Tonight we got all dolled up and, after numerous bevvies at the Melting Pot (btw, you can get movie tix there for just $7), me and the Girls went to see Sex and the City 2.

Now, I had extremely low expectations for this movie. I mean, Samantha's 52, all the other characters are married, and it takes place in Abu Dhabi of all places.

Yet, somehow it worked for me. It was a bit surreal (Liza Monelli covering Beyonce...what?!) and futuristic (I half expected Guinan to serve them drinks on their first class flight to the UAE), but in a weird way it totally worked.

Perhaps it seemed cohesive because it followed one of comedies oldest narratives: a bunch of people go through a forest/wormhole/fairy-infested locale and emerge with a new perspective on their "real" lives. SATC2 riffs on this age-old convention, diverging from pure comedic form in that most of the characters are already married.

Another thing I liked about this movie, and have always loved about the show, is that it pays homage to us "regular" people living in the "real world".

From Carrie's 125th Street ghetto gold to a night in watching Zorro with Aidan to - in this movie - all the women who don't have full time nannies, Sex and the City nods to the viewer and frankly acknowledges its own fantasy.

Even though they clearly don't now, you get the sense these characters, probably circa 1987, might once have done normal things like wear jellies (Carrie), cram for exams (Miranda), work at an ice cream shop (Samantha), and... Well, Charlotte probably didn't ever do anything normal since she was obviously born with a platinum spoon in her mouth.

Finally - dare I say it? - I kinda liked the whole Middle East thing.

Samantha's invitation to work on a public relations campaign for the "new" Middle East effectively turns the whole movie into a meta-PR campaign for the new Middle East*.

The girls are magically relatable in designer desert clothes. Even Charlotte, who spurned the culinary fare at a five-star Mexican resort in SATC1, can eat the food there. Who knew the Middle East could be so glamorous?

After about two hours, you're hooked. Abu Dhabi actually starts to seem more real than the Mid-East we're familiar with. You know, the war-torn one we're all sick of hearing about, and the e-mail forwarded, seven-star Dubai hotel one that was never quite believable?

(And let's not kid ourselves: both are clever marketing campaigns--one successful and perpetrated the American media; the other less so and perpetuated by bored office workers.)

True, the movie comments on Muslim conservatism and Mid-East gender issues in a simplistic, potentially irritating, slapstick-y way. But it does so primarily through the foibles of mid-menopausal Samantha, a character people take with a grain of salt anyway.

This is fairly consistent for a show that, through Samantha, irreverently took on cancer and Catholicism--in a single episode, no less. An in-depth, multi-voiced treatise on gender politics in the Mid-East really is outside its scope.

Still, like many other issues SATC has presented over the years, each archetypal character offers a unique perspective: Carrie falls in love with the faithful devotion her Indian butler has for his wife. Miranda sees a unique culture deserving of respect, sensitivity, and accommodation.

And the last time we see Charlotte she is chillaxing with an (enormous) cup of tea in Carrie's old apartment, suggesting that both an Upper West Side apartment and the "new Middle East" are commensurate escapes from one's hectic New York life.

Samantha of course sees a lot of Puritanical rules, but I expect she'd find that anywhere. (Sex and the City 3: Vatican City?)

Though admittedly one-dimensional, SATC2's foray into the Mid-East will probably do more to change Americans' perception of this area than all the good journalism and historical tomes on this area's turbulent history.

Even more unexpected for me, is that SATC2's shock value lies in its traditionalism. It praises fidelity and commitment, upholds matrimony, and cautions against promiscuity--at least in religiously conservative Muslim countries. After a decade of pushing the envelope in the complete opposite direction, SATC shocks us by lauding tradition and being open-minded enough to portray conservatism.

Despite this 180, the movie stays true to the brand, reminding us that for women everywhere, fashion can be a subversive statement that undercuts the status quo, as well as an escape from the banality of daily life.

"We are Amish with ipods." --Kriss, on Americans' uncanny ability to be totally wired technologically, and yet still be amazingly insulated in other ways.

My gut reaction was that this was simply the wrong question. It's an unfair throwing down of the gauntlet, I find, that implicitly dares women to admit worry their man might slip, or compare her later to an overly buxom, tanned anonymous goddess they paid to see. And, clearly, these aren't good enough reasons to ruin a guy's weekend.

Of course, I hate to be outdone in an argument, so to put a quick band-aid on a logical bullet wound, I deferred to my own personal experience: accidentally finding myself in a Chilean strip club. I was the only woman in the club, and I remember how the women seemed sadly, yet desperately delighted, by my presence. Like for once they had a client who would actually appreciate something real about them. And who probably wouldn't take the menu up on its offer to "consumir una dama", despite the fact they were priced only slightly above un café or un jugo de naranja.

But I do prefer research-driven logic to emotional appeals, so I made up my mind to respond through blog at a later time.

My own views on reducing sexuality to a commodity aside, I was objectively horrified by my review of the literature.

Apart from moral compunctions about women trotting about in the buff, there are serious social justice issues that dissuade me from feeling comfortable with strip clubs, and obliterate my respect for anyone who insists they are a harmless form of entertainment.

For starters, most strip clubs employ women as independent contractors. Yet unlike other contract workers, they have little or no control over their hours or the fees they charge for services. Some clubs demand mandatory tips to bouncers and DJs as well.

Because they receive no base salary, strippers often feel pressure to perform an increasing variety of private services for clients, in order to remain competitive with co-contractors (Jeffries, 2008). Such services may include the ever-popular lap dance, and bed dancing, which both involve grinding against men, oftentimes until they - ahem - achieve sexual "release".

Then there's wall dancing, which I didn't even know about and kinda wish I didn't. Wall dancers carry alcohol wipes to sanitize men's fingers before they dance against them. Men stand stationary against a wall, and women dance with one leg lifted. I'll let you guess why men's fingers need to be sanitized first. Or you can read all about it here.

When questioned about private services like these, women interviewed for this study responded with answers like:

"We were allowed to place towels on the guys' laps, so it wasn't so bad."
"I don't want him to touch me, but I'm afraid he'll say something violent if I tell him 'no'."
"I don't remember because it was so embarrassing."

In addition to increasing market demand for private services, which often jeopardize their safety, women may be fined by club owners for talking to back to or fighting with customers.

Dancers may be fined for calling in sick, too. They also have to pay to dance, in the same way that stylists rent salon booths. One study reports that with all these charges, women in the U.K. forfeited 35% of their pay to club owners (Gatton, 2003).

The greatest justice concern for me is the acts of violence repeatedly perpetrated against women. (A close second is human trafficking) With the post-60s de-censorship of the industry, women now dance a lot closer to men, which makes them far more physically vulnerable.

Over 70% of women surveyed by Holsopple (1998) said that they had at least once experienced each of the following: being grabbed by the arm, waist, or ankle, licked, punched, pinched, having their costumes ripped off, and/or having coins thrown at them. Many had also been kicked, slapped, and/or had had beer, ice, or garbage thrown at them. Survey respondents said that this behavior was endured from clients and the people they worked for.

During private services, performed in private rooms, the risk for assault increases. Many dancers report "digital rape" and clients pushing them to perform sexual acts (Associated Press, 2006).

There are additional health risks. They don't get sick time, so strippers must occasionally dance while sick. They are in close proximity to men, who, barring pre-wall-dance alcohol swabbing, are unlikely to be in the most hygienic state when they grab/scratch/lick dancers performing on stage. There is the risk of getting clients' bodily fluids on you while performing private services. If not an actual threat for STIs, it's just plain gross. Dancers are also highly encouraged to tan regularly and undergo breast augmentation surgery.

And let's not forget the psychological detriment that many strippers endure. Many women have difficulty leaving the trade because they think they can't do anything else; find their personal romantic relationships negatively impacted; and have the psychological damage associated with repeated verbal and physical abuse (Holsopple, 1998). Some strippers also engage in regular alcohol consumption or marijuana use to "get them in the mood" for a show. After hours stalking is another serious issue.

Now I get that all this doesn't go on at every strip club. But how, guys (and gals), do you know it's not happening at the club you're going to? I mean do you research the places you're going, 'cuz I've never heard anyone say, "Don't worry, honey, I already researched it and made sure that acts of violence are rare and not tolerated by management, and the ladies get paid sick time and have a union."

I am shocked by the logical fallacy of otherwise intelligent men, who have a social conscience about human trafficking, molestation, and healthy work environments in all other contexts, but yet just can't seem to extend their daytime values to their nighttime activities.

Instead of worrying about what permission, or lack thereof, suggests about the women in their lives, the real question men should investigate is, "What kind of man does going to a strip club make me?"

I'd say desperately uncreative and unable/unwilling to question the status quo.

Key things to note are: I got two new tattoos with Dadda over Christmas; my (non)boyfriend kind of dumped me soon after; and I got so overwhelmed by the responsibility of accounting for nearly 200 thousand unspent grant dollars that I had a breakdown at work. (And by breakdown, I mean I started crying in front of my boss's boss and another male co-worker and had to leave.)

These three items pretty much encapsulate everything. My new-found closeness with my family, both my Mom and Dad's sides. The oppressive sense of isolation I've been feeling. And my balls-to-the wall efforts to transition to having a boss I can cry in front of (namely, me).

I am so far from my family, and for the first time in ten years, I actually care. As more of my friends tie the knot, are in serious relationships, or spend more time with their own families, I'm starting to feel the absence of siblings, aunts, uncles -- really anyone who has to love you unconditionally -- quite keenly.

This is second time in my life I've really disliked being an only child. The first time was when my parents divorced, and I was just exhausted hiding things like Dad's cancer, and being a constant support for my mom. The people who know me the best, friends from college, all live in other countries now. I have wonderful friends here, I really do. But I'm learning, as my Mom is, painfully, that friends can rarely take the place of family.

I wonder sometimes if this is part of why the deterioration of romantic relationships is so hard for me. My good friend, Mary Brigid, once said that love isn't so much about romance or butterflies, as it is about wanting to make that person a part of your family. And so... well yeah, I concur. 'Nuff said there, I suppose.

On to the break-up... The hardest part of that situation - after the fairly standard feelings of rejection and "why doesn't anyone love me?!" - has been all the stuff about me that I'm discovering and having to admit. Pretty steep learning curve there, actually. Many curves, in fact, like a roller coaster. Like, did you know that I have a difficult time telling people I care about that they hurt my feelings? Me neither! Whoosh! (Yes, that's the whoooooshing of my emotional roller coaster.) Just as I get my head around that - whoosh!!! - I realize I'm actually quite devasted by feeling ignored and un-prioritized, and I cope by giving more and more and more... Hence my present state of romantic (and professional) exhaustion.

Then there's the stuff I have to admit. Turns out, I do want to be in an intimate, long term relationship. Who knew?! It doesn't have to be a marriage, or a house in the suburbs, or anything involving children. I just want to know and be known. I'd like to help someone achieve their goals, and have them help me reach mine. I want someone that I'm attracted to to cook for and to travel with. Relatively simple, right? And yet these seemingly undemanding hopes are consistently dashed by the Universe. Because my life is a cosmic farce, no doubt.

And so I throw myself into work. Not my day job, so much--like my current romantic entanglement, I'm trying to inject a healthy dose of not-caring into the Job That Made Me Cry. I mean my freelance writing.

The other morning I had what my mother called a Prophetic Dream, during which, after a series of garbled events, I proclaimed this manifesto to the chochy businessman, who was putting together an ad-filled magazine about the crisis in Haiti:

"Scholars say that the Holocaust is a disconnect--literally a hole in human cultural history. The only way we can begin to comprehend crises of this magnitude, whether they are man-made or natural disasters - is to tell the story of this earthquake through as many voices as we can. The children who felt the earth move, the elders, the medical relief workers... That is the only hope we have of even beginning to understand devastation like this."

I felt weird when I woke up. Like I had found My Life Purpose, if indicated only by the fact that I have an extraordinarily articulate self-conscious, and managed to remember what I said. My mother, a charismatic Christian, also attached all manner of epic, spiritual significance to the thing.

The sense of purpose and direction lasted a few days. Now I just feel overwhelmed. I have all the ideas and no idea what I'm doing at the same time.

And that, my friends, brings you up to this very moment, where I am mitigating the feeling of overwhelmed-to-the-point-of-drowning by writing something relatively inconsequential for my blog.

An ENFP, I've decided that it explains everything that is not going well in my current relationship with an ESTJ.

Apparently, we are like the least compatible types. On the plus side, I think both of our personality types enjoy a challenge.

As ENFPs go, I'm fairly rational and practical. This is possibly due to the fact that I surrounded myself with male physicists in college. Fairly certain they were TJs.

I keep thinking that if my ESTJ manfriend knew just how emotional, sensitive, and illogical the other ENFPs were, he would realize... how amazing I truly am? how good he has it? Wait... that doesn't even make sense. The more logical thing would be for him to go out and find himself a pretty INTJ. She'd be able to intuit the feelings he's not expressing, and, as an introvert, she'd always let him be the center of attention.

While researching personality types, relationships, and depression - all of which I currently suffer from - I came across MBTI's Types Prayers. Here are ours:

ENFP: "God, help me to keep my mind on one th -Look a bird- ing at a time."
ESTJ: "God, help me to not try to RUN everything. But, if You need some help, just ask."

I can make a four million ingredient Thai green curry from scratch without a recipe. I can have a few drinks, and rollerskate, while balancing a Cosmopolitan that's full to the brim. I can change my own engine oil without ruining my manicure (hah! like I ever have a manicure...), and I can decorate a Christmas tree like a hufflepuffer. I also have very, very good taste in shoes.

But of all the things I love about myself - and there are clearly many - I love that no matter how hard I party, dance my face off, or drink myself near oblivion, I can ALWAYS MacGyver up a a greasy treat before I hit the sack.

Right now, for instance, I am eating a three-cheese grilled sandwich, made of flattened hamburger buns, low fat sharp cheddar, and Swiss. And I timed that business so that it would arrive at a perfect state of gooeyness just as I was finishing my shower! (I went to Mulligan's. Mulligans!) I even shaved my legs.

My late-night culinary expertise usually takes the form of savory treats. However, I have been known - with the help of Merbear, the love of my life - to whip up double-chocolate chip cookies from scratch, sans recipe. God, I wish I had some of those now. (Week-old chocolate pudding! That is the huffle-puffin' secret!)

As I reflect on my past relationships (and non-relationships) there have been two men that consistently made me feel amazing. I never felt their interest wane over the entire course of our, admittedly brief (6 and 9 months, respectively) relationships. When we started dating, I felt like they felt privileged to be in my presence. And I felt like that at the end, too.

One of them told me once that his father taught him that when you marry, your wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. He said, "But, Dad what about..." His father cut him off, saying, "No. She is the most beautiful woman in the world. Period."

He must have taken these words to heart, because I always felt beautiful when I was with him. Even when our relationship spiraled into absolute disaster, it was because he cared too much, and I was too young to value that more than the independence I felt logically entitled to. Boy did I feel great afterward knowing I had the logical high ground. Oh wait...

The really annoying thing about The Slack is that all the things men bitch about, e.g., Relationship Talks, would happen far less if they merely put forth a modicum of effort to make their partner feel like a princess once a day. I can't speak for all women, but for me a well-timed surprise - a little flower, or even a tweet - is far more valuable that an evening of duty hanging-out. (This is probably only true if your lady doesn't suspect you of cheating.)

The worst thing so far about the non-relationship is the fact that you go from "princess" to the human equivalent of a broken-in baseball glove, without any of the security that comes from a committed relationship, in an even shorter period of time. It seems that relationship milestones - The Talk, engagement, marriage - delay the Slack because there is still something the man is potentially working for. Though I don't personally see the practical necessity of such milestones, I am forced to concede that there is a psychological necessity to them. He makes you feel amazing for longer, and by the time the Slack is upon you, you are enjoying reduced rent, fewer leftovers, and a weekend playmate.

Michigan Radio just started a new series related to this topic.

While in general, I'm a fan of dialogue, do we really need any more studies on this?

We ALL know why people leave: There are no jobs! There are no opportunities for young knowledge workers! There are some cultural and outdoorsy things to do, but it's really not enough to fill the void a dearth of opportunities for fulfilling, challenging careers with growth potential has left in the hearts of yuppies statewide.

I love how I keep hearing "Friends! Family! Natural beauty!" cited as incentives to stay in Michigan. As if other states don't have these things.

You can make friends everywhere, except possibly New York City and Los Angeles, where the natives are reportedly mean and fake, respectively.

For those of us with families in other states, it's incredibly inconvenient and costly to fly out of West Michgian to see them. With 10 vacation days per year and $350+ tickets to Minneapolis, New York, and D.C., I'm starting to resent it.

And, no, I'm not going to drive 45 minutes to two hours and pay for parking to get a cheaper flight from Kalamazoo, Lansing, or Detroit.

Michigan is pretty, y'all, but the Lake ain't all that. There are other Great Lakes. Wisconsin and Minnesota have equivalent natural beauty from what I understand. And oceans... they're even more impressive! And lovely as I'm sure the Pictured Rocks are -- so are the Blue Ridge mountains and the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies.

People also consistently cite "the four seasons" as a reason to stay here. Perhaps this relates to Michigan's educational deficit, but --hello! -- we are not the only state that has four seasons! Unless, you're in Alaska, Hawaii, SoCo, or the Deep South, you probably have all four seasons. And, actually, based on my Northern Exposure viewage, I think Alaska might too. Yes, our midwestern colors are delightful, but they don't hold a candle to the seemingly endless gold of hazy, warm Indian Summer days of Mid-Atlantic states like Virginia.

Admittedly, the possibility of a White Christmas every year is nice, and it's non-existent in Virginia. But after growing up with magical, fragrant air plants like wisteria that spontaneously bloom in the spring, forming lacy purple canopies above tall forests... the Michigan spring leaves a lot to be desired.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm exhausted every morning, but can't seem to get to bed before 1 AM. And not for any particularly good reason. Last night I was looking up furniture on IKEA.