I arrived at my delusional fantasyland 28 years after my celebrity obsession took root, some 3,500 miles away in tiny, unassuming Connecticut. And it was my 1998 Toyota Corolla, with a dent on every panel from on-street parking in Hartford, that safely carried me, my cats and all the best clothes I could fit.

For fans of The L Word who couldn’t fathom how Alice and Shane—whose jobs during the first two seasons would have rendered them virtually indigent—could afford to drive hot cars or rock $300 True Religion jeans and $250 Michael Kors heels, it’s simple. Survival! Status is a fact of life in Hollywood and no other situation has given me more social / class rank oggita than that nasty byproduct of status—the parking valet.

Pulling up in the beat up Corolla—her name is Sarah—to the Power Up! Gala at the stately, pink Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset Blvd., where Liz Taylor reportedly honeymooned eight times, I crossed my fingers that the celebs slated to appear were far behind me. I scurried out of Sarah in my black slip-length dress, handing the keys to the valet—apologizing for the mess in the car, and stuffing the claim ticket in my purse. Yes, a car is a machine it can’t feel, blah, blah, but I felt that this little vehicle, which had seen me through three major relationships, commuted me to college 45 miles each way for five semesters, and driven me to California through 102 degree desert temps—not to mention endured 142,000 miles of me singing my head off—was like Stephen King’s Christine, replete with the ability to feel pain and exact revenge.

Status is a byproduct of Hollywood life that a gal like me with a modest paycheck and not an ounce of savings can successfully sidestep with a couple pairs of designer jeans and some confidence. But I couldn’t get around that schoolyard feeling of pulling up to a restaurant and thinking about those kids whose parents dropped them off to school in the old, sputtering Buick with the paint peeling off the body.

In February, my Mom came to visit. Because of my day job as a sleazy tabloid reporter, I was able to fulfill one of my Mom’s fantasies and treat her—on the company—to Valentine’s Day lunch at the famed Ivy, a Hollywood landmark and place to be seen. Mom and I cruised down Beverly Hills, trendy Robertson Blvd, which is lined with high-end shops like Kitson and Lisa Kline. It took a while before we found the white, wooden fence indicative of The Ivy’s old-school sensibility. A row of smartly-clad diners stood on the sidewalk before the fence awaiting their tables. Beside them loomed the valet podium. I dug my fingertips into the steering wheel and wished I had my Bach Flower Essences Rescue Remedy. My mom gasped with excitement and I looked at her and said “We can’t use the valet.” She assessed the crowd and agreed, even though she was a little stiff from her recently diagnosed Rheumatoid Arthritis.

My Sarah took us around the corner and Mom and I marched up to the host stand, past the row of diners waiting for tables. We’d had a reservation and were promptly seated—next to that Queen of the trashy novelist, Jackie Collins. Mom was over the moon. We felt special.

This week, I traded in my Sarah for a paltry amount to put toward a new car, sans dents. It’s an opalescent five-speed Scion that gets 32 miles in the city and 37 on the freeway. It was emotional giving Sarah up until I cranked up a Lucinda Williams CD and cruised up the Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu to christen my California car, which I’ve named Maggie the Car in homage to Tennessee Williams’ Maggie the Cat.

Maggie the Car is good for status. While all of my co-workers drive Benz’s and Beemers, I drive the environmentally-friendly car—and let’s face it economical. It’s not a Prius but for those days when I really want to save gas, I climb on my retro-mod beach cruiser and tool around West Hollywood. That gives me the most status of all to the point where folks stop their Bentleys to holler, “Nice bike!”

A good friend from Connecticut continually waxes on about Hollywood’s evils—the anorexic starlets, fashion slaves and endless barrage of tabloid gossip thanks lately to Paris, Lindsay and Britney. Her mantra includes the compulsory, “Hollywood is so superficial. Everyone is so fake.”

But I would argue that the superficial are everywhere, it’s just expected here. Every city places demands on its brand of up and comers, like wearing black in Soho or earnestly getting your hippy on in San Francisco.

If a pair of $200 jeans, a high-mileage car with nary a dent, a pair of Kenneth Cole sunglasses bought at a huge discount at a Ross Store and a funky beach cruiser can buy me status, I’ll take it. I’m a writer who must pass at upscale functions.

So Alice, I get the Mini Cooper and the Hermes scarf.

Until next time!