Mood: special
Topic: Evil Things
As further proof that I'm an utter asshole, I have to confess that one of the perks of having Julia at a different hospital from the boys is that her birthplace will be Newport Beach rather than Orange, California.
If you're local, you know all about Newport Beach; if not, my best explanation is that Newport Beach is the Orange County equivalent of Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, or Manhattan's Upper East Side. I have lived in the Newport Beach vicinity for 15 years. Not in the best neighborhoods, where the houses are 10,000 square feet and are situated on hills with simultaneous ocean, mountain, valley and city light views. But for ten years I had a Newport Beach address.
Five years ago, Ben and I bought our current home. It is located in a weird gerrymandered neighborhood where our cul-de-sac is in Newport Beach and the next block is unincorporated Orange County. But our address? Is in Costa Mesa. And I am such a shallow bitch that I have a bit of a complex about this.
Y'all, we are so close. Many days I park my car in Newport Beach and walk into my front door ten seconds later. We take our evening walks in Newport Beach. My official CV recites, Mrs. Crumpacker resides with her family in Newport Beach, California. But our zip code is 92627, not 92660, and we don't even like to think about how many thousands of dollars that tiny fact shaves off the value of our home.
The really funny bit is that I lived in Newport Beach, actually and technically, at the time I started dating Ben. The neighborhood was lousy compared to the one we live in now. Well, not lousy if you don't mind people peeing and barfing in your front bushes and having loud drunken parties by the pool; definitely by no means upscale. The slums of Newport Beach, Ben called it.
The hospital where I'm having Julia is considered one of the best in Southern California, and is very close to home; you can't beat that. But I take guilty satisfaction in its Newport Beach address. You see? Shallow.