A Day in My Life: What Living in Orange County Really Looks Like
People have this image of what a day in Orange County looks like for someone who was on reality TV. They picture mimosas at noon, shopping at South Coast Plaza until 4pm, then some dramatic dinner where somebody flips a table. And honestly? Maybe one out of every fifty days looks vaguely like that. The other forty-nine? They look like this.
5:45 AM — The alarm that ruins everything
My phone alarm is the one that sounds like a gentle harp. I chose it because it seemed peaceful. It is not peaceful at 5:45 in the morning. Nothing is peaceful at 5:45 in the morning. I lie in bed for approximately six minutes contemplating whether homeschooling is a viable option just so I don't have to get up this early. It isn't. I know this. I get up anyway.
The dog — a maltipoo named Molly who weighs nine pounds and has more attitude than anyone I met on Bravo — is already standing on my pillow staring at me. She needs to go outside. She communicates this by breathing directly into my left nostril.
6:00 AM — Coffee or civilization collapses
Two shots from the Breville. Oat milk. One pump of Monin vanilla. This takes four minutes and represents the most important four minutes of my entire day. Without this coffee, I am not a person. I am a collection of bones and resentment shuffling through a kitchen.
While the espresso pulls, I check my phone. Three emails from brands wanting partnerships. A text from my friend Sarah asking if I want to do Pilates at 9. An Instagram DM from someone asking if my hair is natural. It is not. Nothing about me at 6am is natural. But my hair color specifically comes from a woman named Dina at Ramirez Tran Salon in West Hollywood. She's worth the drive.
6:15 AM — The speed round
I have exactly thirty minutes to transform from "creature who just woke up" to "mom who has her life together." Moisturizer, tinted sunscreen, one coat of mascara, lip balm, hair in a clip. That's a school morning. If I have a meeting after drop-off, I'll add concealer and a proper outfit. If I don't, it's leggings and my Free People Ruby jacket. The one in olive. My kids could identify me in a police lineup based solely on that jacket.
Getting three kids ready for school simultaneously is an Olympic sport that nobody gives you a medal for. My oldest is self-sufficient. She makes her own breakfast and is usually ready before I am, which is both impressive and slightly annoying. My middle child cannot find shoes. Not sometimes. Every single morning. We own fourteen pairs of shoes and every morning there is a crisis. My youngest wants pancakes. We don't have time for pancakes. We have time for toast. There are tears. We compromise on a frozen waffle.
7:25 AM — The pickup line
If we're in the car by 7:25, we're on time. If we're in the car by 7:28, we're late. There is no in-between. The school is a twelve-minute drive if I take the back way through the neighborhood. It's a twenty-two-minute drive if I take the main road because every person in Orange County apparently needs to be somewhere at 7:30.
Drop-off has its own ecosystem. There's the mom in the Porsche Cayenne who is always first in line. There's the dad who jogs alongside the car waving goodbye long after his kid has already gone inside. There's me, usually third-to-last, handing someone a forgotten lunch bag through the window while trying not to block the crosswalk.
8:00 AM — The golden hours
From 8 to noon is when I do my real work. Alexis Couture doesn't run itself. This morning I have a call with Rosa — my pattern maker in the garment district — about the fall collection. She's concerned about a supplier who raised prices on the Japanese crepe we used for the spring collection. I'm concerned too. That fabric is everything.
Between calls, I work on content. This website, my Instagram, collaborations. I try to batch-create content on Tuesdays and Thursdays so the rest of the week is free for other things. Today I'm photographing three outfits for upcoming posts. My "studio" is the corner of my bedroom where the light comes through the window and hits the white wall at a good angle. Professional? Not really. Effective? Absolutely.
12:00 PM — Lunch is a negotiation
I eat at my kitchen counter while standing up approximately four days out of five. Today it's a salad from Sweetfin Poke on 17th Street in Costa Mesa. Spicy salmon bowl, extra avocado, hold the wontons. $16.50 including the drive-through tip. I eat it in eleven minutes because I have a meeting at 12:30.
The 12:30 is a Zoom call about a potential brand partnership. They want me to promote a skincare line. I ask them to send me the products first so I can try them for two weeks. They want a commitment before I try them. I say no. This is a conversation I have roughly three times a week. My followers trust me because I'm honest. That's not for sale. Even when the offer is really, really good.
2:45 PM — Pickup round two
Back in the car. Back in the line. My youngest comes out with a painting that is either a sunset or a dog. She says it's me. I choose to be flattered. My middle child has a math test tomorrow and is "pretty sure" he studied. He did not study. We're going to study tonight.
The after-school routine is homework at the kitchen counter, snacks that I pretend are healthy (apple slices with peanut butter, which I consider health food even though the peanut butter is the chocolate kind), and thirty minutes of screen time that somehow always turns into forty-five.
5:30 PM — Dinner and the great debate
I cook dinner about four nights a week. The other three are a rotation of takeout (Thai from Mama D's in Newport), leftovers, or what I call "fend for yourself night" where everyone eats whatever they find. Tonight I'm making chicken tacos because it's Tuesday and Taco Tuesday is sacred in this house. I've been using the same recipe for six years. Seasoned chicken thighs, corn tortillas from Northgate Market, pickled onions that I make on Sundays. The whole thing takes twenty-five minutes and feeds four with leftovers.
Dinner conversation with three kids ranges from genuinely interesting ("Mom, did you know octopuses have three hearts?") to deeply concerning ("Mom, what happens when you die?") to logistically urgent ("Mom, I need poster board by tomorrow morning"). The poster board one happens approximately once a month and always at dinner.
7:30 PM — The wind-down
Homework is mostly done. Baths are happening. I have maybe ninety minutes before I collapse. I use this time for one of three things: watching something with my oldest (we're currently on The Great British Bake Off and neither of us can explain why we find it so soothing), working on Alexis Couture sketches, or scrolling Instagram while pretending I'm "researching content."
Tonight I sketch. The fall collection needs three more pieces and I keep coming back to this idea for a jumpsuit that converts into wide-leg pants and a top. Rosa will tell me it's too complicated. She's probably right. But I'm going to pitch it anyway because the best pieces in the collection always start with Rosa saying "that's impossible" and then figuring it out.
9:45 PM — Lights out
Kids are asleep. Molly is on my pillow again. I do my nighttime skincare — cleanser, tretinoin, moisturizer, three minutes total — and get into bed with a book I've been reading for two weeks. I'm on page 47. I'll read six more pages before my eyes close. The book will be on my face when I wake up tomorrow.
That's my day. It's not glamorous. There are no champagne toasts or dramatic confrontations. Just a mom in Orange County trying to run a business, raise three humans, and remember to pick up poster board before the store closes. Some days I nail it. Some days the frozen waffles win. Most days are somewhere in between, and honestly? That's exactly where I want to be.
