Life on the Farm

I once read a fable about a mythical farm wherein the animals overthrew the farmer and created a communal society of their own.

I don't think it was a comedy.

But I recall, in that story, a rule of law erected that morphed over time:

"All animals are equal; but some animals are more equal than others."

While this kind of ideology may not have flown in the Soviet Union (longer than a few decades), I'd like to think that it holds some validity in the (Radford/)Price household. Sorry, Karl Marx.

You see, this whole man/woman/twain/one flesh/like-mindedness just isn't always so cut and dry. Sure, RP and I may be blissfully matched, but that doesn't mean our brainwaves are always on the same frequency. Take, for instance, a few power struggles we've had in our (almost) month of marriage:

K: "I'm going to do laundry. Will you hand me that towel?"
R: "The beach towel? It's not dirty. I've just used it for surfing this week."
K: "Well, maybe we should wash it since you've used it a few times."
R: "Well, I'm going to use it tomorrow."
K: "Right, sweetheart. Sometimes we wash things we're going to use again."

K: "I need to pay my tithing."
R: "Okay but try not to let the bishop see you."
K: "Why?"
R: "They'll make us speak if they see us."
K: "Well, they know we're in the ward."
R: "I know, but if we keep out of their direct site, they might forget about us."
K: "Don't you think they'll think about us when they're making assignments anyway?"
R: "Just try to give it to a counselor."

R: "How long do you think a baby could live in this room if we went on vacation?"
K: "Probably longer than it would take CPS to get here and take it away."
R: "No, but really. How would anything in this room kill a baby?"
K: "Lots of things could. Like cords or electrical outlets, or a mirror falling from the wall."
R: "But what if we padded the walls and there was nothing else in this room? Couldn't we leave a baby in it then?"
K: "Babies have to eat."
R: "We could just leave its food in the corner."

How does this relate to life on the farm? Well, dear reader; a clean towel, a friendly chat with a bishop and an empty uterus are evidence enough: on this farm, some animals are more equal than others.

Conditions: Less Than Perfect

Let’s talk for a second about my living situation. Yes, I guess I could say “our” living situation, but RP seems to pay it little mind. In fact, I think the man would be thrilled if we went “furniture” shopping at REI and spent our lives sleeping in a tent (yes I know that Lehi did it but that offers me little comfort).

Speaking of camping, that’s what we’ve been doing for the better end of a month. And before we have our furniture delivered and I spend a good 36 hours and five bottles of Clorox Cleanup on this joint, I feel compelled to document the living conditions that I’ve become accustomed to over the past three weeks.

I think I saw a similar story last week on 60 Minutes.

Let me introduce you to the living room.

Sure, it looks like a mess. But rest assured, each item has its place. For instance, the hammock chair on in a heap in the corner is strategically placed there so it can keep watch out the glass door for better weather. The pile of blankets, sheets and towels atop an uncovered queen mattress is there to remind me that I have yet to do laundry this week.

The MacBook? Why, silly reader, that designates that corner of the mattress as my office. This should be duly noted, due to the fact that other sections of the mattress are used to eat, sleep, pray, talk, read, watch TV and on one special occasion, make popcorn (let's not talk about it).

It's unfortunate, in fact, that I don't have a video of yesterday morning's (typical) scenario: RP wakes up, cuddles over to me, then pauses and mutters: "What is that? Oh, nevermind. It's just a twig of your Fiber One."

Shall we move on to the bedroom? Let's.

I know what you're thinking: "Oh my gosh; they live by the beach and have a home gym?" Yes, that's what I like to call the far eastern corner of the room where you'll see a set of fitness risers and not two, but three sets of dumbbells. And yeah, that is an HP inkjet printer atop my empty laundry hamper. What can I say, the Mr. and I have a taste for the finer things in life. Like, say, the sports bras from Ross Dress for Less still nestled in their bag perched on a suitcase full of the lingerie I have yet to unpack from the honeymoon (lucky husband, huh?).

I know that someday, when my furniture has arrived and I've actually cleaned and organized these walls into some sort of domestic environment, I'll laugh and say, "remember when our house looked like that?

I know that. But I don't feel it.

Stay tuned.

Marriage (And Other Mysteries)

Like any good writer (or prosecutor, for that matter), I should start at the beginning. Like for instance, explain the name and purpose of this blog - without which explanation you might assume from the title, "Prices in High Places," that I am referring to:

a. our geographic location
b. our ritzy lifestyle
c. our penchant for smoking dope

Thankfully (a. and c.), and unfortunately (b.), I refer to none of the above. In fact, we live in San Clemente, two blocks from the Pacific Ocean - so you can imagine I don't suffer from altitude sickness. And in case you think we're living la vida glam, see the photo display to follow. Furthermore, while I can't say as much for our backyard neighbors, the only weed in my life is currently overgrowing our back patio.

"High places," then, can refer to my search for the higher life - and yes, that sometimes means "la vida glam," but generally I'd settle for a great lemon cake recipe, a rockin' pilates class or the discovery of a really good Fro Yo place.

For now, let me sum up my married life a few lines:

• On March 5 I married Rick Price (heretofore referred to as RP, Ricardo, Price, or the old ball 'n chain). It was consensual.

• On March 8 I moved into a modest (yes, that's a euphemism) one-bedroom with the aforementioned groom.

• On March 11 we shopped for furniture (yet to be delivered, but I've been told empty promises are integral to married life).

• On March 16 we filled out NCAA brackets. It was our first family activity.

• On March 18 I felt great about my bracket.

• On March 19 I fell ill. My husband did the laundry and made me dinner. He remarked that folding my underwear was like folding baby clothes, which helped my self-esteem. Dinner was air-popped popcorn with a strange cocoa-splenda-soy milk syrup poured on top which reduced the popcorn to nearly nothing. It was delicious.

• On March 20 my husband began saying suspicious things about babies. It was my first marital panic attack.

• On March 23 I came home to an ant-infested kitchen. My husband found me crying on the (furniture-less) living room floor upon his arrival home. He combated said ants with a fogger, stating that generally you're supposed to evacuate, but we could just go to bed.

• On March 24 I felt terrible about my bracket.

• On March 25 I changed my name to Kristen Radford Price. In case you find this feminist, the truth is I've always wanted to say "Rad is my middle name."

• Later on March 25 I decided it was time for us to start a blog, like all the respectable couples we know. RP has yet to find out.
  

And now we've come full-circle.