I suppose that everyone fancies in themselves a little Carrie Bradshaw, but I think that’s mostly because she’s the one character on that show that got to make all of the brilliant remarks. She was the one with the voice over, the pivotal point connecting everyone, and always had ready a morsel of knowledge or dawning recognition to share with the viewers on a weekly basis.
I see a bit of Carrie in myself as well—we both like shoes.
I’m much more of a DSW/warehouse shoe store bargain hunter than the Manolo Blahnik/Jimmy Choo retail whore that Carrie perpetuated. I’m also confident that I’m a bit of Charlotte, Samantha, Miranda, and Carrie all rolled-up into one five foot- four, redheaded, savvy and sassy gal…and honestly, what woman isn’t? If we were singularly ONE of those characters, we’d be a caricature and not a living, breathing being with challenges, successes, stumbles, and the occasional dog crap stuck to our discount warehouse shoes.
As well, I always found it ridiculous that Carrie would be walking around Manhattan in something resembling a tutu as she is at the end of every opening sequence…until I saw that she gets splashed by a bus hitting a puddle. In my own little sick disbursement of karma, I found it fitting. I hated the tutu.
Today, however, I’m in my tutu. I don’t like it one bit, and I’m waiting for the inevitable bus to drench me in whatever sludge has washed-up on the curb of my life. We all wake up in the morning sometimes and find that our head is stuck so far up our own ass that we can’t smell one of the 23 Starbucks within a half-mile radius, and today is just one of those days. Damnedest thing is that I’ve had an iced coffee today already and the closest I’ve come so far to being alert is knowing how to spell it.
For whomever cares to read, reply, throw rocks, or flick tidbits of praise in my general direction, welcome to Redheaded Fury. Here, in the last geographical bastion for vice and debauchery (with an international airport, mind you…and Carrottop) in the continental United States, I’m Everywoman in search of Everything, and I seemed to have found this keyboard…which means you get to read about the sordid details of my journey that I choose to share. Grab a Snickers—it’s gonna be awhile.
As a relatively new resident to the city that never sleeps (kinda like me lately), I’m still getting used to this creature whose underbelly I dwell within. Having just celebrated my two year anniversary in Las Vegas, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that people will never really understand that we don’t all live underneath blackjack tables and our first words each morning aren’t “hit me.” What I haven’t resigned myself to, however, is how the people of this city seem to find time to date, mate, birth, parent, and exist like it’s any other suburbia.
Explore with me as I pontificate ’round my ponderings, respond to your feedback. Most of all, I hope everyone will find a little bit of themselves in my ramblings as we wander down this hallway called life and find the doors to step through that interest us the most (and in my case, have lemon cake hiding behind them…it’s a baaaaaad sugar day). Watch me in my tutu, which for the remainder of the day is likely to drive me nuts. I can only hope that my path before 10pm tonight will reveal a way for it to be replaced by a comfortable pair of cargo capris that I find to be much more comfortable…and “me.”