Evidently, the production of the third season of "And Just Like That…" had already tied up all loose ends before last week's highly anticipated premiere. Despite this, I can't shake the feeling that our collective gripes about the bewildering and vague dynamics surrounding Carrie and Aidan's long-distance romance somehow contributed to the much-needed clarity we received this week regarding the dos and don'ts of their situation. We willed it into existence! You're very welcome, Carrie, and it appears, Aidan too, who orchestrated these plans yet remained blissfully unaware of their intricacies. Do I foresee a sustainable future for these two, navigating their current arrangement for five whole years? Not in the slightest. Nevertheless, it's heartening to note that Aidan did apologize for his overzealous restrictions and compensated for abandoning her mid-phone sex session last week. The outlook for ol' Car Bear is gradually brightening. Well, initially, it seemed rather bleak. To begin with, we're left hanging about whether Carrie managed to conclude her solo escapade after that harrowing phone call—a cinematic travesty rivaling Drew Barrymore's harrowing decision-making about her favorite horror flick—or if she's now permanently scarred, unable to reach climax ever again due to PTSD. I wouldn't fault her if that were the case; I, too, am emotionally scarred, albeit merely as a bystander to the whole debacle. Compounding this haunting memory, Carrie is enjoying a serene day in her picturesque backyard, penning what I presume to be 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. Suddenly, a plague of rats erupts from her garden. How I wish this were a euphemism for her libido, but alas, it's a literal infestation. It's revolting. Fortunately, her fortunes change thereafter, mainly thanks to the exterminators who swiftly rectify the situation (by uprooting her entire garden), and the next day, Aidan pleasantly surprises her with an unannounced visit.
The man possesses some sense of decorum! He confesses to Carrie that their last phone call left him feeling "weird," and since Wyatt was spending the weekend with his mother, he seized the opportunity to sneak up to New York for a nightcap. He sweeps her into his arms and whisks her away to the bedroom. It's quite the charming scene, actually. It's never been difficult to comprehend why Carrie repeatedly succumbs to Aidan's charm. And by that, I mean their height difference. Not everyone can be lifted with such ease! The highlight of this entire saga is that Aidan's admission of discomfort and subsequent bedroom escapade isn't the conclusion of their relationship discourse. They engage in a mature conversation about the state of their union. It's refreshing! Carrie admits her confusion. She's been agonizing over whether it's appropriate to text him about her daily happenings (primarily, the rats), whereas he can just pop in whenever he pleases? He concurs that it's perplexing and acknowledges that amidst the guilt and hurt he felt for missing Wyatt's accident, he might have overreacted and swung too far in the opposite direction. He still intends to reside in Virginia, focusing on his children, but he's now open to texts. She should call him whenever she needs to. More visits aren't out of the question. This new arrangement seems far more feasible. It's akin to any standard long-distance relationship. However, five years feels like an eternity, especially when they're already encountering hurdles even after establishing these new guidelines.
The initial challenge? Texting proves to be a labyrinthine endeavor. Imagine a scenario where one partner delights in penning novel-esque voice-to-text missives, extolling how a table they fancy encapsulates the very essence of both them and their beau, while the other responds with solitary emojis. While it stretches credulity to envision a carpenter replying to such a missive about a table with nothing but a thumbs-down emoji, this minor irritation could escalate into a significant communication roadblock.
The impending dilemma that Carrie and Aidan confront is far more... tangible. Enter Adam Gardens, the bearded landscape architect whose self-moniker, though slightly quirky, is easily overlooked given that "beard" and "dirt-enthusiasm" top my list of desirable attributes in a partner. Adam, with his charming yet slightly disheveled demeanor and authentic New York spirit, ignites a fiery spark in Carrie when he arrives to rejuvenate her rat-infested backyard. Their harmless, fledgling flirtations soon escalate, with Adam musing about the thrill of uncertainty and the notion that "what is fated has room to unfold." These musings hint at potential boundary-crossing opportunities, should the inclination arise.
Elsewhere, a refreshing departure from last week's premiere unfolds, as the other characters indulge in delightful escapades. Honestly, friends, the premiere left me uneasy, wondering if we were bracing for a season-long slog. But if the remainder of season three embodies the excitement of "The Rat Race," then I am intrigued! I harbor a glimmer of hope. Consider Seema, for instance. Exasperated by her "hate-dating" escapades, akin to Hate-watching but played out in bar stools, she dispenses with numerous suitors with curt, scathing rejections—including an individual named Dan who pretends to be Wolf, a testament to the dire state of dating. Wearied, she agrees to a setup orchestrated by her boss.
However, her boss has no intention of pairing her with a romantic interest but rather with a renowned matchmaker named Sydney Cherkov (portrayed by Cheri Oteri, a delightful addition to this series or any for that matter). Indeed, her name bears an unfortunate resemblance to a vulgar phrase, and the show playfully points this out rather than presuming our awareness. Trust us to catch your obvious jokes, I implore!
Seema isn't particularly open to Sydney's meddling in her romantic endeavors, which isn't entirely unexpected. However, just as Seema has a knack for discerning her dates' true natures, Sydney grasps Seema's situation within moments of sitting down with her. With nothing ventured and nothing lost, and genuinely impressed by Sydney's evident prowess, Seema agrees to let Sydney orchestrate her dating life. She even conforms to Sydney's guidelines, donning pastel hues and pearls. Sydney, perceiving Seema's wardrobe of metallics and animal prints as a shout-out to "coldness" and "predatory behavior," encourages this transformation. Yet, altering one's self for another seldom ends well, and it's commendable to witness Seema discarding the façade before dessert is even served. When Seema confesses to her date that she's not usually "this reserved and accommodating" and was merely pretending because she understands "men like to feel in control," her date promptly makes an excuse about needing the restroom and makes a swift exit. Sydney Cherkov then steps into the spotlight to reprimand Seema for deviating from "the Cherkov Experience." Seema promptly terminates this matchmaking fiasco, but one can't help but hope Sydney reappears with a deeper comprehension of Seema's authentic self.
While "Cherkov" elicited a chuckle upon first hearing, I'm particularly fond of Fingerhood. Lois Fingerhood, to be precise. Fingerhood (played by Kristen Schaal), alias "the Finger," is renowned at Arbor School as the Ivy Whisperer – she possesses an uncanny knack for knowing precisely what high school students need to secure admission into their – or rather, their parents' – dream colleges. Charlotte and Lisa were under the misconception that seeking external assistance for college admissions was frowned upon, but upon discovering that other parents were enlisting the Finger's help, they raised quite a racket with the principal (played by Tim Bagley, an angelic figure). However, their outrage was short-lived when they learned he was indifferent to the practice. The unspoken rule seemed to be, "Fuck the rules as long as you get into an Ivy."
Realizing they were already behind in securing Fingerhood's services, they stalked her all the way to her son's little league game and implored her to see Lily and Herbert Jr. Yet, this decision would soon be met with regret. After a 45-minute session with the Finger, Charlotte and Lisa found their children in the throes of full-blown panic attacks and existential crises. They had been approaching their college applications all wrong. They were simply too well-rounded to stand out. Charlotte and Lisa refused to let their kids crumble in despair. "Fuck Lois fucking Fingerfuck!" Charlotte screamed loudly enough for the actual Lois fucking Fingerfuck to hear – they would no longer be working with the York-Goldenblatts or the Todd Wexleys. It was a low point for all involved but a highlight for us. The moment Kristin Davis exclaimed "Fingerfuck" will undoubtedly be replayed in my mind for days to come. A true gift amidst our collective turmoil.
