I am having an Oscar party on March 5. I always have Oscar parties when I don’t live in LA because I am so desperate for company watching the Academy Awards. In Bethlehem, PA (we from Pennsylvania always say P-A after the city), I had four of my fellow doctoral candidates over for Boboli and wine. I gave favors. And a prize for the one who guessed the most wins correctly. I made them stay up till way past their bedtime so that we could see the grand finale together.

When I lived in LA, I did not need to have an Oscar party as the entire city was watching with me. LA is such a company town, and I did, after all, live in West Hollywood. The buzz was palpable, and the traffic intense once the limos started making the trek to, first, the Shrine and, now, the Kodak at Hollywood & Highland.

One year I walked with a friend whose star-struck sister was visiting her the couple of blocks from my house to Morton’s, where the big Vanity Fair party always is. We stood behind a cordon manned by LA’s Finest and watched the stars arrive. It was less than momentous, and the only one I remember was Meryl Streep, who wore an unfortunate gown that made her look like an ocean liner making its way down La Cienga Boulevard.

I liked living amid the Oscar prep. I liked it that the restaurants around me were closed for Oscar parties. I liked knowing that in all the doctor’s offices around me, industry women were getting their Botox and Restylane. I liked the fact that the gowns on the Red Carpet came from the stores in my neighborhood. I didn’t want to go to the Oscars or be a nominee. I didn’t even want to be invited to the parties or be part of the scene. I just enjoyed the vibe, I guess.

I think it must be similar to the way I–and most women feel I imagine–when we have romantic fantasies about male stars. I like the idea of George Clooney or Robert Redford winding his way up to me. But the actual guy proposing the actual act? No, thank you.