I was, admittedly, a bit of a latecomer to the Sex and the City craze. For years, I staunchly refused to watch the show, convinced from what I knew of it that it wasn't for me. It struck me as self-absorbed and superficial, episode after episode of successful, independent women who should have been perfectly content with their lives, endlessly bemoaning what they didn't have -- Prince Charming and "happily-ever-after" -- over endless rounds of Cosmos. Who wants to listen to four women talking about nothing but fashion and men? Not me, said I. I didn't even drink Cosmos for the longest time, just because I associated them with the show.

And then, one day a few years ago I was going nuts being confined to bed rest with my last child. I'd watched everything on Court TV and more sappy Lifetime movies than any one person should ever have to stomach, I was desperate for something else to watch to pass the time. And there, right by the DVD player, was my oldest daughter's most prized possession: Season One of Sex and the City. What the hell, it couldn't be any worse than re-watching Tori Spelling in Mother, May I Sleep With Danger, right? I slipped the first disc into the DVD player ... and didn't stop watching until I'd watched every episode of the first season. And then I was hooked on the adventures of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte.