For those of you who have never been to Sundance Film Festival, you might have had the same picture that I had: Strolling into movie after movie, unlimited access to VIP parties, making out with celebs. Pretty much living like an A-lister.

So I donned my Ray-Bans and headed out to Park City, Utah….only to find out I was a little misguided.

Saturday: After Friday night’s welcome (I used my womanly ways to get myself and three of my male companions into a Stoli vodka party – Dudes, if you’re not on the list then always lead with a chick. Ladies, it helps to be slightly bitchy) I was ready to see movies. And here is where my fantasies of celebrity living came to a halt. Picture this: 200 people crammed like cattle into tiny waiting rooms for up to four hours per movie, hoping that enough people with advance tickets don’t show up so that you can get in. Odds of that happening on opening weekend? Not very good. I spent a good eight hours in lines and the only movies I saw were the ones I played in my head to pass the time (I know every line of Wet Hot American Summer by heart). By the time 6 p.m. rolled around I hated the name Robert Redford and didn’t feel like going out in his city.

Sunday: Trying to make the best of things I decided not to see movies until after the weekend. Instead, my group decided to go to Village at the Yard, a tent full of luxury-brand freebees. A day of drinking free vodka tonics and rummaging Sephora products? Yes, please!

Not so fast, Meagan…Being a newly employed member of society I don’t have any business cards, and when attending an event designed strictly for media professionals proof is necessary. Basically no cards, no entry.

I had just about given up on Sundance when I decided that I was going to get in somewhere. Anywhere. I jumped on a line snaking out of Harryo’s bar and lounge on Main Street. It was the line to get into the ESPN party for NFL playoffs and you had to be on the list. Now I couldn’t care less about football, but I HAD to get in. So I asked the guy in front of me if he was on the list and if I could be his plus one. And finally my luck had changed. I strolled in to Harryo’s, pink wristband firmly secured, and grabbed myself a complimentary Bud Lite. Bud Lite never tasted so much like Champagne.

I spent the afternoon shmoozing (a great Sundance past time) and eyeing Terrell Owens and Aaron Rogers (apparently they are big deals…). As I headed out on my way to my condo I heard a man say, “Those are nice,” referring to my black tights. I smiled and said thank you and it took me all of half a second to realize who it was.

“Excuse me, are you Ian Ziering?” (Being a HUGE 90210 fan I knew immediately that this was Steve Sanders.)

“Yes, I am.”

Now I was at Sundance. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Ian Ziering is a C-lister, at best. But after two whole days of nothing but denials, he may as well have been Brad Pitt.

I spent the next hour wrapped up in a one-on-one conversation with Ian (we’re on a first-name basis). I taught him some writing tricks, he showed me an acting exercise. I briefly asked him about 90210. Tacky, but I had to ask. (By the way, those were the best 10 years of his life.)

And Monday? I saw two movies and a third on Tuesday.

So was it the red-carpet trip I envisioned? Not really. But I did get to see my movies, I hit up a few VIP parties, and as for making out with celebs? I never kiss and tell.

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