Ketea doesn't go to this kind of party.
For one thing, she isn't the sort of person who gets invited to this kind of party. But even if she did get invited, she wouldn't go: they're frilly and gossipy and the food comes in stupidly tiny amounts and the music is obnoxiously bland and somehow they're always scheduled to coincide with the part of the day when the toddler is cranky and resisting being put down for his nap. If she did get invited, she'd feel vaguely smug about turning them down as bluntly as she pleased, and then she'd go home and get to spend some time with her family for once and not have to wear those ridiculous shoes that one woman is (how does she walk in those?) and it would be altogether superior.
She doesn't get invited, of course; but work is work, and unfortunately her particular work involves being at this sort of party from time to time, if thankfully not as a guest. So she's hanging about on the sidelines, being invisible in the way that is absurdly easy to do around fancy rich people when you're the help, keeping an eye out for anyone who's making trouble or gatecrashing or getting entirely too drunk, or doing anything else warranting their eviction from the premises.
At this point Ketea's almost hoping one of the frilly upper-crust ladies will take it into her empty head to go do one of those things. At least then she'll have something to do, in the form of ushering them firmly and if necessary forcibly out -- while (and this is for some reason important to these sorts) simultaneously being female herself, so that the process doesn't involve a man's hands on those gauzy bodices.
Unfortunately, nothing of the sort seems imminent. Which means she gets to continue trying not to bang her head against the elaborate plaster molding to get that stupid, obnoxious, repetitive music out of it.