Price Points (Weekend Edition)

This weekend proved one thing: sometimes, all you need is a trip to LA, a bottle of percocet and the best ice cream sandwich this side of the 5 to make for an exciting evening.

Even with the back of a 90 year-old (we can only thank our lucky stars it wasn't damp that day), I managed to enjoy an Angels/Dodgers game - in the company of mi amor and a couple good friends.

Of course, that might have been due to the percocet. To be honest, the most I recall of the game was yelling at Manny Ramirez to "man up," and demanding that RP buy me a blue stuffed Dodger monkey.

Which he didn't.

Luckily, I was snapped back into seedy LA reality by a wild display of fireworks - because even the truly ghetto inhabitants of Dodger Stadium are patriotic.

Proving that $1.50 will buy you more than a can of pepsi and a homeless escort in LA, we hit Diddy Riese, a modern marvel of cookie-and-ice-cream-sandwiches.

Saturday was uneventful, aside from the following Price-ism:

At about 9 am, RP gets ready to surf, I limp out to the gym, for a wimpy workout and back stretch. Upon my return, I decided I wanted a back-ectomy and crawled into bed until RP got home two hours later.

RP: "So... did we do any cleaning today?"
K: "Did WE?"
RP: "Did we?"
K: "I certainly didn't. Did you?"
RP: "I guess we didn't. Will you hand me the softscrub?"

Sunday took RP and me to a classroom full of 4 year-olds, wherein we learned that I will most definitely be the disciplinarian in our future family. As I tried to teach the little tikes about the whisprings of the Holy Ghost, RP was busy explaining to them how to play Sardines.... in a 12x12 classroom.

Sunday evening took us back to the motherland - for a picnic birthday party in Del Mar. As it turns out, my reputation for chocolate hazelnut tortes precedes me, so I whipped up a confection for dear Julia's 29th.

What's next for this crippled Price? A trip to the (grand)motherland - Viva la Fourth en Salt Lake! And perhaps even photos that I'm not in, because by next week maybe my vanity will fade. Maybe.

Got Yer Back

If there’s one thing you can say about me, it’s that I definitely put my back into it. And I’m not even referring to dancing.

There was a time, not in the too-distant past, when I thought myself moderately strong. Even fit. In fact, I switched gyms because I found the classes too easy-peesy. Then came Wednesday morning boot camp. It started out so innocently – five minutes of mountain climbers, jumping jacks on the mini-tramp, a set of old-fashioned burpees.

Oh, but then we moved on to the core of the workout, which, ironically, made me wish I no longer had a core. Or a back. 18 hours later, I laid in bed in the wee hours all-too-conscious of my lower back – and making my new husband all-too conscious of it too.

“Bunny, can you sleep?”

“Uh.”

“My back hurts.”

“Your back always hurts.”

“But I’m lying down and it still hurts.”

“Uh.”

Unfortunately, the breaking morning didn’t remedy my low-back woes. RP caught me trying to slip on my running shoes at 5:30 am (old habits die hard) with the grace of a 90 year-old cripple.

“Can you help me tie my shoe?”

“No, but I’ll help you back into bed.”

“I need to go running!”

“Why? You can’t even move.”

Quietly: “I might get fat otherwise.”

By noon I had turned my office into the muscle-aches section at CVS, complete with a heating pad, a cold pack, a leftover bottle of Percocet (did you know some people actually throw that stuff away after surgery??) and a package of Halls Defense (I don’t have a cold; I just like the taste).

RP has been thoroughly supportive.

“I feel terrible.”

“Get some yogurt. That usually makes you feel better.”

“It won’t help my back.”

“Get some diet coke then too.”

It’s nice that someone has my (poor pathetic) back.

He Said/She Said

I’ve heard that marriage is all about communication (but to be honest, I haven’t really been paying much attention). That said, RP and I are lucky to get a good two hours of face time a day, what with our early-morning surf/pilates habits and my penchant for turning in around 9:45 (seriously, I’d be more comfortable in a retirement center than a sorority house).

But even those few short hours provide enough time for some good, old-fashioned miscommunication.

For example

K said:“This purse was such a good deal I had to have it.”

K meant:“This was a great deal, in that it was 50 percent off of its original $600.”

RP heard: “I got a great deal on this purse so I could sell it on eBay to make a profit.”


K said: “It’s so funny that now that I’m married I take the garbage out more than I ever have in my life.”

K meant: “Take the $&*# garbage out, you lazy dog.”

RP heard: “I think you’re funny.”


K said: “I had a long day.”

K meant: “Please cook me dinner and say something nice to me.”

RP heard: “I married you so you would support me. Why am I still working?”


RP said: “If you want two gym memberships you should buy the 2-year deal at Costco because it’s so much cheaper.”

RP meant: “If you want two gym memberships you should buy the 2-year deal at Costco because it’s so much cheaper.”

K heard: “I think you’re fat.”


RP said: “You look pretty. That dress shows off your curves.”

RP meant: “You look pretty. That dress shows off your curves.”

K heard: “I think you’re fat.


RP said: “Did you work out today?”

RP meant: “Did you work out today?”

K heard: “I think you’re fat.”

I don’t really see any problems here, folks.

Unhappy Camper

I hesitate to write this post, as it reflects upon a subject that is rocking the very foundation of my marriage. But, as I can no longer ignore the blatant warning signs, it’s time to confront the issue head-on:

My husband thinks I’m a pansy.

I admit, there are a few “quirks” to my personality that could be misinterpreted as weakness –my fear of arachnids, for instance, or my inability to deal with sub-74 degree temperatures.

But as a whole, I’d say I’m one heck of a strong female. After all, I could whip my older brother in arm wrestling up until we were in high school (in his defense, I did outweigh him by a good 80 pounds).

Nonetheless, I always thought RP could go to bat for my un-sissy-ness, especially since I never make him watch chick flicks and didn’t even cry until the second year of our relationship (to be fair I spent the entirety of year two in tears).

That is, until we discussed the idea of camping.

K: “I think I’d like to come on your Wyoming backpacking trip.”

RP: “Honey, it’s kind of hard.”

K: “I do hard things. I totally kick butt in BodyPump.”

RP: “It’s a really long hike and you’d have a huge backpack on.”

K: “I run all the time. And have you even SEEN my purses?”

RP: “There might be bears.”

K: “I’ll carry some mace. Bears hate that. I learned about it.”

RP: “We don’t eat much. Just fish and protein bars and stuff.”

K: “How much weight could I lose? At least five pounds?”

RP: “It gets cold at night.”

K: “Um… like… how cold? Below SIXTY?”

RP: “There’s no frozen yogurt.”

K: “Like, anywhere? What do the Indians do after dates?”

And so it went, until it became clear that, despite all my protesting, RP had a valid point: I’m kind of a wuss.

So as my visions of husband-and-wife bonding amidst a crackling fire and a pile of s ’mores slowly dissipates, I just wanted to make it known: I’m free for Labor Day.

Mamma (for) Mia?

While summer arrived on our fair coast (scorching 71-degree temps), three major events marked this past weekend:

1. RP and I saw “Mamma Mia” in San Diego

2. RP made it clear that I would NOT be a “Mamma Mia” anytime soon.

3. As if a hand-out from God to a poor non-“Mamma Mia,” I will now be teaching the CTR-4’s.

Our theater date was lovely; with enough unrecognizable 70’s rock to make me feel like an 18 year-old and enough skillet cornbread for me to call Dr. Dukan personally and beg for forgiveness (seriously, there was severe weeping and wailing amidst a puddle of demi-glace and a pile of criss-cross fries).

Aforementioned cornbread and fries

On Sunday, we trouped BACK down to SD County for dinner with friends at their lovely Carlsbad beach house. With their new three-month-old, I was in non-committal baby heaven. RP, however, took this opportunity to make his thoughts on the matter known:

“Will you put that down so I can show you the surf room in this place?” (“That” = “the baby.”)

“It’s fine in its thing.” (“It” = “baby,” “Thing” = “bassinet”)

“Yeah, I’m not really interested in those.” (“those” needs no translation.)

But don’t you worry, dear readers, while my womb remains unoccupied, I was sympathetically given rein over 11 (yes, ELEVEN) four-year-olds each Sunday.

Mamma Mia, here I go again….