I got to do something sorta exciting earlier this week.
Not super-life-altering-I-can't-believe-this-is-happening exciting, but certainly put-my-grown-up-clothes-on-and-stay-up-past-my-bedtime exciting.
Thanks to the enormous generosity (actually, I'm sure it was no big deal for them, but still) of Miramax (you know, the movie people), BFF and I got to go to the premiere of Extract (upcoming comedy starring one of my all time faves, Jason Bateman).
It wasn't my first movie premiere (I'm from LA, remember?).
But, it was my first movie premiere in which I wasn't the college kid who won the tickets on the radio or got them free on campus and decided, at the last minute, to make an appearance with the girls.
And, I wasn't the annoying patron who had to make laps around the stuffed full theater asking strangers if the one seat next to them was taken only to wind up sitting in the very front row, on the far left, next to some overweight mouth breather.
Not this time.
This time was red carpet treatment, baby!
Okay, not really, but at least I didn't have to wait in line (I was on the guest list, woot!), and I didn't have to look for a seat (they were clearly marked with official looking RESERVED FOR MIRAMAX signs), and people looked questioningly at BFF and me as they passed our special reserved seats (no doubt wondering why we didn't look more Miramaxy).
One guy even asked.
And, I hate being asked to explain myself.
But, you know, I did, to the best of my ability.
He was hoping we were some big wig Miramax execs (I did have on my cute Kenneth Cole shoes and handbag, so I'm pretty sure I looked more like a Miramax exec then the perky boobed college chicks were willing to admit).
Having to inform him that I was a blogger seemed so anticlimactic. And, I hate saying that out loud anyway because, seriously, it's not like this is a job or anything, but I really just don't know what else to say.
So, I'm intentionally vague, hoping people will assume being a blogger means something exciting, but knowing (by the confused looking forced smiley face) that they really don't know what it means, but are pretty sure it means nothing.
Unfortunately for me, Mr. Nosy Pants took it to mean I blog about movies and felt the need to ask for additional movie content information. I considered making something up (you know, just to not disappoint the guy), but figured my sweaty brow, my nervous stench, and my desperate lack of spur of the moment creativity would give me away.
So, I told him it was "supposed to be funny" and slunk back into my reserved seat like the low life blogging poser that I am.
Sadly, I couldn't even get that assessment correct because the movie wasn't funny; it was H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S!
I'm going to make you wait for the review until tomorrow, though so I can instead spend time thanking (and giving them a couple of tips since Mama Kat suggested I do that) a few people that I had the distinct "pleasure" of encountering on my big night out.
First, Miramax. Thank you, because, without you, I would not have had the opportunity to meet the Metro Witch or the Drunk Chick, so thank you for the tickets, I LOVED your film and I will go again, you know, if you need me to and it fits into my busy schedule and stuff.
But, really, it was the other two ladies that made my night, so this week's Thursday Thank You will have to be shared between you (try not to fight, there's plenty to go around).
Thank you, and you're welcome. Hope you enjoy these handmade cards. BFF is a creative genius!
Card Reads: Dear Metro Witch, Thank you for cursing me on the train. I've never been cursed before so it was an exhilarating (and slightly harrowing) experience. I'm sorry for not making a donation to whatever worthy cause you were promoting. While your nondescript folder and crinkly handouts looked mighty official, your shifty demeanor and disheveled appearance made me skeptical about the final destination of any donated funds. Here is a tip for the future: when a person declines to donate, you may want to refrain from saying, "F**k you!", to them repeatedly. It's off putting. And, it's not just me as it appeared as though the other 13 people you approached felt similarly. Oh, and I think you owe me $2.35*. XOXO, Dumb Mom.
Card Reads: Dear Drunk Chick, Thank you for nearly ruining my movie with your obnoxious guffawing and your vodka reeking pores. I'm all for getting a little sauced from time to time, but seriously, going to the movie in a drunken stupor is so 10th grade, and since you were in 10th grade when E.T. came out, it's a little ridiculous. The movie was funny, but nothing is THAT funny. But, it wasn't just the annoying loudness of your annoying laugh. It was the knee slapping and spittle production that annoyingly accompanied it. I had to hold my drink the entire time because you kept spitting on it. Have you not heard of the Swine Flu?! And, if you smell like you took a liquor bath before arriving at the theater, chances are good you've had too much. I'm pretty sure I got a buzz on your fumes. Please stop the public drunkenness, it's so unladylike. XOXO, Dumb Mom
*We arrived to our stop and attempted to exit the station only to discover that somehow my ticket was destroyed. I had to wait 10 minutes while the Metro official filled out some paperwork that I have to mail in to get a refund. I know the psycho cursing train witch put some kinda hex on me so I couldn't get outta the station. She was crazy like that.
And, as further proof that we were hexed, BFF woke up Tuesday morning with a grotesque eye infection. She looked like a preschooler with her oozy-nasty-icky-drippy conjunctivitis.
Moral of the story: Don't mess with witches man, they are effing C-A-R-A-Z-Y.
