Can I tell you how distressing my opening night at the umpteenth-whatever Toronto International Film thingy was? Maybe if you'd stop fidgeting with your coffee cup and just be sensitive to my needs for one single second?

Thank you. Like I was saying, it's officially intolerable. Smoochey-smoochey this. Can-I-get-you-a-martini-Miss-that. So tiresome.

I knew my Party Princess depression had shifted from grey to black the moment I entered the Rosewater Supper Club for the opening cocktail party and met Dale Johnson, the well-worn Marilyn impersonator Piper-Heidsieck champagne has hired to shill their new product. (Apparently Piper was the real Monroe's favourite champagne -- more on the champers later.) Nothing against Johnson personally, the part-time executive recruiter did a credible coo 'n' squeal routine, complete with heavy wafts of Channel No. 5 -- I just find female female-impersonaters sort of sad. Where have all the drag queens gone?

The event itself was, by all accounts, your regular, opening night do: A lot of media and corporate sponsors staring at each other across a table of Grade-A cold cuts. This made things particularly stressful for the small handful of visible Canadian celebrities in attendance, who were pounced on like so many wheatgrass smoothies at a personal trainer convention. Providing demure quote was the internationally acclaimed actress Arsinée Khanjian, back from a stint setting France ablaze and gorgeously apparent in a black feathered ball skirt. She brought along her husband who has apparently made a couple of films.

Molly Parker, who plays Sarah, an architecture grad student in a claustrophobic relationship in the gala movie, Bruce Sweeney's Last Wedding, was there with her lovely and similarly freckled Mum, Susan. ("Just call me Molly's mum," she said when I asked her last name.) They were talking about going down to L.A. next week to put in some sweet peas -- apparently fall is the time to plant down there. Molly, who takes the Most-Well-Adjusted-Young-Movie-Star-On-Planet award, was wearing this devastatingly cool Victorian high-necked blouse (Mimi Bizjak), a peacock feather broach by Tisha Fontaine with -- yes -- a pair of red Converse. I could have killed her. Even her mum seemed a bit jealous.

Adding to the PP's mounting stress level is the fact that the product-pushing at the festival is out of control this year. Is anyone as sick of Altoids (the official TIFF breath mint) as I am? They're not as effective as gum and they coat your teeth with sugar. Still, the marketing drive has been so successful the air in the Park Hyatt lobby stinks of wintergreen critic breath. And if you're impressed by all those $25 mini bottles of Piper floating around town, you shouldn't be. Wake up Toronto -- this is not a new idea. Pommery pulled off a similar stunt a year ago and guess what? We prefer our bubbles in a flute. Glasses, unlike straws, don't cause the champagne to fizz up your nose and on to your toes. On the bright side, the PP can say she's comforted to know that the Boiler Inspection and Insurance Company of Canada is also an official sponsor for this year's festival.

Not that I'd know anything about being full of myself, but some people seem to get inflated egos around this time each year. Certain PR people now have voice-mail greetings apologizing for the fact that they won't be calling you back during the festival. "It's not that I'm ignoring you," they chirp, "it's just I'm really, really busy." Readers: Can you even grasp how annoying this is? Don't even talk to me about me about weally, weally busy. I haven't been in the lotus position in three whole weeks.

Here's the rub: The film festival is ruining my life. My hair is suffering from a prolonged anxiety attack. I've fallen out of ketosis. I think I might be developing a wrinkle, and you know what that leads to: Botox. My limo driver, supportive as he is, hasn't yet offered to give me foot massages between events. I was so strapped for time I didn't even manage to make an appointment with my dresser before opening night. I showed up at the Rosewater in a jean jacket and a dress I got on sale two weeks ago. Do you have any idea just how long two weeks is in fashion terms? Naturally, I managed to pull it off in the end. A Hollywood stylist took the time to take me aside on the street to compliment me on my look. At least she looked like a Hollywood stylist -- she may have been a squeegee kid. Dirty denim is so confusing.

The only thing that's working out so far is my planned boycott of the George Christy luncheon at the Four Seasons. No sign of an invitation so far. Phew.

Party points

• How the Opening Night pre-gala cocktail party measured up:
  
• Fashion: ****
  
• Food: ***
  
• Flirt opportunities: **
  
• Booze: ****
  
• Buzz: **
  
• Eye candy: ***
  
• Atmosphere: **
  
• Conversation: **
  
• PPET*: *
  
• Overall score: 23 points

*Party Princess Emotional Temperature

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