Last night, I found myself at one of those parties that cool people on television go to. A friend in film studies shares an apartment with two law school students and a political science student, and the four of them live in the Taft, a high-rise hotel that was converted into apartments. It's kind of posh, though not so expensive if you share. Their apartment, on the 12th floor, looks like the Warhol Factory. Huge windows in the common room offer a ridiculous view of New Haven, it's populated with minimalist furniture, and it's two stories, with the second floor overlooking the living room. I'd been there once before with Josh, who looked around and said, "I feel like I should be doing cocaine off of that table. Lines of cocaine, right there."

There were several other grad students there that I knew, and many other law school students I didn't know. There were an astounding number of cardigan sweaters. And also flannel shirts, because even the law school has been influenced by hipster irony. That was the guys. The girls were all wearing tall boots and short dresses. I was wearing jeans. I didn't feel out of place, but I did feel out of uniform.

Though, honestly, I would have been in uniform, if I had been able to find a pair of boots since I started looking in OCTOBER. In fact, I currently have three pairs of boots in my apartment that I ordered online and need to return. These are the latest of the 20-25 pairs of boots I've ordered and returned. They either didn't fit, or they made my feet look monstrous, or I couldn't walk in the heels, or I was swimming in the shafts. It is really frustrating to have huge feet, small calves, and a commitment to refuse to suffer for fashion. So if I'd been able to find boots, I woulda been ready! -- I do have one knee-length dress. My sister gave it to me three years ago. It mostly hangs in my closet waiting for appropriate footwear.

To return to the party: I did meet a couple of people, but it's awfully exhausting to talk to people you don't know in a loud room. And you know what is truly a lost art? Hosting. Being a host has responsibilities. I read Emily Post, I know this. You can't just put people in the same room with wine. Especially at a big party, and especially when it draws from different constituencies. At the very least, you're supposed to introduce people to each other with an interesting fact! "Hey, Josh -- you like documentary film. You should meet Emily -- she lives in the real world." "Claudia, you're into the 60s television show, Dragnet? Ashram's father was a police office in India!"

You have to be flexible with Emily Post, though. She would insist that we take rank into consideration, for example. You're meant to introduce people of lower rank to a person of higher rank, not the other way around. "Father Leahy, may I introduce my friend, regular-citizen Tara?" Lacking titles, introduce men to women. "Zelda, I'd like you to meet Isaiah."

Oh, yes, I know all kinds of things like this. One day I will enter high society and I will be unstoppable. Unless I never find any boots, in which case I will never be able to leave my house.

This afternoon I was talking to my friend Yifat about the party, and she said, "It sounds like it wasn't very fun." And you know, I guess I didn't have very much fun. There was no dancing. And there weren't any board games. Those are the two things that basically guarantee a fun party experience for me (either one -- or both!) I did, however, have an experience, which was more than I would have had watching Dragnet at home. That show mostly provides lectures about citizenship.

I ended up throwing a party on Friday, which was not my intention. My intention was to have some people over to play board games. I sent out an email early in the week, I made snacks (corn dip! tortilla roll-ups!), and told the invited to bring games and beer. And by about 9:30, there were twenty people in my house! Which is a lot for Taboo. And is also a lot of beer.

Despite the unplannedness, it was the best party I ever hosted -- and not because of anything I did! Sure, I made a few introductions, but mostly people just talked to each other. It was bizarre, actually, but great. I kept looking around for boredom to reverse, and all I saw were animated groups of people, and all I heard was a pleasing roar of conversation.

I am reminded of the running joke on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, that every party Mary threw ended in disaster. Because of this unplanned success, I am now afraid that the next time I try to collect more than two people in a room, I'll run out of food, the lights will go out, and a major relationship will break up. Which reminds me, too, that I love Rhoda Morgenstern. Which just led to me try to put the series (Rhoda) in my Netflix queue, which led me to discover that whoever owns the rights hasn't released the series on DVD yet. How terribly disappointing. *sigh*

And it appears that the better my weekends are, the more pissed I am at work on Monday. Today, I almost threw shit when my boss and my archnemesis had a conversation about, oh my God, the weather. It's like nobody even tries to not be a caricature.

I decided, by the way, that the girl in the cubicle across is my archnemesis. Her name is Kourtney, with a K, which is pretty dumb, but it's not her fault. The major reason for the archnemerosity is this is that she and I were hired at the same time, and we're about the same age, and so when I first got here, I thought "Cool - a built-in friend!" Biggest disappointment ever. A list of reasons:
a. Lady doesn't talk.
b. Except for about once every two weeks, when she says something genuinely funny. And then returns to the boring.
c. We were sent to a conference in September, and spent several days in Charlotte together. After an entire day was over, she confided to me that she was bored during some parts. Ok, well here's the thing: When two people are at a conference together and are bored, the least they can do it write snarky comments to each other on the hotel notepads. Never happened.
d. Also at the conference, we had to eat boring food when we ate together, because Kourtney only eats "normal stuff." Like meat. And bread. She LOVES Chik-Fil-A.
e. Kourtney wears perfume that makes me feel sick. Not metaphorically.
f. Kourtney loves her job. That's disgusting.

If I don't count March -- and can I please not, since it already started? -- and presuming that I move in August, I have four months to go. Okay. *inhale* *exhale* Okay.