Obviously, by the time last week's premiere of "And Just Like That…" aired, the production for season three had already come to a close. Yet, I can't shake the feeling that our collective gripes about the absurd and ambiguous nature of Carrie and Aidan's long-distance romance somehow paved the way for some desperately needed clarity on their unique arrangement this week. We willed it into existence! You're welcome, Carrie, and seemingly, Aidan too, who seemed to have orchestrated these plans without a clue as to their intricacies. Do I envision these two enduring five years in their current setup? Absolutely not. But, hey, at least Aidan acknowledges his overzealousness with the restrictions and makes amends for abandoning her during their phone sex session the previous week. There's a glimmer of hope for ol' Car Bear.
Alright, let's be real—at first, things were looking pretty bleak. For starters, we're left hanging whether Carrie managed to bring herself to climax after that harrowing phone call, which ranks among the most terrifying filmed conversations since Drew Barrymore had to pick her favorite horror flick. If she's suffered PTSD so severe she can't orgasm again, I wouldn't blame her; I'm still emotionally traumatized, and I was just an innocent bystander. Adding insult to injury, Carrie's enjoying a serene day in her picturesque backyard, penning what I assume is her next book about a woman who once inhabited her home in the 19th century (a character she hasn't even named or researched yet), when a plague of rats emerges from her garden. I wish this were a euphemism for her sexual prowess, but alas, I mean it quite literally. It's revolting.
Fortunately, things take a turn for the better shortly thereafter, primarily because she swiftly enlists exterminators to handle the situation (by uprooting her entire garden), and the next day, Aidan surprises her with an unannounced visit. The man has some sense after all! He tells Carrie he felt "strange" about their last phone call and, since Wyatt was staying with his mom, he decided to make a surprise trip to New York for the night. He scoops her up in his arms and whisks her away to the bedroom. It's actually quite charming. It's never been difficult to understand why Carrie falls for Aidan time and again. By that, I mean their height difference. Not everyone can be swept off their feet like that!
The cherry on top of this whole ordeal is that Aidan's admission of feeling strange and their subsequent bedroom escapade isn't the end of their relationship discussion. They engage in a very mature conversation about the state of their union. It's refreshing! Carrie admits she's puzzled. She's been agonizing over whether it's appropriate to text him about her daily escapades (primarily, the rats), while he can just show up whenever he pleases? He concurs that it's perplexing and that amidst the guilt and pain he felt for not being there for Wyatt's accident, he might have overreacted and swung too far in the opposite direction. He still intends to be in Virginia, focusing on his kids, but he's perfectly fine with texts. She should call him whenever she needs to. More visits aren't out of the question. This all seems far more feasible. Much more in line with your typical long-distance relationship. Five years, though—five years seems like an eternity, especially when they're already encountering hurdles even after establishing these new guidelines.
The initial hurdle? Texting—a minefield of misunderstanding. Imagine this: one partner indulges in novel-esque voice-to-text missives, expounding on how a prospective dining table embodies the very essence of both themselves and their lover, while the other responds with a solitary emoji. While it stretches credulity to envision a carpenter replying to such a missive with nothing but a thumbs-down, this seemingly insignificant irritant could fester into a significant communication rift.
The other impending obstacle facing Carrie and Aidan is far more... tactile in nature. Enter Adam Gardens, the bearded landscape architect who, despite his quirky moniker, earns a pass because "beard" and "dirt-worthiness" top my list of ideal male attributes. Adam, with his charming disheveled charm and native New Yorker vibe, sets Carrie's heart aflutter as he arrives to rejuvenate her rat-infested backyard. Their harmless, nascent flirtations escalate, and when Adam waxes poetic about the thrill of uncertainty and how "what is meant to be will find its way," one senses the potential for boundaries to blur, should the inclination arise.
Elsewhere, a refreshing departure from last week's premiere unfolds, with everyone else indulging in delightful antics. Honestly, friends, the premiere left me on edge—was this season destined to be a slog? But if the remainder of season three mirrors the pace of "The Rat Race," then this could prove thoroughly enjoyable! I harbor a glimmer of hope. Consider Seema, for instance. Wearied by her self-coined term "hate-dating," akin to hate-watching but conducted at barstools, Seema dissects a series of unsuitable suitors with succinct dress-downs—including Dan, alias Wolf, a testament to the dire state of dating. Exhausted, she reluctantly agrees to a setup orchestrated by her boss.
However, Seema's boss has no intentions of pairing her with just any guy; instead, he introduces her to Sydney Cherkov, a renowned matchmaker. (Sydney, portrayed by Cheri Oteri, a delightful addition to this or any show!) Yes, her name does phonetically resemble an inappropriate phrase, and yes, the show playfully acknowledges this rather than assuming our collective wit. Trust us to catch your overt jokes; I implore you!
Seema isn't particularly open to Sydney's meddling in her romantic endeavors, which isn't all that surprising. Just as Seema has a knack for seeing through her dates' facades, Sydney, within moments of sitting down with her, grasps the essence of Seema's situation. With little to lose and greatly impressed by Sydney's evident prowess, Seema not only consents to let Sydney arrange a match for her but also abides by her guidelines, adopting a pastel and pearl ensemble. Sydney views Seema's wardrobe brimming with metallics and animal prints as a loud declaration of "coldness" and "predatoriness." However, transforming oneself to please another seldom ends well, and it's refreshing to witness Seema discarding her charade before the dessert even arrives. When Seema confesses to her date that she's not usually "this quiet and agreeable" and was merely pretending because she knows "men like to feel in control," her date makes a swift exit, resorting to the classic "I gotta use the bathroom" excuse and dashing out of the restaurant. Sydney Cherkov then steps in to reprimand Seema for deviating from "the Cherkov Experience." Seema promptly puts an end to this matchmaking fiasco, but one can't help but hope Sydney will reappear with a deeper understanding of Seema's true self, albeit "Cherkov" elicited a chuckle initially.
As for Fingerhood, well, I have a soft spot for Lois Fingerhood. Kristen Schaal's Fingerhood, alias "the Finger," is renowned at Arbor School as the Ivy Whisperer—she possesses intimate knowledge of what high schoolers need to secure admission into their—or rather, their parents'—dream colleges. Charlotte and Lisa were under the misconception that enlisting outside help for college admissions was frowned upon, but when they discover other parents are hiring the Finger, they raise a racket with the principal (played by the angelic Tim Bagley)...until they find out he's perfectly fine with it too. "Fuck the rules as long as you get into an Ivy" seems to be the de facto rule in this scenario.
Realizing they're already lagging behind in securing Fingerhood's services, Charlotte and Lisa stalk her all the way to her son's little league game, pleading with her to see Lily and Herbert Jr. But this decision will haunt them. After a 45-minute session with the Finger, the women find their children in the throes of full-blown panic attacks and existential crises. They've been approaching college applications all wrong. They'll never get in! They're too well-rounded. Charlotte and Lisa refuse to let their kids unravel like this. "Fuck Lois fucking Fingerfuck!" Charlotte screams loud enough for the very Lois fucking Fingerfuck to hear—she will not be collaborating with the York-Goldenblatts or the Todd Wexleys anymore. It's a low point for everyone involved but a high point for us: Kristin Davis's expletive-laden rant will undoubtedly be on repeat in my mind for days to come. A genuine gem at a time when we desperately needed one.
