Last weekend, I found myself locked out on a balcony with three other lovely women. We were at a get together and the increasingly inebriated male consortium that were responsible for our imprisonment surely thought that that this would be some kind of teasing punishment for us. Of course, when they realized the lameness of their inside sausage fest they opened the doors and were begging us to come back in. But we had no desire to return, the only phallus we needed to inspire our "girl talk" being the sparkling, silent, and sober Eiffel Tower.

The topics of discussion do not need to be enumerated here, but needless to say, they were things that should only be discussed between women and exceedingly cool gay men. And I have missed these talks. So, last night, I invited some of my fellow Juliets to see the girliest movie around: Sophia Coppola's Marie Antoinette.

No, it was not historically accurate. No, it was not politically pertinent. No, it was not even a very good narrative. But it was magnificently fun. Like a John Hughes movie in period costumes. Like Paris Hilton with a beehive. And it inspired me to party better, with towers of champagne and endless plates of pastries and shoes.

I wish I had seen it before my wedding though, as I would've realized that many of the strange things (for example the fire spitting tower of mini-pastries that they called a wedding cake) were in fact French royal traditions. But then again, it could've just been Sophia Coppola's poetic license again.