SIX DEGREES OF SARAH JESSICA

There is a well known secret (oxymoron?) that women and, not surprisingly, gay men across the globe often play a game similar to that of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. It doesn't have a name - yet - but operates under one similar, simple premise: girls and girlfriends ask each other which character from HBO's uber-hit, "Sex And The City," they are most like? (Sorry Kevin; the ubiquitious "we" do love you and your super-sensitive, gorgeous wife, Kyra; but, it is these divas of New York that take precendence in matters of such gravity.)

Of course, most women latch on to the semi-delusional idea that they most resemble Sarah Jessica Parker's, Carrie. She is the central character and the highest paid among the flock; so, who wouldn't want to be Carrie? But I have to say, unlike most under-medicated women, I feel that my muse truly is Carrie. I mean, the parallels are uncanny. We're both writers. We both smoke. And we both have multiple, overflowing closets. (In fact, I think I may even have more heels that she does.) Wait; there's more. We both have naturally chestnut colored hair yet look fabulous as blondes. She had the on-again, off-again, penultimate romance with Mr. Big. I, too, had a on-again, off-again, ridiculous affair with a man I thought to be "the one." (Needless to say, he did not come after me when I left New York. There was no sweeping climax in airport, hotel, or toll booth. So, for purposes of clarification, we'll call him Mr. Little. Or Chicken Little.)

Okay, so maybe I'm not Carrie. Well, which, then? I put the question to a few friends, colleagues, and therapists. Each had their own comparisons to draw. For some, I was more like Miranda. Apparently, the fact that I've also been a red-head and, at times, an uptight perfectionist with skin problems, made this one a no-brainer. Others thought maybe I was Charlotte. Charlotte? "Well," they said, "With your day job you often dress conservatively and professional; and, haven't you slept with a lot of doctors?" (For the record, I now wear scrubs - which, by the way, do wonders for my butt - and I have yet to date a physician.) Samantha, then? I do talk about sex a lot, and about having sex a lot. But talk is cheap and the shameful truth is that my dance card is far from full; in fact, I have the strong suspicion that Angela Lansbury has more sex than I do.

So, which woman am I? Oh, wait! I can't be any of them because - I HAVE A PENIS! (I almost forgot.) Well, in light of this new fact, I'd love to be Smith Jerrod, played by the hunka-hunka-burnin' love, Jason Lewis. Hey! Why not? We're both sometimes blondes. And, I happen to have his picture on all of my Calvin Klein underwear packages. Okay; maybe not. Well, as hard as it is to admit, I often feel that I might be most like Stanford. On the bright side of this seemingly suicide-inducing revelation, I do have the comforting fact that he is, after all, a sharp dresser. And hey, he did catch that young stud and fall in love happily ever after (through the series finale, at least).

It appears that I am, indeed, in something of a quandary. Might I then enlist the help of you, Dear Reader? Let's have a contest! We'll call it Celebritology. Yes, I quite like that. The grand prize will be an all expenses paid trip and shopping spree in either Paramis, New Jersey, or Compton (depending on your Coast). Which celebrity, then- from any medium - do I most remind you of? Let me know and we'll make a day of this. On your mark, get set, go...