Sex and the City

Today I walked around Century City Mall and played “Pretend Spend”.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and relatively quiet compared to the Sturm und Drang of the socks-on sex scandal unfolding in New York.  Trystin’ with Kristen was Eliot Spitzer’s assignation-to-resignation real-life sex and the city and everybody was buzzin’ about it. 

After I had saturated myself with minute-by-minute internet updates on the country’s newest drama involving the world’s oldest profession, I decided to take myself out for a spinach wrap and fantasy shopping spree.  I wasn’t working again until the next night when I would be covering the debut of the new Pussycat Dolls lingerie line, which I’m sure will send me into a downward spiral of cellulite shame.

I drove to the mall, navigated my car into the same underground area I always do, (my way of dealing with parking-spot amnesia), and wandered in and out of my favorite stores picking out the items I would buy if I had a backlog of bucks. In one of the AP stories about Eliot Spitzer, it was pointed out that his father is worth $500 million.  That’s A LOT of Jimmy Choos. 

Imagined wealth is a fun game and it got me through a restless afternoon of my other Hollywood hobby, “Waiting for the Big Break Phone Call” which involves bringing the cell everywhere including the bathroom while I shower and keeping my shampoo-burned eyes on the incoming call screen through the glass door (the same technique used in cute-guy, great-date, next-day phone call vigils).

Am heading out now to meet friends on the patio of an upscale industry restaurant where we once saw Stanley Tucci along with the usual bevy of blue-suited power-brokers.  I’ll order an Iced Tea and eat the lemon wedge for dinner, imagining it’s Eggplant Parmigiana. 

Back soon!