It's not exactly news that there are many occasions for which there exists no Hallmark card. Unsurprisingly, I've come across another of these occasions, these social idiosyncracies that require some sort of acknowledgement, preferably in the form of a card printed with someone else's idea of what the proper sentiment is for the situation. Oh, but there is no card this time. And if my understanding of the laws of probability is correct, there never will be.

This weekend, I went with my friends, fake-named Kent and Lydia, to take their belongings to their new house in Alameda. The journey�or my participation, at any rate�was largely a function of my separation anxiety, and part of my plan to drink gallons of red wine, forget where I lived, and stay with them forever. I rode up with Lydia while Kent drove the U-Haul truck packed to the gills by he and the Keelhauler.

Owing to the Red Wine Plan, the entire weekend is a beautiful, blurry watercolor of events, centering around the wonderful Craftsman-style house Kent and Lydia bought, and all their friends who came by to unload the truck, and playing guitars in the living room, and wearing hats and drinking wine and shooting each other with a digital temperature gauge (to determine "hottness"), and laughter. And then there's the big black mark on my personal deportment chart, related to the degree of intensity with which I inexplicably grilled their jovial and slightly flirtatious realtor regarding his choice of cologne.

The interrogation included a long sequence in which I insisted on guessing, joyfully and in alphabetical order, all the perfume brands I could think of, to get to the correct one, which I eventually did. Refusing to allow hinting, I started at A, and plowed my way all the way through the alphabet ("Chanel?" No! "Comme des Garcons?" No! "Creed?" No!) to the right answer: Yves St. Laurent. I know a lot of perfumes. It was a long game.

Kent witnessed the melee and seemed to find it amusing, but in the light of day, I admit to wondering why I would torment a perfect stranger whose only crime was smelling good.

I guess it's just fun.

Star of the day. . .Miss Manners