I was ecstatic. It’s like Christmas Eve or a day at the amusement park without lines. A chick flick premiere does it for me every single time. They’re formulaic; you know absolutely 100% how it will end before you even palm your popcorn. And I don’t care. I eat it up, lick it up, cry it up, and have to see it opening day. When I leave the theatre, wiping the tears into my hair, I make a mental note to investigate its release on DVD. I’m a smart woman, why do I always let these second rate movies do it for me? In part because I’m a girl. In part because I’m a romantic, an absurd, sometimes destructive in search of it, romantic. I’ve had those feelings for a guy I’ve just met. Feeling like I’ve know him forever, something in there telling me we’ll always be together before I even know how he takes his coffee, or if he even drinks hot beverages. I’m not very practical when it comes to matters of the heart. And whenever a practical decision is made in a chick flick, it’s the wrong decision. So basically, it gives me free reign to act like a romantic swooning irrational woman. You know, the good ones are always a little crazy… So back to my past tense, “I was ecstatic.”
Monique Ellenbogen invites me for the second time to see a sneak preview of Little Black Book with Britney Murphy last night. We were torn when the first invite for the premiere landed in her lap because that night my photographs were being featured at Lotus in the meatpacking district. Lotus meant appetizers and peach puree martinis. So when the offer to sneak peak the chick flick came round again, we jumped. I actually squealed, “I’m psyched.” Suddenly I was in the 80s.
So we arrive at the theatre in Times Square. It’s crowded and chockfull of slow walkers, your basic nightmare. But we make it there, smiling with anticipation, a hop in our steps. “Sorry. Seats are full. We’ll let them know you stopped in. Bye.” You could almost hear us deflate. I might have actually hissed. So we picked up our chins, dragged our feet, and did the only thing I could think of in Times Square in our despondent state: drink. Normally, I’d offer up air hockey at ESPN Zone. This was an emergency; it called for sushi. We sidled into seats at Blue Fin, ordered our wine and sushi rolls and Monique helped me brainstorm indigenous New York City terms, songs, and foods. I actually began to talk work; the index cards slip out of my purse. Maybe it was the wine, but we were able to turn my Time Warner Center campaign into something ownable, something only in New York. Then we girled out at Sephora and played with make-up. It was a chicky night after all, even without Ms. Murphy. Please, I’m going to see The Notebook tonight. I’ve got the shakes from the withdrawal. I’m counting the moments until I’m in the dark again… but for now, at least there’s my DVD player and Sabrina.