I used to live in OC so I’m certified to say it’s a weird ass place.
Puffy-lipped desperate housewives walking around with massive saline breasts exploding out of their velour track suits; cookie-cutter houses in uber master-planned developments; teenagers rolling around in unreasonably expensive cars.
I was once employed by a (non-industry) firm to which I had to submit a PHOTO for consideration. Weird, right? (Is that even legal?) A colleague later told me that after I accepted the position, the president went around the office parading my photo to the whole staff. Weird.
It’s a rare occasion that I’ll make the drive down from LA to OC and spend time in its alternate universe of weirdness.
One rare occasion was this weekend’s “slightly romantic” jaunt to Newport Beach. (“Romantic” because it was with a guy I’m dating, and “slightly” because it also involved watching a ton of football. Naturally.)
We stayed at a lovely private beach house where when you stepped off the patio, the only thing between you and the pacific ocean was a stretch of sand. It was perfect.
My time there consisted mostly of beachbumming and bellinis, and it was utterly fantastic. Most notably, it warmed me up a bit to OC. How pretty is this sunset?
Orange County isn’t all bad, I suppose. And that’s all I have to say about that.