Sunday night, we went to an Oscar party at our friends Amy and David’s apartment in Cobble Hill. Amy and David, with whom Andy and I went to college, are English teachers who enjoy puns. They also share the kind of no-frills food obsession typified by glowingly described pilgrimages to Russ and Daughters and the Second Avenue Deli. On Oscar night, these things coalesce into an Oscar party with nominee-themed snacks.

“Can I interest either of you in a Bloody Maria Full of Grace?” David asked as we entered. “Yours can be a Virgin Maria Full of Grace,” he added, motioning toward my belly.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d love one.”

“I think every woman at this party is pregnant,” he said. Amy herself was due in April and, though it seemed like everyone in our little slice of Brooklyn was either pregnant or had recently had a baby, I took David’s comment as confirmation that Courtney, my nemesis, would be at the party.

In spite of this, I smiled.

“There was some debate over whether a Virgin Maria counted as a ‘Passion of the Christ’ nod,” he said as Andy handed over the bottle of pinot grigio we’d brought in homage to “Sideways.”

“What’d you decide?”

“That it doesn’t matter. We already have Passion fruit of the Christ sorbet.”

“Good one,” Andy nodded.

“The only one we came up short on was ‘The Aviator,'” he said. A look of consternation passed briefly over his features. “But we figured we’d make everyone compulsively wash their hands before each award gets presented.”

We nodded; this seemed fair.

We made our way to the living room, where a few other couples were assembled. Greetings were exchanged all around and we were informed that Amy was in the kitchen preparing Udon Cheadle noodles.

Before we could hear any more name puns, a Jack Russell terrier scampered toward us, seemingly very interested in my Velcro-tie Pumas. He was wearing a doggie tuxedo.

“Duncan is our master of ceremonies,” David explained. “He’s the Chris Rock of this gala.” “Duncan is the Chris Rock of every gala,” Marc, a public interest lawyer, piped in from the couch.

“In this house, at least,” his wife, Kim, added good-naturedly.

“True,” David said, scooping up the dog and kissing him. “You’re the funniest dog in America, aren’t you, Duncan?” he said in a baby voice.

We were standing near the fireplace, so I did a quick, nearly involuntary scan of the photos on the mantle. Some of them featured David, some of them featured Amy, and some of them featured the two of them together. But all of them featured Duncan. Suddenly, I remembered the e-mail invite David and Amy sent out for their New Year’s brunch. It had a picture of Duncan wearing a party hat and a weary expression. It said, “Come join us for some of the hair of the Duncan that bit ya.” It hit me: Not only were David and Amy the couple who host the Oscar party with theme-named snacks, they were also the couple that fetishizes their dog.

Just then, Amy entered, complete with noodles and protruding belly. I looked down at Duncan, who was playing with an Oscar chew toy. That dog was in for a rude awakening.

Before I could muse on this further, a voice rang out from the hallway.

“We brought Million Dollar Baby Ruths,” my friend Matthew said. I turned to see him and his wife, the dreaded Courtney.

They entered the room and greeted us, Matthew with a hug for me, and Courtney with her usual frosty smile.

“Are you in maternity clothes yet?” she asked, eyeing the jeans I was wearing suspiciously.

If anyone else had asked, I would have launched into a description of my maternity jeans dilemma: to buy or not to buy a pair of Citizens of Humanity ones? (Yes, they were expensive, but spending extra cash for cuteness seemed more justifiable now than ever and, besides, weren’t jeans a basic?) But this was Courtney, so instead I simply said, “I’m just starting to think about them.”

Soon enough, we all took our seats and began watching the red carpet. Laura Linney’s ensemble was widely panned, but Amy reminded us pregnant folk that the sour Gerkin-sleys on the buffet were still very tasty. Everyone agreed that Cate Blanchett looked great, and David said, “We should all wash our hands now.” When people laughed, but made no moves from their seats, he proceeded to produce Wet Wipes. Normally, I love a red carpet. But this year, I found myself thinking of my new friend The Celebrity, and how it must feel to walk one. Earlier in the week, she had left a note for me with the counter girl at the adorable sandwich and smoothie shop, our mutual neighborhood hangout. “Going to L.A. for a week, but hope to see you when I’m back,” it said.

I wondered if she was there for the Oscars. Would she turn up on the red carpet? It was possible that, while I agonized over $200 jeans, she could have spent the last few days fielding jewels and designer gowns with a high-powered stylist. “It must be strange to be a celebrity,” some said, as if reading my thoughts.

“Yeah,” Matthew piped in. “But definitely not strange in a bad way.”

There were knowing snorts all around, but I stayed silent. If The Celebrity were to appear, someone would surely say, “I’ve seen her in the neighborhood.” What would I do then, reveal our newfound relationship with studied nonchalance, or simply sit and say nothing? I knew I’d opt for the latter. But that decision made me wonder: Could I ever integrate The Celebrity into my normal friend circle? Was it possible to eat Bean Julia burritos with someone who could have been in “Being Julia”? When the Red Carpet coverage ended without a trace of Her, I’ll admit I was disappointed. I hadn’t really expected Her to materialize – after all, she was on HBO, not the big screen – but I guess I’d had my hopes up.

“Don’t forget,” David admonished, “during the technical awards wrap- up, we’re doing a taste test between the Vera Drake’s cakes and the FinDing-Dongs Never-Land.”

Which, I guess, was consolation.

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.