How do I get to be a hostess? Or, much more importantly, how do I get known as a hostess, as in, ``legendary Boston hostess Beth Teitell. . .''

I hadn't realized I wanted to be a hostess until the weekend, when I was innocently reading a profile of the ``world's most urbane woman'' in The New York Times, and was overcome with jealousy when I got to the following description: ``Fleur Cowles (author, painter, ambassador, hostess, philanthropist, raconteur and most famously, editor of Flair magazine). . .''

``Why aim for hostess?'' you may be thinking. ``Why not lust after painter or ambassador?''

I'd of course prefer those, but they require artistic talent, or a knowledge of foreign affairs. But hostess is open to anyone who has guests. Or is it?

Would having my friends Jenny and Sue for dinner count? What if I wore my Balenciaga, and put out my over-priced ocean-themed paper guest towels (which I hate when anyone uses them), and instead of gossiping about people from our alma mater, Eastern Junior High School, we discussed current affairs and the arts?

I should get credit, but would I? Even if the night was perfect - if we sipped Brandy Alexanders on the deck, and laughed musically over obscure literary jokes, and sat rapt as one of us recounted her recent trip down the Nile - to whom would I report such a triumph?

Is there a hostess governing board? A certifying body? And does throwing one excellent dinner count, or would I have to entertain serially?

Not wanting to do more than was necessary, I called my sole society contact and asked for clarification. Here's what he said: ``You're a hostess if you've invited people you don't know and they feel compelled to come.''

That sounded great and, as you'd expect, I arrived at work Monday all excited about my new calling - only to have chilled ice water with lemon slices thrown all over my dream.

``If you're a hostess you have to hire caterers,'' one co-worker said. If she were given the choice, she added, she'd choose another of Ms. Cowles' attributes: raconteur.

``If you're a raconteur,'' she said, ``you can leave destruction in your wake. You do what you want without thought to the consequences. Hostessing is all about consequences.''

Consequences? Let people use my paper guest towels, but please, don't make me face consequences.

I was about to give up on the whole notion, when I recalled something else my society maven told me: Another hallmark of a hostess is that people who weren't invited to her parties lie and say they were.

Following that logic to its extreme, I realized the ultimate hostess would have to only spread the word she was having a party - and invite no one - and she'd get credit for another ``enchanting evening,'' all while she was home watching ``Sex and the City.''

That kind of hostessing I think I could pull off. If only I knew the right people not to invite.