I’m an “Orange Countyian” — I know that’s probably not a word, but it’s what I am. There’s no denying it. And boy, have I tried to deny it.
I didn’t set out to love or hate Orange County. I didn’t think it was in my DNA. My dad went off to greener girlfriends when I was a kid and he lived in L.A. so I spent many an alternate weekend on the highways and byways (read 5 freeway) into the not so great, greater parts of Los Angeles.
I’ve seen the west side of this and the south side of that. My uncle had a factory in the garment district when I was a kid, so I spent a few Friday mornings wandering among the Mexican (now known as Latina) women sewing their little hearts out, smiling at the 7 year-old (with a Hispanic last name, so don’t berate me) abandoned in the warehouse and feeding me crackers from their opened plastic sleeve.
I remember the Covinas and the Hollywoods and a whole lot of 7-11s and Denny’s restaurants (what’s a single dad supposed to do, I guess), but it didn’t seem all that different from the Gemco or JC Penney at home. Fast forward lots of years and I still drive to L.A. for a movie at The Grove, lunch in the Farmers Market or a show at the Pantages. I thought of myself as a Southern Californian. To me that meant Los Angeles and Orange County, as if we were suburbia south because L.A. had too much business in its own county to actually house people.
Of course my skewed vision of So Cal was actually some kind of ghostly vision — a shimmering figment of my childhood imagination. I realized that in black bold print on yellow plastic today… with a directional arrow. I went to find myself a location shoot. Today’s possibilities were for Criminal Minds, Heroes and Lie to Me. I found lots of placards and eventually saw a bit of a scene from Heroes, but what I found far more easily was my own squinting eye at the downtown neighborhood I was in. L.A. is a pit. That’s it.
Look, I know how it sounds. Uptight snob visits the city and is shocked when icky stuff appears because people live in the city. It’s not that…exactly. I know L.A. has it’s nicer neighborhoods and that ones that some tend to avoid, but I like visiting cities. New York, Hong Kong, Chicago, and Rome — all of these are a kick to visit. Seattle and Vancouver, I could even see myself living there, so what happened in L.A.? I think South County Stepford has rotted my brain.
My expectations have gotten out of whack with the reality that is…and let’s be real, probably always has been Los Angeles. Parking. Today’s foray just sent me into a mind mush on the idea of paying for parking. I found what I was looking for, a location shoot (that’s were the yellow plastic signs come in) and then proceeded to hunt for parking. Now, downtown L.A. has tons of parking from what I saw, just not tons of parking for me. Slimy guys in tiny lots with huge prices and why can’t I just park over there in that nice large lot, oh no you can’t because only the regulars get to park there and now I’m fifteen blocks from where I want to be, and yes over here the street is only one-way and no you can just make right turns to end up at square one because there’s a hill and a freeway and streets that run into buildings and tunnels and WTF?
I recently went to a movie theater that is pretty new in North County (what I refer to as the sane non-Stepford part of the county where I live) and they have card machines to pay for parking. This concept is so foreign to those of us behind the Orange curtain that I find myself explaining the concept of “pre-pay” before you go to your car at every single foray to the theater. I don’t mind. It makes me feel like I’m a cultured city girl among the simpletons. Today I realized that I am a simpleton. I am a Stepford gal in Orange County. And no, you can’t tell by my shoes, still from JC Penney thank you very much, but by my squint. I didn’t bother to get out of the car in L.A. I drove slowly past the location shoot four, maybe five times (that was easy, they were a crowd at a hotel entrance with signs like they were protesters) and thought, eeww, why would I want to get out of my car here where the air is just a visible representation of air and the bums spend more time with their pets than the rich wives of Newport Beach (and those gems take the yips everywhere).
So off I went to my next location and got bored driving past cheesy stores hawking wedding bands and shoes (two for $20) and determined I was not going to stay. I hit the freeway and jaunted another ten miles to the land of Rose Parades and the last location I had note of. The parking was reserved, no trucks yet. By then it was mid-afternoon (I got a late start – unemployment will do that to you) and I found this was my third trek to Pasadena in four weeks. And I liked it. The streets are clean. There are lots of interesting shops, there’s parking (pay and free) and I drove both directions down a street when I turned around to park near a burger joint for my late lunch.
So why did I like Pasadena and not L.A.? Because, Pasadena is suburbia. My kind of suburbia. Close enough to the crazy busy city for the good stuff and far away enough to avoid fire engines every 10 minutes and the smell of stale cigar smoke and poverty in the air. Ahhh, well there’s the nail and didn’t I just miss it all day long.
My love for Los Angeles waned because I am now identifying with a much less cash-equipped group of residents…nay, inhabitants than I did before. Now that I can’t afford a trip to The Grove for a movie and some lunch at the Farmers Market, I don’t want to see them-the pretty people with average money. Nor do I want to see who I could afford to have lunch with. I shocked myself. I am a snob because of fear. And my fear (unending unemployment) makes me want to hold on to that Stepford suburban life I swore I hated not twelve months ago. I am an “Orange Countyian” darn it! So please God, let me find a job and stay that way…so I can love L.A. again.
