Click here for Peter Travers' video review of Sex and the City

Dear Diary,

Don't hate me. Tonight I did something that most women would never speak to me again for doing, and/or give away organs to do themselves. Practical, intelligent women; and I'm not talking kidneys.

Yes, tonight, I attended the Sex and the City movie premiere at Radio City Music Hall in New York City (with my bestie Ally Lewis.) Shoutoutz!

When we arrived at the pink carpet, the situation was about as glamorous as those Season One episodes where Carrie would turn to the camera and say what was on her mind. (Props to whoever put an end to this.) The rain was coming down, the make-up was running, and the line to get in resembled one of those extreme hamster cages with the psycho tubing.

A mousey girl with a heinous beret climbed onto the nearest barricade and began pouting. "Who's in charge here?" she asked no one in particular. "I've been waiting since 5:30!"

"I've been waiting four years!" I wanted to say back. But no. There was no reason to unleash my inner anger at Minnie Mouse when it was clearly Kim Catrall I wanted words with.

A man with a suit and (momentarily) the most power in Manhattan shoos Mousey and I forward. Jerry Seinfeld and his wife are just a few feet away. Katie Couric steps out of an Escalade. We were in.

"Good evening, everyone," an announcer began as we roamed the gorgeously upholstered theatre. "Please find your seats. As a reminder, you are prostricted from using any electronics during this performance." A pause. "I think she just mixed 'prohibited' and 'restricted,'" I announce. "Cool."

At this point I'm so antsy that I'm commenting on everything that happens...or could happen.

"$100 a cell phone goes off, and it's the theme song," I bet Ally. "Dude! I think I see Smith."

We sit down and I start funneling popcorn & Vitamin Water to quiet myself. Yes, these were our parting gifts at the premiere. Not a Manolo gift bag. Not a martini. Popcorn and Vitamin Water. Two things Carrie would probably turn away on a deserted island. But I digress.

The first character to come down the aisle to find his seat is Chris Noth (aka Big, aka John James Preston, aka the bane of every feminist's nightmares.) He's smiling widely and waving, and the crowd is seriously losing it. A woman in front of me cups her hands over her mouth as if she's made a fatal error. I can't help but think she has.

"We're thrilled to be home," SJP says, as she finally takes the stage with Cynthia Nixon, Kim Catrall and Kristin Davis. "This is where sex belongs, New York City."

In a beautiful strapless silver gown and no buzzards atop her head, Parker settles us. She has an air about her, not unlike her character, that silences any crowd. The movie hasn't even started, and she's managed to steal the show. I glance at Samantha. Half-smile.

My dear Diary, I don't want to ruin the movie for you, so I'll end my entry here. I will say, though, that the night I'd been anticipating was nothing that I expected, and everything I secretly hoped for. Brash and muggy and chaotic at first, but beautiful and classy and solemn in the end. Full of crazies and wannabes; then socialites and movie stars. In other words, New York City.

Click here for Peter Travers' video review of Sex and the City