Last night, I finished watching the complete Sex and the City series. Again. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry  - I mean, it wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was coming. But sure enough, I was a blubbering fool by the end of it. I still chirrup over the fact that Carrie shook creepy Petrovsky and returned to Big. What is it about the show that is so addictive? I could watch it time and time again, and fall in love all over again.

When I was in NYC, I went on a Sex and the City tour. Yes, yes, it was touristy. But I’ve found that the glory of my thirties is that I don’t care. I’m not cool, never really was, and I’ve embraced that fact and moved on. Plus, I’m not above doing touristy things at home, either. And sometimes the tourists have it right.

And since I love to stir it up, I took my mom.  She was not a devotee, and had only really watched a few (highly sanitized) episodes on TBS. So I told her there would be a quiz on the tour, and that flunkees would be kicked off the bus. She had better do her homework. When she told her friends what she was up to, one said, “You know she’s taking you on a PORN tour, right?” At 11 a.m.?!?!

We both ended up loving the tour. A few uncomfortable moments at the first stop (a sex shop) where I had to do the fake out (“Look! Pretty birdies outside!”) and scurry the other direction. But the rest was fairly innocuous, even by mom’s standards.  Any tour that ends with cosmopolitans is a sure bet in my book.