"What don't you like about me?"

Although I previously ranted about the Carrie Bradshawification of New York and at the risk of sounding like hypocrite, I actually like the show Sex and the City. (I once blogged about shamefully reading He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys, which is by a former SATC writer.) For all its unforgiving looks into the mating habits of four single New York women in their 30s, the television show is well acted, brassy, and smartly written. I never watched it when it was on television, but now that some clever person has uploaded episodes to YouTube (and, alternately, Surf the Channel), Ms. K and I have been rewatching the series in anticipation of the upcoming SATC movie.

Last night, as embarrassing as it is to admit, Ms. K and I made cosmos -- the first I've probably had since 2002 when it was still socially acceptable to drink one. We had been having dinner at one of our favorite restaurants when she admitted to having a craving for the cocktail. We grabbed the ingredients at a nearby bodega as if they were contraband and we were making some sort of back ally score, sneaking off to enjoy our shame at home where no one could judge us. I broke out the dusty martini glasses and we drank our pink booze in bed, the shades drawn and the laptop open to YouTube.

Although we've only made it through two seasons, the show has provided fodder for conversation. When Carrie and Mr. Big laid in bed and listed the things that they didn't like about each other, Ms. K decided that she wanted to play too.

"What don't you like about me?" she asked after the episode had finished. Like in the show, the question was good natured, but a potential minefield.

"I don't know," I deflected. "What don't you like about me?"

"You didn't answer my question."

I had to think about it and as Ms. K smoked a cigarette out the kitchen window, I said, "You lose things."

"Yes I do but somethings I don't really lose things and my lady blames me for it."

"Fair enough," I said remembering the time last month when I accidentally took her keys and then blamed her when she couldn't find them. "But I need to stay like five steps ahead of you while taking mental inventory of everything in anticipation of the inevitable question of 'Where's my???'"

She seemed keen to test my skills. "Okay, where are my car keys?"

"Both keys are on the nightstand."

She gave me a wink acknowledging my prowess.

For the record, in addition to my cat ownership, Ms. K dislikes that I take forever to get ready in the morning -- especially when we have to be somewhere and especially when I'm holding up her intake of caffeine and/or nicotine. That's when Ms. K gets cranky. "It isn't [just] that you take forever to get ready," she clarified, "it's more that you seem to think that the time when you should be getting ready is a good time to do other things like be with the interweb or clean up."

There are worse faults to be had, right?