Grab your cupcakes girls, pin on a corsage and get mixing the Cosmos.
The time has finally come and we all know what we're up to this weekend ... Sex And The City 2; the most consummate celebration of womanhood since our aunties hopped on board the Condom Train to Belfast in 1971.
Now, I have to confess here, I'm not a great one for orchestrated celebrations.
The ones where you're a considered a freak if you're not in an automatic frenzy of excitement at the prospect of what's to come.
New Year's Eve fills me with dread as everyone over-hypes the night to such an extent that all you're really guaranteed is a great big feeling of anticlimax come midnight.
At any time, I hate being told when to enjoy myself, how to dress, what to drink and when to emote.
Being instructed to conform makes me want to dig in my heels even more as I sulk in protest like a petulant teenager.
So, while I enjoyed the TV series, and liked the first SATC movie, the prospect of this weekend's obligatory celebration of the sisterhood doesn't exactly fill me with girlie glee. And if I have to read one more magazine feature telling me how to 'get the look', I think I'll set fire to a newsagent.
I know all around me, women are block-booking seats at their local multiplex. They'll be dressing in gear more appropriate to The Trinity Ball than a night at the movies.
They'll no doubt sink a few Flirtinis before the off, giddily putting their suburban lives on hold while immersing themselves in the colourful world of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda.
But before you write me off as a killjoy, there's one thing I've realised about this weekend's femme-fest that has me slipping into my Manolos quicker than you can say "Mr Big", and it's something we all need to recognise.
Ladies, this is our World Cup. It's the last chance we're going to get to bags the babysitter, to arrange a great night out with the girls -- all of whom have a similar free pass -- and to totally indulge ourselves to the max. Because in 17 days time, and for the month thereafter, the closest thing we're going to get to either sex or the city will be collecting the Eddie Rockets take-out and serving it up in an apron and heels.
We're entering a month of beer, nylon football shirts, The Off Side Rule and monosyllabic grunts ... if we're lucky
Our men folk will withdraw from all responsibilities, both professional and domestic, and take root in front of oversized tellies, possibly bought specially for the occasion.
If we're lucky, there might be the glimpse of a trussed-up WAG to entertain us from time to time, but other than that ladies, June is looking positively spherical.
And a bit like that final carb party you throw before embarking on the diet to end all diets, we're entitled to a last weekend blow-out to celebrate the more frivolous parts of being a girl. In fact, it's our duty.
Over the next few days, if we haven't loaded up on horseshoe necklaces and sugary cocktails ... if we haven't had brunch with the girls and made inappropriate suggestions to the hot waiter ... and if we haven't struggled home from Cineworld, arm-in-arm with our besties, singing You've Got The Love out of tune, we have no one to blame when the Eamonn Dunphy's commentary replaces Sarah Jessica Parker's.
So, even if you think you don't care what happens between Carrie and Big, even if you're not amused by Samantha's insatiable sexual appetite or even if you can't identify with Charlotte or Miranda, you owe it to your gender to get out of those Penneys PJs and into something more frou frou.
You know what the water cooler chat will be about on Monday girls, so get out there and be part of it.
Melanie Morris is editor of IMAGE Magazine