So sue me. I went to Nancy Pelosi’s big gala for major donors the night before her installation as Speaker of the House. Not that I gave a dime to elect a Democrat to anything. My companion, I am sorry to say, did give a considerable chunk of cash when Rahm Emmanuel called, to “keep communications open.” It’s amazing how many money guys do that sort of thing.

I had trepidations, of course. Having spent most of my adult life in right-wing trenches, the prospect of walking into a large room filled entirely with the enemy was a bit intimidating. What do you say to them? What if they can see what you think?

And why, in God’s name, would I want to waste a night watching these wealthy commies congratulate themselves on the ascension of their very minor demon queen to a position of power? Maybe because the party seemed more amusing than real life — or mine, anyway — and I figured that, with a little bravado, I could pass. Besides, it is occasionally entertaining to be a fly on the wall.

So I took the train to D.C., parked my stuff at a very nice hotel, and changed into a cocktail suit, as the invitation requested. Naturally I wore the traditional Republican double strand of choker-length eight-millimeter pearls. Just that morning, on the front page of the New York Times, was a picture of notables at the funeral of President Ford. In it, Barbara Bush, Lynne Cheney, Doro Bush, and Mrs. Ford herself all wore them. In my youth I wore them as an ironic icon; now that conservative matron is me.

There was a long line of limos stretching for almost a block in front of the new Italian embassy, where Nancy’s party was happening. They were filled with– yes! — limousine liberals. I entered expecting something elegant and Italianate, but the inside of the sterile white brick building was worse than the outside. The event was in a large central atrium-like room, whose walls were saturated in primary colors, with lighting to intensify the effect. Can you say “1970s”? I grew up in that decade of execrable architecture, aesthetics, and politics, which is probably why I became a wing nut. The most hideous decade ever, and Italy, homeland of my Fendi purses and Ferragamo shoes, has chosen it for the décor of their embassy? Unspeakable.

Meanwhile, to be even more superficial than necessary, I was puzzled about the clothing. I assumed that these Democratic donors would be all dressed up. Some were, in fact, wearing dinner suits. More were wearing pantsuits, mostly black, of course, but definitely from the “sportswear” department. Not that it matters. In honor of Nancy Pelosi and her signature strand of silver, gold, and white South Sea pearls (which my jeweler estimates at somewhere north of 80 grand), many women were wearing similar necklaces. One congresswoman I spoke to wore a glaringly faux string; now that she is going to be a committee chair, she really should upgrade. But even she wasn’t as tacky as those with large, round Rosie the Riveter buttons on their silk lapels, saying, “a woman’s place is in the house — and the Senate too.” Haven’t heard that one since my subscription to Ms. lapsed in 1978.

We got champagne — probably Italian — to help with the mingling, which went on for quite a while. Some of it consisted of people talking to other people. But it was mostly donors trying to get face time with the congressmen and senators to whom they had written big checks.

Looking around the room: Former Congresswoman Lindy Boggs, I must say, looked very elegant. Senator Dianne Feinstein, whom I always thought rather imposing, is less so in person. Former congresswoman and hardcore feminist Pat Schroeder, who was last seen nationally in 1988 when she ran in the presidential primaries and burst into tears early on the campaign trail, must have had a bittersweet feeling about this turn of events. And Nancy’s mentor, Congressman George Miller of central California, who was sitting right behind me, had that puffy, red-veined-face thing that suggests a little too much hootch. Under the circumstances — a night of small talk with the people who bought him his seat — one could hardly blame him.

Milling around the surrounding tables were Maria Cantwell, Chris Dodd, Charlie Rangel, and Wesley Clark. Back in the day, I put in a lot of hours with the likes of Newt, Jack Kemp (who always had an earnest disquisition on economics up his sleeve), Elizabeth Dole, Jeane Kirkpatrick, assorted senators, congresspeople, Cabinet secretaries, and the occasional POTUS or VPOTUS — not to mention attending all too many fundraisers of varying fabulousness for (it now seems clear) totally implausible candidates who had only ideas to recommend them. And you know what? While Mrs. Dole came close, I have never seen the preternatural glow — smooth, buffed radiance — exuded by the above-mentioned Democrat luminaries. Is it possible that Wes Clark has been Botoxed? What hair-smoothing product does Charlie Rangel use? And Chris Dodd, who claims to be mulling a presidential campaign (ha!), radiated intense self-love as he strutted from donor to donor, with almost none of his traditional puffiness.

But all of this was absolutely nothing compared to the prom queen herself. Nancy D’Alessandro Pelosi, millionairess woman of the people, wore a lovely ruffled silk taffeta evening blouse, in a flattering shade of purple, over a black silk skirt. Her hair shone with the diligent efforts of a really first-rate colorist. I’m guessing she had the full face done, since there were mighty few wrinkles in sight, and her skin was quite taut. There were problems, however: The eyebrows were pulled up a little too high, leaving a permanent open-eyed look on her face; and I think the surgeon was channeling Diane Keaton around the mouth. But I cavil. If you like the look of 66-year-old grandmas who can almost, sort of pass for their 35-year-old daughters, she’s your girl.

In his column on Thursday, David Brooks claimed that Nancy Pelosi made her way to power by mastering the “$1000 a plate dinner” and by creating seating charts where others dared not. If our table was representative. the seating was done by zip code. The table was filled with Jews from the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a lone Long Island philanthropist, and Congresswoman Nita Lowey of lower Westchester and her husband.

As we ate, the commercial real-estate baron next to me explained to the table that he had “had enough” some years back. “All the wealthy people I know, they only care about having their taxes cut. I don’t think that’s right.” “What are the issues you really care about?” I asked. “Rich and poor in this country. It’s not right,” he said, as if it was obvious what that implied. After which exchange he and the philanthropist, a lovely woman, began agreeing vehemently about the fact that everyone they know says that Bush is so good for Israel. “How can it be good for Israel that he has made such a mess in the Mideast.” I had a comment ready, but at that point Congresswoman Lowey sat down and proceeded to tell us, apropos of something else, that (she lowered her voice to say this) “the Bush Administration has been really really good about Israel. And no one wants to see the Palestinians starve….but Hamas is a terrorist organization.” I felt a surge of reassurance for a moment there, despite what one knows of her domestic politics.

I asked the real-estate developer what he thought of Pelosi. “I spent a lot of time with her. She told me she could win. She said she had a plan.” What was the plan? “The idea was that they would just criticize whatever plans the Republicans put out there….They would tear them down — like they did with Social Security — and not put out their own plans. They have been very disciplined.” Indeed. No stray substance at all — and this sharp businessman had forked over $25 grand in support.

Further discussion was halted by the appearance of Nancy’s brother, the former mayor of Baltimore, from whence Nancy hails. He spoke at length — great, unscripted length — about how wonderful his sister is. Then he introduced the Italian ambassador. Mr. Ambassador babbled on — at embarrassing length –about how wonderful it was to have the very first Italian-American speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives. My companion and I marveled at how easily he managed to make it sound as if Italians were oppressed here. The ambassador seemed almost to have forgotten that Pelosi is “the most powerful woman in America,” a grandmother, and the first woman speaker — women and grandmothers being the oppressed minority of note at this celebration. It should be noted that, in return, Nancy extemporized about “America’s special relationship with Italy, our most reliable NATO ally.” I wonder if Madeleine Albright, sitting toward the back, was as shocked as I was to hear “America’s most powerful woman” throw significant diplomatic language about so cavalierly. Probably not.

Nancy’s husband Paul spoke. He is a handsome, young looking man, who also felt that he was witty and interesting enough to ramble on without a prepared speech. But for his wealth — somewhere between $20 and $90 million — you wouldn’t guess that he was particularly bright. Anyway the greatest tribute he could pay to his wife was to quote his daughter, who said, elegantly, “What the hell took so long?”

Finally, Nancy took the stage. She fluttered about, thanking the audience for its generous donations. And all on faith — she might have added. Disciplined even in her euphoria she betrayed no hint of a substantive agenda — except that it would all be in the name of “the children.” You know, the people in that room were not fools. It just baffles me that they were satisfied with so little substance.

And here, patient reader, we stop to marvel at the mediocrity of this woman: she has a BA from a fourth-rate college and no professional experience to speak of (though she did raise five children, for which she deserves full credit); she did high-level volunteer work in San Francisco and across the state for the party; she has been in Congress 20 years, where she failed to distinguish herself on any particular policy issue; she raised a lot of money and was elected minority leader. For a host of reasons NRO readers are all too familiar with, her party took the House. There is a great deal of dumb luck in that story — and not enough merit. For that reason Mrs. Pelosi might consider showing a little more humility and a little less strutting.

As it happens, I too have waited to see women take their rightful places in the top ranks of national leaders. I had expected that the “firsts” would more likely be Republicans — because they are more serious about serious matters. Failing that, I would have bet on the earnest Democratic feminist graduates of Ivy League law schools, who mastered policy and politics and eschewed the hostess, event planner roles for substance. Things turned out differently. Still, the feminists should be happy. Who was it who said that “real equality is when a mediocre woman can go as far as a mediocre man”? Looks like we’re there.

As we were leaving, after a few weirdly out of place songs by James Taylor and Tony Bennett, the latter of whom genially added some politics to his patter (“I haven’t felt this much hope since FDR — or Jack Kennedy…” ), we worried about whether there would be enough cabs. A competent young staffer assured us that it would be no problem. Her staff had called “about 70 cabs, which should be arriving now.” I was relieved, yet distressed. What if they really are that competent?

Half an hour and several long blocks later, no cabs in sight — and I was less worried.

– Lisa Schiffren is a writer, and former GOP speechwriter, living in New York. She will be contributing to Commentary magazine’s forthcoming blog, Contentions.