A photocopy from a 1998 “Word of the Day” calendar hangs on a wall in my workspace. The word for January 13 of that year is “schadenfreude.”

enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others

I bring this up because I can see the photocopy right over my monitor as I chuckle softly with each passing review of the upcoming “Sex and the City 2” theatrical release. I know, I know. I’m really stepping out onto a limb bashing this franchise, but some of the backlash has been so delightful I can’t help it.

First, we have Lindy West, who skewered the flick for The Stranger. I think I love her more than Sara Jessica Parker’s tiresome character loves fancy shoes or something like that. (Be mindful that the link has some naughty words in it. I censored one here.)

SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled **** like it’s my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car. It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache. This is an entirely inappropriate length for what is essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls.

The second gem came from Salon’s Andrew O’Hehir.

Indeed, this movie’s offensive on many levels, but Arabs and Muslims don’t get to feel special. It relies on stupid stereotypes because it’s a stupid movie that’s offensive to virtually everyone. It’s offensive to the demographic it claims to adore — straight women and gay men — who are depicted, more than ever, as hopelessly obsessed with the surface of things, to the point where they forget there’s anything below that. The only reason it isn’t offensive to straight men is that there aren’t any ….

For a moment, I paused to consider whether my cattiness about something so obviously aimed away from me really mattered. After all, don’t I enjoy losing myself in movies that glorify the basest emotions of men. Things like the Sex and the City productions highlight some of the worst things about women, in my opinion. Don’t Knocked Up and Superbad and Old School do the same for men?

Yes, they do, but there’s a critical difference. Deep down, many guys want to be that way. Sure, we love our wives and families, but if we could sit around and go from party to party after starting a fraternity in our 40s and trade dick jokes as we completely let ourselves go, we’d probably do it in a heartbeat.

I don’t know many women who want to be high-maintenance, self-absorbed, superficial whiners more worried about chasing men than making a difference in the world. Why do you think we need you guys to save us from ourselves?

That’s not to say there’s no room for that kind of escapism for women. The show, which I have only seen peripherally, succeeded because it did tap into something many women desire. Living a glamorous lifestyle with close friends by your side is something fun to imagine.

But when they beat it into the ground and the characters have to “escape” lives “damaged” by the recession (i.e. they have two medium-sized New York apartments instead of one monstrous one) to go visit the Middle East where they can turn the women onto shoes you need a mortgage from, you have to wonder whether they really understand how the imaginations of normal people work.