Sex and the Other City
The first rule of television seems to be: if something works once, do it again. Sarah Jessica Parker’s production company has reportedly optioned the novel Prospect Park West to turn into a TV show. The book, by former sex columnist Amy Sohn, who also wrote the companion book for HBO’s Sex and the City, chronicles…
The first rule of television seems to be: if something works once, do it again. Sarah Jessica Parker’s production company has reportedly optioned the novel Prospect Park West to turn into a TV show. The book, by former sex columnist Amy Sohn, who also wrote the companion book for HBO’s Sex and the City, chronicles the lives, urges, and dissatisfactions of four Park Slope mothers. Here’s how The Post summed it up this morning: “The book creates a scathing portrait of Park Slope’s mommy brigade — of which Sohn is a breast-feeding member — as a parade of unsatisfied thirty- and forty-something moms sizing up their plights relative to all the other stroller-pushers at the playground. Few are having sex — at least not with their spouses.” It’s definitely the Sex and the City formula, but who knows if it will take off? Gawker asks the more important question: will it ruin Park Slope? There is already a festoon of strollers; will Berkeley Place now be clogged with red double-decker buses?
Sarah Jessica Parker’s Sex & the Stroller Set Show [Gawker]
Treading on a Slippery Slope [NY Post]
Is Prospect Park West the New SATC? [BuzzSugar]
fsrq,
They are probably nannies!
HAAAAAAAA the williamsburg one! ahhah
someone do bushwick!
*rob*
> MM, 90% of these comments on PS moms are just snark.
I plead Not Guilty.
Meta! Denim! Hilarious, Heather.
OK, so we’ve done Clinton Hill, Brooklyn Heights and Williamsburg. Any others on the way?
Heather, I think you have a book in you…
Hah, Park Sloper, that was awesome.
From the excerpts that Park Sloper provided, i would categorize these women primarily as “bitchy.”
Now I will do Williamsburg. Okay, this is NOT Park Slope. Everyone on board with that?
There was no shade at the Grand Street playground and the sun beat down relentlessly on our bare heads. I had forgotten sunscreen again.
The mothers’ group was obvious: five of them clustered on two of the park benches like nesting gulls. Feeling a little insecure, I adjusted my ergo, patted the downy head of my two-month old daughter, and approached.
“Hi, I’m Jennifer,” I said. “Is this the hui–”
“Yes,” one beautific madonna beamed at me, patting the bench beside her. I sat down gratefully, my back already aching. Were babies supposed to be sixteen pounds at two months? It seemed wrong somehow.
“Who is this?” a bright-eyed waif with a blonde streak dyed in the middle of her dark mane asked me.
“Oh, this is Meta,” I smiled back. “She’s two months.”
“So is Denim,” the waif told me. “When’s her birthday?”
“June 15,” I said.
“Same here!”
It would have seemed a cosmic twist of fate, except I wasn’t sure I wanted little Meta to hang out with someone named Denim.
“What do you do?” asked another mother, expertly navigating her infant’s latch one-handed. I envied her that. I was still having issues.
“I’m an interior designer,” I said.
“Me too!” one of the others exclaimed.
“So am I!” said the beautific madonna.
“I teach yoga,” someone else added.
“I’m a stylist,” the waif told me. “Isn’t it great how everyone in this neighborhood is so creative?”
lol