On what's real...

L.A. I just don't know what to think of this place. As your "normal" girl, I'm quite certain I couldn't survive here. There is an extraordinary emphasis on presentation; even if you look like you're homeless, it's intentional and done with designer clothes and a lot of product. And if you ARE homeless, it's probably because you went bankrupt on the clothes and the product, but you still have the clothes and the product. Well, anyway.

We're staying in Century City on Avenue of the Stars. The back of our hotel looks over the old 20th Century Fox lots. We're directly across from CCA, one of THE top talent agencies, and we're next door to the corporate offices of both Fox and MGM. Cool? Naturally. But, as you might imagine, we're surrounded by a bit of a "scene".

As we walked to dinner last night, we passed through a high end shopping center so I know where I can pick up a Louis Vuitton bag before I head home (as an FYI, and so I keep my street cred, I had to look up how to spell Louis Vuitton. Not sure why it's important I share that; it just is.). Our entertainment for the evening was not necessarily our dinner conversation, or the "mallrat" kids loitering around Pinkberry. Instead, it was the people watching as we waited for our table.

Kristen, my colleague, kept snickering as people walked in and out. She's one of the best dressed people I know, and since we're the same age and I know for a fact she makes less money than me, it hurts to know what I SHOULD be dressing like, but don't. As such, she knows a thing or two about clothes and kept leaning over to me saying things like. "Every guy in here is wearing designer jeans." I looked down sheepishly at my new Old Navy jeans, purchased that very morning, thinking I was finally all the rage for purchasing a stretch pair without too much flare at the leg and a dark rinse. Sigh.

The women, on average, were 100 pounds. There was not a pale chick in the place. Kristen and I were the only two women not wearing either skinny jeans, leggings or some sort of skirt with accompanying booty that would allow instant casting in a Jay-Z video. Men wore just as much bling as the women. And yes, our waiter really could have been a model. I'm sure he's trying to be one. That's the sense you get from this place. Everyone looks like a model or movie star, and is desperately trying to be one, but somehow they lack that credibility that your average starving artist in NYC has. Maybe it's because I give Broadway more credit than Hollywood. Or maybe it's just that East Coast bias again.

What killed me? This was a Houston's. A national chain restaurant. It's like an upscale Applebee's. Spinach and Artichoke Dip and Cheese Toast are on the menu. So what the hell do places like The Ivy and Mr. Chow actually look like?

Let me make one thing clear; I don't envy these people at all. In fact, I find them kind of comical. I don't mean to judge them; I'm sure they're all perfectly nice. I think what gets me about this area is everything is beautiful, but it ain't got soul. I also know for a fact I couldn't date a guy who spends more $150 on a pair of jeans or buys diamond earrings for himself.

As we waited for our table, two older gentlemen were leaving the restaurant, their wives just a few steps behind. "So how long have you been married?" one said to the other. "53 years." They both smiled. "We're at 47 years together." "Eh, you're just getting started!" I looked to my left at my other colleague who met his wife as she was finishing high school and he was starting college. They've been married 40 years.

So that's what's real, I thought to myself.

The two wives passed as I got up to walk to our table. I looked up to smile. Perhaps they would have smiled back if it weren't for the Botox.

Sigh. Whatever keeps it going.