Killough and I hiked our usual Hollywood Hills route the other day and, unlike on another recent hike, our lives weren’t threatened even once unless you count that bitchy queen in the Prius making crazy hand gestures because I accidentally stepped in front of his tiny, silent car to avoid the sparks coming from some redneck welding his primer gray Mustang on the side of the road. Ah, the Hills are so glamorous.
In celebration of the Hills and my safe return home, I flipped on HGTV’s Selling L.A., the spin-off of the highly successful Selling New York. The New York show discarded its original hardworking yet nebbishy estate agents after the first season in favor of sleeker, gayer ones with fashion addictions and six-packs, but the L.A. version features my wise and wonderful friend, top real estate agent Victor Kaminoff. I thought I’d tune in to see what he was up to but, instead, I got an eyeful of some shiny guy with a tragic facelift trying to find a rental for a nice lady whose lease was going to be up in two weeks. I was hoping she wouldn’t end up out on the street as I watched their frantic search for something suitable. It was really hard to find the entertaining space as well as the beautiful kitchen needed to support it because her budget was only $15,000 to $20,000 a month! What’s a girl to do with pennies like that?