Having explained the mysteries of Delaware Chancery, I wish to read the Style Editor venting upon this here article from the NYT.

It does not begin well:

SEATED to my right was a former college fraternity president. To my left was a Condé Nast editor. The low roar of conversation — about personal trainers, one-night stands and the unlikely pleasures of calf roping — was interrupted by a spate of impromptu dancing, squeals of laughter and a brief wrestling bout. The tuna-noodle casserole was going over well, as were the Nutella and Skippy sandwiches.

The Postal Service, an indie-rock band, played in the background. A case of inexpensive wine was flowing, augmented by Grey Goose martinis and red plastic cups of Johnnie Walker Black, neat.

Dorothy Draper's advice was working.

Believe me, I could use some advice. I am a 22-year-old with a subpar income. I live with three roommates in a walk-up railroad apartment on the Upper East Side.

Until recently I had no clue what an aperitif was, and my idea of a proper dinner involved grating real cheese into a Kraft Dinner. Now, on the eve of the holidays, it was time to grow up and face that post-college rite of passage: giving my first dinner party.

Oh, gag me with a bottle of Grey Goose. Madam, Dorothy Draper would tar you and feather you and beat you bloody.