The above cartoon ("Insects in the City: The final chapter") reads as follows:
Carrie purchases 80 pairs of heels and is squished while hailing a taxi.
While visiting Central Park, man-eating Samantha has the tables turned.
Charlotte meets her destiny near a Soho brownstone and suffocates.
Miranda checks into a motel in Tribeca and never checks out.
While working for a local newspaper several years ago, I became good friends with Carla, a brilliant freelance writer and fashionista who also happens to own every season of HBO's Sex and the City.
Shocked to hear that I'd never watched even a single episode of the hit series, she offered to loan me her DVDs so that I, too, could be among the world's most fashion-forward women.
While my wardrobe can still be considered mundane at best, Carla can at least declare that she successfully turned me and my husband into bonefide Sex and the City fanatics. (Yes, I forced him to watch with me at first, but now he'll voluntarily tune into its old reruns airing on the Cosmo channel.)
Like all good Sex and the City fans, I immediately began analyzing my own circle of female friends, trying to decipher who fit the mould of each of the show's main characters. And while I don't really know anyone who is exactly like each of the ladies on that show, one thing is for certain: Carla is my Carrie.
Those of us lucky enough to know her realize that she's warm, thoughtful, intelligent, and funny..... not to mention that she certainly has a fashion sense that would put Carrie Bradshaw herself to shame.
As mentioned in a previous entry, Carla recently relocated back to Ontario, which has left a noticeable void in my life.
With whom will I volunteer at the next summer marathon? Or stand in line with to catch the latest "it" movie? Moreover, I'll probably never again get to pull over to respond to one of Carla's text messages, wondering where I am and why I'm late.
Unless, of course, she and Darcy decide to move back some time in the near future. That would be -- wait for it -- fabulous!