Magnolias & Moonpies

Last night, the ABC's (our girls' club) went to the premier showing of Sex in the City dressed in our finest denim, khaki, and/or cotton blends - as one might expect from the cool, casual chicks that we are. Our newest member pre-ordered our tickets to ensure we'd get a seat, which, at the time, I believed was a thoughtful gesture, but completely unnecessary. For all I knew, we were just going to see a movie. No big deal, right?

As the one member of our club who is oftentimes out of "the know," I had no idea how much the media had sensationalized this event; I was completely clueless. Therefore, nothing could have prepared me for last night's spectacle the Monaco.

I mean, nothing.

On the ride to the theater, I listened intently as my sisters of the ABC gabbed about the latest gossip and hype surrounding the movie premier and nodded in agreement, interjecting the occasional, "uh-hmm," as though I knew what they were talking about, when actually, I had no clue. Sure, I'd watched the series (when I could), and I laughed and cried with Carrie and the crew, while watching re-runs late at night as I graded papers. However, the thought never occurred to me to visit web sites and read articles and reviews about the upcoming cinematic event of the summer. All I'd seen were the movie trailers.

Within fifteen minutes, we were circling the parking lot (with fifty other cars) in search of a parking spot. Limousines of all shapes and sizes littered the parking lot, and local news and radio station vehicles lined the sidewalks in front of the theater. After ten minutes of driving up and down the parking lot in a serpetine pattern, we realized that there wasn't a parking spot within three miles. It was girls' night. We deserved to go all out, so we opted for valet parking. Pulling up to the curb along side three or so empty vehicles, one of two valets approached the driver's side window. At first, I believed him to be eager for a tip, seeing as how he and his co-worker were idly lounging by the valet station shootin' the breeze. I couldn't have been more wrong.

He greeted us with, "I'm sorry, but we aren't able to park your car for you."

You've got to be kidding me? I thought.

"All of these cars are ours," he continued gesturing behind him, "and that cop down there is watching."

What?! Who has ever heard of valets getting busted by the cops for parking cars a la valet-style?

The valet then lazily returned to his perch leaving the other three or so cars to - I don't know - park themselves, I suppose.

Right then, I should've suspected that this was no ordinary day at the movies.

We then pulled around to the back side of the theater in a most civilized manner, but not before Ethyl (that's not her real name) yelled out the window to the oh-so-busy parking attendants offering her most sage advice as to what they could do with their valet sign.

The theater was buzzing with high-society wannabes - women of all ages dressed in sequins and stilettos clutching Cosmopolitans in one hand and the backsides of the few men present with the other. Giggles and cackles rang out from all sides as we made our way through the perfumed throng of inebriated socialite hopefuls to retrieve our tickets from the automated ticket booth.

"Wow," I mused. "I feel a tad bit under dressed."

Handing our ticket stubs to the little ticket-stub-taker, we headed straight for Theater #3 to snag the "good seats." We did not stop for popcorn; we did not stop for drinks; we did not pass "Go" nor collect $200 for fear of being stuck sitting in the front row. One by one, we entered the dark theater. Unable to adjust to the darkness that quickly, my eyes deceived my feet and I tripped up the steps - twice - but I don't think anyone noticed.

We were in luck! Nobody had claimed the very back row, so we plopped ourselves down in the first four seats in order to have quicker access to the powder room, if the need should arrive, during the two hours and fifteen minutes of what we'd hoped would be the best episode of Sex in the City yet.

Much to my chagrin, another band of Carrie Bradshaw wannabes marched to the back row and maneuvered their buxom, pot-bellied selves into the seats adjacent to ours and began squawking incessantly about their shoes, their purses, and their fake hair. One, in particular, was louder and more obnoxious than the other fifty-somethings in her group, and she remained vocal throughout the movie.

"No, I can't hold that popcorn!" she shrieked. "Do you see this outfit? This is linen! You hold it - no, you!"

During one of the most climactic scenes,our cinematic neighbor became quite excited. Arms flailing, feet stomping wildly, she hollered, "OMG! If he don't get outta that car, I will leave this theater. I will walk out right now!" and then she added, "And I mean it!"

He didn't get out of the car, and she didn't leave the theater despite her affirmation at the end.

At that moment, I wanted to reach around my friend and stuff the rest of that bag of buttery popcorn in her mouth. Instead, I leaned past my also-annoyed comrade and shot one of my best "would-you-please-shut-your-pie-hole" looks in her direction to which she politely replied, "Oh, sorry!"

She didn't talk the entire time though. Midway through the movie, she stampeded over us and presumably headed for the powder room. (I think she went to the bar, myself.) Our reprieve was short-lived, however, for she returned in full force.

Not to give away the movie, but Carrie changes her hair color, an event that happened while this woman was indisposed.

"When did she dye her hair?!" she asked incredulously, as though offended that "Carrie" didn't consult with her first before embracing the Clairol.

Really. You do know this is just a movie, right?

Probably the most annoying part of our loud-mouthed neighbor was her constant comparisons of she and her friends to the characters on the screen. "You are so Miranda," she said to one,"and you are so Charlotte," she said to the other, "and I am soooo Carrie!" *giggle*

Blech! Keep in mind, this woman had to have been at least fifty, as were her girlfriends, but she acted more like she was fifteen and had just hit puberty.

Despite the crazy distractions, I thoroughly enjoyed going to the movies with my best girlfriends. My favorite part was watching the next batch of Carrie-crazed women enter the theater for the second showing.

One twenty-something girl caught my attention: wearing a black sequined cocktail dress and much-too-high stilettos, she stumbled through the entryway tugging at the hem of her dress while calling to her denim-clad friends, "Hey! Wait up!"

Guess they didn't bother to give her the memo. What would Carrie Bradshaw say about that?