Thousands of miles from the glamorous sand dunes of Abu Dhabi, in an entirely different beach town, four women clamored into their seats at the Muvico in Pompano Beach to watch the premiere of
We purchased our $11 tickets days in advance. My pals came decked out in strappy heels. They arrived half an hour early and bought an enormous bag of popcorn.
Just before the lights went down, a theater employee walked in carrying a huge, rolled-up movie poster. Testosterone-wise, he was severely outnumbered.
"I'm supposed to give this to someone with, what is it called, Manolo?" he queried uncertainly.
"I have Manolos!" screeched an ecstatic blond woman, holding up her shiny black stilettos.
Minutes later, as the credits began to roll, my friend Julie passed each of us tiny bottles of Merlot -- the especially classy kind with screw-off tops -- and plastic cups. Already, the night was destined to be a success.
Some people don't understand the Sex and the City phenomenon. The show is so vacuous, so simpering, so gratingly unrealistic in its portrayal of a writer's life in New York. But that was never the point.
Over the next two-and-a-half hours, we got to watch a miraculously mobile Liza Minnelli sing Beyoncé's "Single Ladies." We saw Sarah Jessica Parker sporting M.C.Hammer pants. And we watched the invincible Kim Cattrall call a man "Lawrence of my Labia."
All that and a glass of cheap wine... what more do you need?