Something to write home about

Maybe it’s because I’ve watched one too many episodes of “The Hills,” or perhaps because “Clueless” was my favorite movie when I was an adolescent, but Los Angeles isn’t everything I thought it would be. I was raised in downtown Chicago, so I thought that after four days of driving across the country I would be relieved to be back in a city. Wrong.

Los Angeles is a city on crack. Not in the New York City sort of way, where everything’s squished together and the odds of getting hit by a taxi are higher than spotting a Starbucks, but in a smoggy, isolated sort of way. There’s a saying that L.A. is New York City lying down on its side, and that’s pretty much true, but multiplied by 20.

The actual downtown portion isn’t very big, but all the surrounding communities are plentiful and are connected seemingly only by an intricate maze of freeways. Unfortunately, the freeways are a ticket to death. At any given moment, each lane veers off into another freeway and you have a split second to somehow move five lanes to the right before you end up heading toward Las Vegas. As a result, I have wasted gallons of my precious gas ($4.49 per gallon!) going in circles.

I probably wouldn’t be as concerned about driving if all of the cars around me didn’t cost upwards of $50K. I have never seen so many nice cars in such a concentrated area. For every normal car I drive by, I get passed by at least three fancy ones — and they all look brand new. I live in a pretty modest apartment in a pretty modest area, but even the people in my complex have shiny new cars. I’m starting to think people put more money in their cars than anything else.

Another thing Angelenos invest lots of money in is fad diets. I am yet to meet a meat-eater. Everyone, including my roommate, is on some sort of raw/organic/vegan diet. In fact, my roommate took one look at me as I devoured Ben & Jerry’s and promptly told me that my stomach is an animal graveyard. I laughed it off and ran into my room to eat my ice cream in peace. The next day at work (at a feminist publication), I thought it’d be a good idea to bring up the graveyard comment with my feminist colleagues at lunch. Silence. They then berated me for eating animal products and insinuated that because I’m a meat-eater, I am somehow less of a feminist. I don’t eat lunch with them anymore.

I just can’t win. I take a “shortcut” to work and end up 30 minutes late, I can’t eat meat or dairy without getting preached to, and today when I crossed the street, I slipped and fell in the middle of Beverly Drive. Yes, the street that runs through Beverly Hills.

The one thing that would cheer me up would be a celebrity sighting. Alas, there have been none yet. I visited a Pinkberry (the dessert that the paparazzi seem to catch every celeb gobbling down), paid $3.50 for a small, and didn’t see anyone even remotely famous. I’m going to refine my technique and seek them out instead of just hoping to run into them. I’ll start small with reality television stars, such as alpha-lesbian Jackie Warner from Bravo’s “Work Out.” Her gym is just blocks from my office, and for a mere $400 an hour, I can train with her. After her, I thought I’d hit up a posh club and find Lauren Conrad or Heidi Montag and somehow start a catfight between them. But if I’m really lucky, I will find Britney.

In conclusion, my summer goals are as follows: own an expensive car, only eat things that haven’t been alive (plants included?) and find Miss Spears. I have nine more weeks to go, which sure doesn’t seem like a lot.

But hey, it’s Hollywood — anything can happen.