jeans kick Carrie to the curb, but not before showing her the box containing his Cub Scout patches. Ben and Carrie are over as quickly as they started. Somewhere, a Tweety tattoo is quietly weeping.

 

So off Carrie goes into the Manhattan sunset sunrise. The break-up seems to have given her clarity…or at least, enough sense to nix the heinous crocheted scarf.