The Lady Television Problem

Welcome to the Jungle: Brooke should've stayed in the Blue Lagoon.With the writers' strike in what feels like permanent effect, we are all no doubt feeling the pains of having to fill our precious, precious time in other ways. Sure, a few programs somehow had the savvy to save us a few episodes when there was nothing else left (bless your hearts, Team Ugly Betty), the tube has been pretty much free of proper entertainment. So where do we go from here? Books? Check. Out with friends? Check. American Gladiator? Sadly, yes, check. And while Colbert and Stewart have graciously returned (someone please explain to me how these shows are just as funny without writers), the bulk of my evenings remain a little... lonely.

But, aha, with the arrival of 2008, I began hearing about new programming coming to my living room. A light at the end of the HGTV-focused tunnel! Things were going to change! And then I realized what they were: lady television. Now, clearly there is no denying the fact that I'm indeed a lady. Proper job, mortgage, and girlie parts all in one. But I see one commercial for Cashmere Mafia and another for Lipstick Jungle and I'm thrown into a fit of rage not seen since Sex and the City.

The Original Rage: Meant purely for mocking.I know, I know. Everyone in the damn world loved the living daylights out of SATC. And I tried, believe me. My young self even bought two box sets in a desperate attempt to figure out what the hell I was missing. But every episode evoked the same irritated feelings in me: why were these characters being portrayed as the ultimate modern, independent urbanites? Carrie was little more than the boy-crazy nutjob you were friends with in junior high who always made you call the guy from home ec (because, you know, he was probably as accessible as Danny from the New Kids) to see if he liked-her or liked-her-liked-her. Charlotte was reminiscent of your lab partner who only liked boys who brought her flowers and didn't quite get when things were funny, despite politely laughing. Samantha was the slutty girl from across the hall in first year residence who didn't like her roommate as much as she did the boys from your brother house. And Miranda? Ugh. The worst perpetrator of all: the girl from feminist theory class who constantly sulked about how pathetic her boyfriend was, despite continuing to date him. And, you know what? Each of them did even represent a little bit of my coming-of-age self as well.

So what's the problem? These weren't twenty-two year old girls. These were thirty-something women. These woman-child-types didn't live in the grown-up reality with which I'd become familiar. And as much as they pretended to be embracing their own lives, they ultimately focused the whole shebang on the men they endlessly blathered about over Sunday brunch. Why the denial?