Let the (Market) Games Begin

Last night, RP gave me perhaps the biggest compliment a husband can offer a wife.

He accused me of insider trading.

Sadly, his market-ingénue wife is in no position to trade inside (or outside really, for that matter).

Nonetheless, RP and I this week commenced…. (wait for it)……

The Amazing Price Challenge 2011 – Stock Market Edition

Today, two finance-friendly Prices independently invested 2k into this ever-steady market of ours.

What will follow is five months of perilous competition, a brutal race betwixt man and wife, circumventing the forces of market highs, lows, and payable dividends.

Don’t worry; I know about dividends. RP told me last night.

For me, this is a win-win situation. Not only do I stand the chance to whip RP at his own game, but now I’ll actually mean it when I frown and shake my head dejectedly as talk of the market comes up at business meetings.

So, let the record show:

RP with 122 shares of Bank of America and 36 shares of prologis (tickers BAC and PLD, respectively)

(I also know what a ticker is)

KP with 2 shares of Google, 1 share of Apple, and 47 shares of CoreLogic (GOOG, AAPL, CLGX)

Let the market and the closing bell of January 30^th bring us a winner.

Arctic or Bust

This weekend, two Southern(California)ers are headed north.

And by north, I mean NORTH.

Like, just-shy-of-the-arctic-circle north.

That’s right, Los Precios are off to Alaska on Thursday, adventure to be had.

And what more could get a girl more excited to miss some sweet Labor Day sales and 80-something So-Cal weather than a forecast like this:

As it turns out, that previously-planned backpacking trip may just turn out to be a foot-trek in search of an ark.

But this glass of mine will remain half-full. Even in my days in the arctic end up no better than the days depicted above, it shan’t be for naught.

After all:

• RP will feel super bad.
• That weekend-in-New-York shopping trip becomes that much more attainable.
• Maybe the rain will keep everyone out of the open air – including the grizzlies.
• The sound of constant rain on the tent may keep me from thinking I hear the aforementioned grizzlies.
• We didn’t spend extra mullah on waterproof gear for nothing.
• That last night in a bed and breakfast will be AMAZING.
• Maybe I will sleep on the redeye flight home, after all.
• Being miserable about the weather gives me a break from being miserable about my throbbing mouth (yes, four holes in your jawbone will stick with you for a couple weeks).

Here goes nothing.

Priceless Price-ism: Wisdom Teeth Edition

RP: "What's wrong?"

Kristen: "I don't want to go to work."

RP: "Why?"

Kristen: "I look ugly."

RP: "You don't look ugly. You're just swollen."

Kristen: "I look like a chipmunk. Or Rumor Willis."

RP: "You look fine. If someone didn't know you, they wouldn't even think you're swollen. They'd just think you're less attractive than you really are.

Wisdom from Teeth

They were spot-on when they named those third molars. That's because, after getting my wisdom teeth removed on Friday, I learned a great deal about life, teeth, and marriage.

1. I need to have at least four teeth pulled each month to make it through the number of magazine subscriptions I have. On an unrelated note, upon studying the photo below, it's clear that I'm obviously either a desperately-wanna-be-domestic or have a serious addiction to food porn.
2. Oatmeal is delicious. Especially when RP makes it himself and purees it in the food processor until you could successfully bottle it and wrap it in a Gerber sticker. Then, tops it with pureed raspberries to keep my palate mature. He also rocks a bowl of butternut squash soup, which he insisted on spoon-feeding me. Apparently he hopes that hand feeding me will make me more domesticated.



3. Oatmeal isn't so good when, while gumming down bowl after bowl, you have to stare at RP's dinner:




4. Ricardo's not much for snapping memories, but give him a drugged and swollen wife, and he can't seem to put the camera down -- even when his less-than-agreeable subject is in a drug-induced coma. Some of this weekend's great masterpieces:

MWM/MWF Seeking...

I may be Mormon, but don’t get me wrong; I’m not buddying around with with the cast of Big Love and I think Warren Jeffs looks great in orange. And despite what you may see on Broadway, I, like my religion, condemn the act of polygamy.

….. ish.

Listen, I’m all about the one-and-only. RP is my soul mate/love of my life/little bunny.* But lately, I’ve been thinking…

RP and I need a wife.

Oh, I gave it the old college try. (BYU would be most appropriate in this case) During our first two months of marriage, I made our bed every day, ran every errand, bought every grocery item, had supper waiting when RP got home, made elaborate Sunday dinners and completely cleaned and laundered the contents of our house each week. I even stocked the fridge each night with lunch for RP’s next day.

But oh, how have the mighty fallen.

Now if the bed gets made, RP has done it (bless his heart). I dread doing the weekly cleaning/laundry routines each Saturday and have, on occasion, been known to completely refuse (RP did both the cleaning and laundry last Sunday, while I slept). My husband now fends for himself for his weekday lunches and, more often than not, eats a bowl of cereal for dinner. Occasionally we eat well; last night RP was sweet enough to have a dinner of turkey sausage and eggs waiting for me when I got home from Body Pump class.

Not to mention that the current contents of our refrigerator is now limited to yogurt, cottage cheese, bread, turkey, lite Havarti, milk and eggs – because I’ve lost interest in grocery shopping.

So, with my current list of things to do, purchases to return, dry-cleaning to take in, gifts to send, groceries to buy….. I can say that I’m not completely put-off by the whole polygamy thing.

Because having a wife sounds great (to the both of us).

Please, will someone marry us?

*RP still does not approve of this pet name.

Desert-ing

Question: What do a couple Southern Californians do when the weather turns unbearably hot (i.e. 82 F)?

Answer: They pack up and head to Phoenix for the weekend, of course.

RP and I braved the desert sun and six lonely hours of godforsaken freeway and headed to Arizona on Friday evening after a full day at work. To be fair, the hours were lonely solely for RP, who trooped along in the driver’s seat with no one for company but a cadaver in office attire.

We rolled into Gilbert around 1 am, the air a crisp 96 degrees. After spending a morning with RP’s grandma and aunt (gracious enough to provide breakfast for overheated two California refugees), we headed out to see RP’s 94 year-old Granddad in Scottsdale.

That’s when I spent a few lovely hours with a few lovely Price men—three, to be exact.

That is also when, much to my dismay, I realized I had eaten three In-n-Out cheeseburgers in so many days.

Bummer. (But also delicious.)

Later, RP and I headed to the Hilton to do the only thing you can do in Scottsdale in August—take a dip at the hotel pool with loads of thirty-something alcoholics from exotic places like Chandler.

After a dinner double-date with RP’s cuz, we checked out Crazy Stupid Love, which, appropriately, RP thought was crazy and a little bit stupid. In return, I agreed to see Planet of the Apes next week. (Two hours with RP and James Franco? Joke’s on you, RP.)

After visiting with granddad once more on Sunday (and meeting his roommates, wherein I learned that old men are very good for my self-esteem), we fled for the coast. Since RP hadn’t downloaded his book on tape, I offered to sing to him for the duration of the trip. He declined. He did, however, allow me to fill a good hour dictating all the things I’d like to eat when I have my wisdom teeth out next weekend.

As a footnote, I’d like to report that after last Thursday’s finale of So You Think You Can Dance, I am, for the first time, the winner of an RP/KRP bet. Thanks, Melanie. Please note that this is merely an aside—not a full post—as I’d hate to add insult to the injury of RP’s crushing blow. Better luck next time, toots.

Diversity Day

I’ll be frank; I never much cared for August.

Nonetheless, the eighth month of 2011 and the fifth month of marriage-dom has started off as a highly-educational study in cultural awareness.

After all, what better way to celebrate summer and American obesity than a day at the Orange County fair? Not to mention that, while I’m currently neck-deep in Devil in the White City, it also lent a serendipitous opportunity to browse the masses for possible serial killers.

Sadly, I found none, but did witness several cases of first-degree attack on one’s arteries.

RP was a grand sport, taking me on the Ferris Wheel (roughly half the size of Ferris’s original 300-foot wheel, built in 1893 for the Columbian Exposition in Chicago, in case you wondered), and comparing me to various farm animals, including but not limited to rats, pigs, and oxen.

(the comparisons weren't too far off)

Our gastronomical splurge was a traditional funnel cake, hand-crafted by teenage fair workers named “Maliqua” from a delicate combination of white flour and pig lard. It was fantastic.


And in the spirit of cultural shock, RP took me along to the REI used gear sale, where he explained that designer apparel wouldn’t keep me warm at the foot of Mt. McKinley.

So I got shoes that aren’t remotely attractive, but can withstand a glacial hike and a trip through Denali National Park.

I also learned that Granola Crunchers + Cheap Gear = a wild frenzy of unshaved, bare-footed flannel.


Thanks for keeping it diverse, August.