I may well be the last girl in America still addicted to Sex and the City. And yes, some substantial portion of my obsession has to do with my inexplicable attraction to Chris Noth, an attraction that dates back to the early days of Law and Order, but doesn’t extend to his new gig on Criminal Intent, for whatever reason. It’s not Chris Noth I want; it’s Mr. Big.

Seriously, how can you NOT love Big? The bespoke suits, the town cars, the APARTMENT for god’s sake.

Big wasn’t just a boyfriend; he was a lifestyle. A really sexy lifestyle. One that didn’t include any food served in nugget form or furniture made out of plastic or a daytime bag the size of New Hampshire. Big was about swank restaurants and fabulous shoes and incredible sexual tension.

That’s what I want.

My day has been, among other things, about a dryer that doesn’t dry; the dryer, however, is both the most AND least sexy thing going on at my house. There is nothing sexy about wet laundry, particularly with two small boys who seem to be human dirt magnets, but there IS something sexy about a man who, when he hears about the broken dryer, says, without batting an eye, “Let’s get a new one! Tomorrow! And have them haul this one away.”

I love my husband. That’s not what this is about.

I envy Carrie Bradshaw (yes, I realize she’s a fictional character, just go with me here, it’s been a long day of wet laundry)–I envy Carrie because she has the luxury to mull endlessly about her relationships, to think about who said what and when and why. I envy her because when she goes on a date, she throws herself into it–the clothes, the shoes, the speculation about whether she will or won’t have sex. She never has to worry about the sitter showing up late, or the kids crying when she leaves or maybe still being awake when she comes home.

So maybe this really IS about how much I love my husband.

When I met Wade, I fell immediately and completely in love with him. He was smart and funny and sexy. He still is, but now we have two kids and a mortgage and very little time to lounge around and read the New York Times in our underwear or drink coffee and talk about the origins of rhetoric or The Simpsons or Jane Austen’s influence on Patrick O’Brian. Or to fantasize about our future. When we go on a date (which, honestly, isn’t often enough and involves more planning than the invasion of Iraq), we talk about what’s new with the kids or our investments or my plans to return to work and how that might influence where we buy our next house. And while it is reassuring and still romantic, it’s not the same.

It’s not dinner with Mr. Big.

I want to have a Carrie Bradshaw date, the kind she had with Big–I want to wear the Naked Dress and not even make it to the swank restaurant. I want to go back to the part of my life where this relationship, with this man I adore, was everything. I want to be Carrie Bradshaw for just one weekend–I want to drink too much and wear fabulous shoes and be with this incredibly sexy man who absolutely is The One.

And I want Carrie’s cleavage, while I’m at it. Because the Naked Dress looks better with the cleavage.

Drink of the day: the tartini (or the Tangier tartini, if you prefer grapefruit). Bottoms up!