Rehab Tales and Rhinoplasties


Sometimes I’m painfully aware of my Hollwoodland existence. Not in a bad way. Or a jaded way. But in a “most people probably aren’t greeted by Wolfgang Puck over a plate of steaming stuffed crab and dark chocolate soufflé after spending the afternoon at a Neiman’s sample sale on a random Wednesday” kind of way. Or perhaps a “conversation elsewhere probably doesn’t consist of rehab tales and rhinoplasties.”

(The fact that Microsoft Word insists “rhinoplasties” is not a word cements this notion of non-norms.)

The rest of the country (and perhaps the world, if you’ll forgive me for thinking that the entire globe does in fact think of us) deems us alternatively bimbos or hippies, surfers and sycophants and fakes. The think us shallow and spoiled, but also blonde and shiny and new. We are stereotypes of what our biggest export (that would be film, thank you) extols.

The secret? It’s all true.

I did have dinner flanked by delicacies and attended by Mr. Puck last night. I did raid racks at Neiman’s and swoon over sale price sweaters (that were still marked at more than half my monthly rent(!)-but think of the money I’m really saving…). I have attended the Oscars, the Globes, and received swag. I got a cell phone before 13 and a belly button ring 2 years later (I don’t have it anymore- I swear!). I know where bunnies of the Playboy variety live and often arrive at work to find blood splatters artfully arranged (they shoot a procedural crime drama here, stop worrying). I have (multiple) friends in 12-step-programs. I wear Juicy sweat suits. And Uggs. When it’s 70 out (that’s freezing, yo!)

But (aaaah the ubiquitous but!)- I recognize the bizarre existence I inhabit. I celebrate it for all its absurdity and laugh at the stereotype I have so willingly become, because so much of it, like everything here in Tinseltown, is a façade. My shiny, celebrity sodden veneer is as fake as my best friends’ (yes that apostrophe is in the right place- we’re talking multiple here) rack.

Most nights I spend, not at some trendy eatery, but blissfully entrenched in a book. I eat cheap (lie. Read: overpriced) burritos with the boy and devour soy mistos from Starbucks (ok- a little L.A., I admit). I cuddle with my cats (lie. Cat’s are stabby- not cuddly), and walk around bare faced and jammie laden.

It’s so easy to craft an image when it only inhabits the screen for 2 hours. Or makes a cameo on a big night out. Yet the grimy, sparkly, smog-colored cotton-candy-esque aura of Los Angeles easily inhabits every pore if allowed.

Don’t allow it (that’s how Paris Hiltons are formed).

Celebrate it- and then go home and wash off it all off (facials can only do so much, people!)

Job of the Day: Librarian


~ by rubylocks on November 12, 2009.

One Response to “Rehab Tales and Rhinoplasties”

  1. I am so loving this! I have got to get my blog on at some point. You really need to spend some time in Scottsdale. All of our inhabitants strive for these fabulous LA stereotypes but it isn’t working out so well. While you come home and wash it off at the end of the night, Scottsdalians just keep re-applying what isn’t even theirs to begin with! Bah!!! It makes no sense. No one needs second-hand implants.

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