Farewell to 'Sex and the City'

The glow of female-owned televisions tuned to the "Sex and the City" finale on Sunday night probably could be seen from space.

Every woman I asked said she planned to be in front of the tube, and most of them also planned to be at some sort of get-together. Me? An estrogen fest in suburban Tampa, with 13 women packed into a living room where we drank champagne, ate chocolate fondue and said goodbye to Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha.

The ending turned out to be most predictable, and I'm glad.

Carrie living in the European art world? Perish the thought! She belonged in New York City with her girlfriends and Mr. Big.

"Sex and the City" always made me wistful to be around the great girlfriends I've made and then inevitably moved away from in the name of career advancement.

There is absolutely no support like what you get from other women. When something in my life goes to hell, I inevitably dump on The Other Half first. He tries, but confronted with a frantic, emotional and perhaps crying female, most men have no idea what to do.

Fellas, just hug her. Don't speak. You'll screw it up more.

But women know what to say to each other, even if it isn't 100 percent true.

"Your hair isn't a nightmare. It looks wonderful! Cameron Diaz had that very same look at the Golden Globes this year." "Your boss doesn't know what he's talking about. If he doesn't see what a talented person he's got in you, then forget him. You'll just find something better anyway."

So, to me, none of the individual storylines in the show were as intriguing as the way the four main characters related to each other. Maybe I don't own a single pair of Manolo Blaniks (nor could I afford them or fit into them), maybe I don't live in New York and maybe I didn't end up with a guy who employs his own driver.

But I count myself lucky to have strong, supportive, beautiful women in my life. "Sex and the City" was a tribute to all of them, and I'll miss watching it every Sunday.

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There's nothing that makes me more unladylike than driving in the Tampa Bay region.

It's not any worse here than in St. Louis or any other mid-sized city, but that's small comfort when you're sitting behind the guy who wouldn't run the yellow light before the drawbridge went up. (I always consider going around that guy and jumping the bridge "Dukes of Hazzard" style.) Other bad drivers here zip in and out of lanes as though they're in a Formula One race, leaving inches between your bumper and theirs while going well over 80 miles per hour.

But the worst ones of all are people who drive in the passing lane, even though they aren't passing. A recent news story down here indicated a slower driver may have been doing that when a speedier driver, fed up, fired a shot into the slower driver's car and then sped off. Thank heaven no one was hurt.

But frankly, I related more to the shooter, which is why I'll never buy a firearm.

I know you can't risk using deadly force to deal with traffic altercations, but I do believe there should be a law that allows for instant remedy against the area's bad drivers. For instance, you should be allowed to throw an egg or some equally messy product on their cars. If the bad driver complained to police, they'd just say, "Sorry, ma'am, but you were going 40 in a 55 zone. You deserved to be egged." That's it. I'm running for mayor.

Heidi Hall is the former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.