My sincere apologies, city-doers, for my slacking and your lacking of imperative celebrity gossip amidst something about an election. I assure you my absence and this tardy column is due to a series of spooky soirees and fabulous fashion galas, and not piles of (literal and figurative) wasted hours watching Paris Hilton find a new BFF. Either way, partying like Paris ensues. Finally using elementary school’s damn little Ws, a few party tips guaranteed to make you tipsy:

Who to bring: Your partner(s) in crime is the other half (or two thirds? Math is hard.) of your party pleasure potential. A sloppy or stroppy gal pal – and don’t even think about bringing a dude – can enable your alcoholism or kill your buzz. Find the Nicole to your Paris or the Heidi to your Lauren and eternal party friendship will be yours. Whether it’s your midnight man or booze-before-liquor, compatibility is always the key. Also the key? Looking hot. Yeah, that’s the real key.

What to wear: You don’t need to win Project Runway to subtly dominate the aesthetic tastes of every man (except Christian Siriano, who thinks you’re a tranny). The trick to this party is, using your party pals from lesson one, to cover all your bases. Ideally neither hotter nor less hot than you – though if you hafta choose? Less hot, always less hot – have your team mix it up: if one wears jeans, the other a dress. If you’re dressed conservatively, she’s a bar slut. Shoot for the unstoppable red hair/blonde hair/Asian combo; all men are powerless at its whims.

Where to go: Your goal, always and like Paris, is to be seen in various states of fabulousness. Think galleries, events, and openings. Say “Yes, I’m on the list” to anything involving PR, RSVPs, and RRSPs. Just say no to the DVP and HPV. These are just a few examples of the flip side: where you don’t want to be seen. This includes but isn’t limited to showing your ‘02 student card at the Velvet Underground, waiting for the last bus on Dundas West, and “flirting” with a bouncer at the Firkin to please be let back in because you left your purse.

When to arrive: Never be the first to arrive; you might as well start to cry and go home. But don’t trip on your pumps through the door at 2am screaming about where the party is. Paris poseurs know to arrive on the party wave and surf out in style, with your dignity and stomach contents intact. Even if you’re just going home to dance around to your own music video, no one knows this. And don’t get so drunk that you tell them.

Why to boot it: There are certain moments at every party where that icky feeling gets in your mouth and you know a smart girl would say “No, you can’t just come in for a minute” or “Thanks, but I don’t do that anymore.” Whenever some dude starts snapping your pic for his website, or when you realize your friend’s making out with a guy with a handlebar mustache, or if you suddenly notice your feet are bleeding into your shoes, it’s over. So be smart, save your pukes ‘til you get home, and then call your midnight cowboy to come over for another episode of BFF. It’s hot.