Kermit’s got a ticket to the night’s Smithsonian parties.

Haven’t heard back from Eleanor about your tickets to the inauguration? No personal promises that Barack will hook you up with a couple ball passes? Fret not! Last week, The Sexist suggested you compete for the affections of someone with a golden ticket. Today, I present Plan B: Work for it.

Back in 2005, I had the pleasure of attending a decadent Jan. 20 inauguration party held in the hallowed halls of the Smithsonian American History Museum. Martinis were shaken. Black ties were loosened. Mini-quiches were consumed.

Granted: It was the “Michigan State Society Ball,” I was wearing a cheap tuxedo, and I was tasked with circulating a tray of to drunk fancy old people, none of whom I recognized. But O, the pleated pants I wore! The clip-on bow tie I clipped on! The entire tray of picked-over petite pastries hors d’oeuvres I consumed furiously behind a heavy velvet curtain, outside of the incessant gaze of my manager!

If you really want to get inside an inaugural ball, start calling local caterers (I used to work for Restaurant Associates, which is based outside of the Kennedy Center and regularly caters for the Smithsonian) and see if they’re hiring for the new year. Or, wait until Jan. 20, stake out a ball location, put on a tux—-bonus if you’re a lady—-with a plain, non-ruffled shirt and traction-heavy black shoes, and slip into a line of service penguins outside in the catering tent.

Photo by jrotunda85.