Thanks for taking Cosmo’s ‘Which Sex and the City girl are you?’ quiz. By taking part in this highly scientific join-the-dots exercise, you can finally put to rest any and all assumptions you may have had about you not being one of four crudely drawn cultural stereotypes from a long-defunct TV show about three prostitutes and their mother.
I’m a Carrie!
You make a habit out of dressing well, and by ‘well’ we mean you’re a pair of zany shoes away from being a carnival attraction at the next Ringling Brothers event. While espousing unwashed faux-intellectual rhetoric and unanswered questions disguised as a ‘sex advice’ column, you proudly spout notions of the ‘modern woman’ and nouveau feminism through the guise of being defiantly independent and determined, all the while having a kind of morbid and unhealthy obsession with the acquisition of material wealth, in the form of clothes and shoes. You pride yourself on being seen in the finest, hippest, coolest restaurants, but apparently you never eat as you seem to be the size of a hotel room soap after a solid weekend’s worth of showering. Although you pride yourself on the loyalty you have to your friends, you only seem to have three of them, who are willing to endure your obvious character flaws because they themselves have faults that are just as bad, if not worse. You are a recreational smoker, give lip service to your religious and cultural heritage and treat outwardly decent men with utter contempt, because the man you want the most has lots, and lots of money. You’re willing to endure shabby treatment at his hand because of said fortune, which makes you an enabler; a mafia wife. Where once, for about one year in the late 1990s your exploits were witty and incisive explorations of the dating world (and the titular sex), you’re now all wound up and seemingly obsessed with marriage. This is nice and shows some degree of character development and everything, but it’s not really feminist, and kind of belies your whole MO. All the while you live the life and maintain the churlish obsessions of a middle aged gay man, who dictates the wherewithal of your existence. Also, apparently you encompass everything ugly about Americans when you’re abroad and seem to have utter contempt for the Muslim world. Good for you for not curbing your whorish behaviour in a culture that apparently doesn’t understand you and needs to ‘get with it’. Somehow the world of women’s media have latched onto you as a style template even as you dress like a self-medicated fortune teller and have a face that reminds most people of Lance Armstrong’s instep. Essentially, you’re the reason why terrorists hate westerners and when all is said and done you’re a sub-human cretin with the moral compass of Joseph Stalin. You go, girl!
I’m a Samantha!
Having presumably had your first orgasm in utero, you emerged from the womb sometime in the mid-1940s with your focus zeroed in on having your orifices stuffed with as many things as was humanly possible, as often as was possible. You take sexual liberation to a confounding extreme, and would apparently fuck anything with a pulse. On the surface, you pride yourself on your garish accumulation of phallic encounters and have enough notches on your headboard to have whittled it down to a toothpick. Bound by an overwhelming ego and a contradictory absence of any kind of self-worth, you choose to not restrict yourself to any one particular partner in life, despite any number of people offering themselves to you with boundless love and affection for reasons that fail logic. You’re not one to judge your friends’ infidelities and obvious flaws, for you yourself have little to no regard for anyone aside from your inner circle, and the minute they could not for any reason afford to lunch or drink with you in the places to be seen, you’d be done with them faster than it takes to swallow whichever jizzload you just imbibed from the random manservant you looked at with a furtive glance. Most experts would diagnose you with acute nymphomania, in that you indulge in sex without love or intimacy, and have been ploughed so many times not only is there no tread left on the tyres, it really would be like throwing a hotdog down an elevator shaft. This is itself ironic in that you don’t seem to have anything more than two dimensions; the third would presumably be restricted to the depth of your cooter. When visiting a country in the middle east whose traditions and approaches to women are different to those experienced in New York’s east village, your solution would be to assume that your host nation is primitive and you would go out of your way to do nothing short of a public cervix announcement in front of the local Islamic cleric. Apparently your brain/mouth filter is redirected via your clitoris. As a menopausal woman, your antics make you, quite frankly, embarrassing to observe. The winner of the Bendigo Hotel’s ‘Cougar of the Year’ contest oozes class and sophistication by comparison, and that woman found her way home at 4.00am with vomit in her hair after one of the audience members gave her a rogering in the back of his cousin Darren’s late model ute and posted blurry iPhone pictures on his MySpace page. You go, girl!
I’m a Charlotte!
Your bubbly enthusiasm for life is contagious, and you maintain your peppy disposition by only shopping in the best stores and dressing only as the latest mode dictates. Thankfully, you had a career as an art curator that didn’t require a great deal of intellect, and paid a disproportionate amount of cash for something that you clearly haven’t the first idea about. Your stiff upbringing gave you something of a sense of right and wrong, but while you may be repulsed by others’ outward sexual bravado, you yourself really do like getting seen to quite a lot. Your first marriage was a sham, as you thought you could marry up, but you can’t seem to look past the size of a bank balance to see the very real human flaws even the best families have. Unlike some of your other friends, you can fuck ugly, but only if it’s successful ugly, or rich ugly. Your husband looks very much like a shorn scrotum, but because he’s an attorney with a solid portfolio, you convince yourself that you have developed ‘character’ by deeming him worthy of your sacred temple. Having found yourself the mother of two brats, your first instinct is to whine endlessly about them and how your life isn’t as enjoyable now that you can’t be completely self-obsessed. You need ‘me time’, all the time, because maintaining a façade of style-magazine prescribed ‘beauty’ isn’t easy, or cheap, and is becoming increasingly harder now that you’re rapidly approaching your 50s. You’d undertake plastic surgery or botox were you not such a spineless chickenshit, and your prime obsession is the style and maintenance of your own hair. Thank goodness for Photoshop and a savvy marketing department at Paramount Pictures, so you can now look much younger than you really are, because despite your ill-informed feminist ideals, phsically ageing scares the living shit out of you. Because what can a pretty girl do when she gets old and has no discernable skills or talent? Pick up a copy of Woman’s Day and marvel at Bec Hewitt’s perfect bogan life. You go, girl!
I’m a Miranda!
Yes you are, you fierce, independent career gal, you! Well done, you fiercely independent career gal, getting yourself to one of the higher rungs on the corporate ladder, despite the plainly obvious and frequently asserted (by you) handicap of being a woman. Sure, there are laws to prevent gender discrimination in the workplace (and you should know about those, being a lawyer, you fiercely independent career gal, you!), but that doesn’t stop you from playing the gender card every time you’re passed up for a promotion or don’t receive plebeian congratulations for doing your job. Which is hard. Being a woman. How much you’ve achieved, being a fiercely independent career gal, whose successes are many, and being the only person in your small group of friends with actual marketable skills, you find yourself having to actually work for a living, so it’s understandable to see that seeing these other gals in your circle have lives of comparative ease would make you just a little bit ... testy at times. Just a little bit… harsh. Just a little bit… irritable. Just a little bit… cunty. Being a fiercely independent career gal means you have less time for socialising, and the men you end up with tend to be on the less-than-impressive side. In fact, one particular chap seems to be an overwhelming douchebag, but you still managed to let him impregnate you – sometimes being a fiercely independent career gal makes it easy to forget the little things, like subjective judgement. And contraception. Somehow, a misguided sense of either pity (self or otherwise) has lumbered you with this hackneyed jackass, spouting stereotypical goombah nonsense to the point that he looks like an extra who strolled off the set of Jersey Shore. But you don’t mind, somehow being a harshly fiercely independently minded career gal has robbed you of your self-worth to the point where the highlight of your day is the five minutes you can find to reminisce about the three seconds of calm you experienced 20 years ago when you were sleeping with someone not beneath your station in life and really didn’t care about where the next day was taking you. But at least you have your small circle of friends, who you know are morally and intellectually inferior to you, but you associate with them anyhow, because it’s nice to spend time with someone who doesn’t eat with his fingers or spit when he talks. You go, girl!
So there you have it. Should you identify yourself with any of the above archetypes, or aspire to be like them, well done. You’re a major reason why there is gender inequity in the workforce, why there won’t be a female prime minister or president of the US for a while yet, and why most media for women is overwhelmingly stupid and tailored to bitchiness, gossip and speculation about talentless cretins and celebrities. Reading about the misfortunes of celebrities, be they divorcing, or gaining weight, or in career freefall, doesn’t actually give you license to feel better about your own "messed up life" you go home to every night in the suburbs; it’s actually Schadenfreude, which translates from the German as ‘damage’ and ‘joy’, in that you’re getting your escapist thrills out of others’ misfortunes. That they’re famous is irrelevant, it really just makes you a cunt.
Sex and the City 2’s trailer tells you to ‘Come for the fun. Come for the friendship. Come for the fashion!’. It’s a cultural event for women the world over, apparently. Germaine Greer would be so proud.
You go, girl.
