Confessions of the Unemployed

Three free days may seem menial to some, but if the last time you were unemployed you were watching 9/11 coverage on the news and stoked to shop at the Gap, you're overdue for a little bit of freedom.

And that's why I quit my job -- well, that and the fact that I'm married now and I just thought that's what you do.

In actuality, I'll be starting another position on Monday, but I've been so enchanted with this novel idea of free time, who knows if I'll actually show up (if RP is reading this, I'm totally kidding).

Yesterday, my day consisted of this:

Yesterday, RP's day consisted of this:

Which begs the question; who needs dual incomes in Southern California anyhow? I've taken my new-found freedom to construct a plan on how the Prices will continue to survive while the feminine half loafs about all day.

Item One: Downsize from 500 square-foot one-bedroom to 200 square-foot storage unit (on the west side of the 5; we're not barbaric).

Item Two: Participate in the master cleanse three weeks per month.

Item Three: Limit "dinner out" to the Costco food court and the dumpsters behind In-N-Out.

Item Four: Sell one car. Alternately, learn how to siphon gasoline.

Item Five: Sell RP's quiver of surfboards.

Item Six: Sell RP's luscious hair.

Item Seven: Send bald, surfless RP onto the street to panhandle when he's not at work (10 pm - 8 am).

Item Eight: Start suing people.

Item Nine: Begin claiming to be the "real" Kate Middleton.

Item Ten (if worse comes to worst): Move to Arizona.

We'll see how it goes.

Easter is for Lovers

... why else would its mascot be a bunny?

But in seriousness, Easter is the perfect time to enjoy spring, love Jesus, eat ham and determine whether your husband really loves you by picking up on your subtle demands that he make you an Easter basket.

RP and I spent our first wedded holiday in a blissful combination of food, candy, church and.. food. Starting with breakfast -



Since The Bunny has no regard for healthful living, I opened the Easter morning with some decadent cottage cheese-flaxseed-egg white waffles. Topped with sugar-free maple syrup, these bad boys are 200 protein-packed calories of pure goodness (ask RP).


Then RP and I hunted for baskets. Lucky for RP, The Bunny doesn't have the same aversion to sugar as his wife, so his basket was brimming with calorie-laden deliciousness. The Bunny also remembered my favorite things - namely the darkest of dark chocolate, homemaking magazines and weapons to kill any insect that dares cross our threshold. Ah, isn't springtime grand?

He gets so excited he can barely keep his eyes open. It's adorable.

RP in his Easter Tie and me in my Easter Dress, which I bought for my new job (more on that later), without realizing Easter gave me a completely different excuse for purchasing a new dress.


Then, I made a carrot cake. And there is nothing healthy about this - not even the carrots by the time I was done with them.


Off to San Diego we went... to find ham, rolls, sweet potatoes and pretty girls in pretty dresses.


Again, so excited his eyes are nearly closed. RP, like the Bunny, just can't wait til next year.

PRICELESS PRICE-ISM (Easter Edition)

My dear friend Julia hosted Easter dinner this year at her apartment, where RP's ex-girlfriend lived three years ago. Upon pulling onto her street, RP and I had the following conversation:

KR: "There's a spot right here, why don't you park?"
RP: "Oh, I like to park the other direction, so when I leave I can just take right off. I mean, it's always soooooo late when I leave this place."

When Quirky Becomes Irritating

I've realized that there are certain qualities that, endearing when you're "dating" quickly become aggravating once you're married. No, I'm not even referring to toilet seats or towel folding. In the case of RP/KR, one of those (glaring) characteristics would be my driving.

Sure, I get by - after all, I commute a good 40 miles each way for work and seem to get myself home in one piece. But when I fall off the wagon, I fall hard.

For example, I'd never had a car accident until 2008. Oh sure, I'd ran into fences, poles and once, my sister's van. But in the months spanning Feb 2008 - Feb 2009, I was in not one, not two, but THREE accidents, one of which sent me into a freeway median going 70 mph.

Well, that was long before I met RP and enough time had lapsed that I could laugh about it. I still ran into a parking garage wall or a high curb here and there, but RP would usually smile and say "My girlfriend has a hard time with driving," followed by an affectionate chuckle.

Oh, how marriage changes things.

You could say I fell off the wagon back in December, when I received a $500 red-light camera ticket and a $160 cell phone ticket in the course of two weeks. But, having paid my tickets and even attended traffic school, I thought I was in the clear. That is, until on Friday, I went to the DMV to officially change my last name (like the good little wife I am), and was told they could do nothing until I paid my outstanding traffic ticket.

All the "I don't have an unpaid ticket!" pleadings in the world didn't sway the DMV mistress, so I left with a notice in my hand and a number for the North San Diego Traffic Court. That was when, to my great disdain, I found that another camera had caught me in February, and not only had I never received the ticket in the mail, but I had now unwittingly failed to appear in court and currently faced a $795 fine.

That's when my driving record became not so endearing.

In the wake of my upset, RP texted me for my driver's license number so he could shop out insurance. That's when I told him the news - via the soft anonymity of text messaging. There was no chuckle, no smile, no endearment to speak of. He returned with a mere,

"Freak."

And that's when the "my girlfriend is a bad driver" honeymoon ended.

Thank you, red-light cameras of San Diego.

Fancy Pants

If there's one thing in life I'm nominally confident about, it's this; pants aren't the boss of me.

The thing is, I hate pants, and all their buttony-zippery grossness. Maybe it's the five-year-old child in me (and there must be one in there, cause I've had pink-eye three times in two months) but I'm not happy with life unless my legs are either bare or encased in Lycra.

So what's the beef, you ask? Well, aside from my inability to fit into anything at Gymboree, I just landed a writing job in a very corporatey, orangy-county-y office.

And that means pants. No, worse than that; that means slacks.

Gross.

Goodnight legs. Goodnight tights. Goodnight leggings.

Goodnight, cruel world.

Presents are Awesome: Part 1

Trivia Question: What's more awesome than marrying this devastatingly handsome, practically-pro surfing, ridiculously funny, brilliant real-estate mogul?

(I mean, besides frozen yogurt.)

Answer: Marrying this devastatingly handsome, practically-pro surfing, ridiculously funny, brilliant real-estate mogul AND getting presents for it.

But, unfortunately, due to a March trip to Utah that was so quick RP and I just barely managed to squeeze in a wedding (our own), we left all those glorious, beautifully-wrapped presents in his parents' closet until time and fate saw fit to reunite us.

Well, tonight, on a very special installment of HiPrices, you're invited to witness that very reunion - or rather, half of it. Thanks to the overwhelming generosity of my new mom and sister, we received an assortment of gifts on Sunday, ripe for the unwrapping.

Observation 1: Presents suit our living room even better than furniture did.


Observation 2: Anticipation is half the fun. Six weeks of anticipation, however, is six times the torture.

Observation 3: I can't find a single wedding photo where I'm smiling that big. Apparently, it's not about vows and dresses, but about the Emile Henry line at Williams-Sonoma.

Observation 4: RP gets a bit demanding where presents are concerned.

Observation 5: Forget his nose; all it took for RP to accept Judaism was a hand-crocheted hot pad.

***Don't forget to tune in later this week as Part II of this special reunion continues, featuring the other half of our long-lost wedding gifts.***

Surfboards in the Waves

One night, I dreamed I was surfing with RP

Many waves crashed onto the sand
But as we paddled, I noticed
Not just my surfboard, but RP's steadily beside me.

He paddled slowly, to stay by my side
Farther and farther out our boards reached
But during those times when the waves were strongest
And endeavored to push me back toward the beach
I saw only my own surfboard

When, at last, I reached the break
I cried out in frustration,
"Oh, RP, why, when the waves were the worst
were you not by my side?"

RP smiled his kindest smile and reached for my hand
"Oh, little surfer. When the waves were strongest,
and I was no longer by your side,
It was then that I towed you."

There IS an "I" in Price

While I may have been a blushing bride, a naive one I was not. I knew marriage entailed compromise, sacrifice, understanding and a number of other relationship skills that have eluded me for the past 28 years.

But I like to think I'm a pretty easygoing Mrs. (Again, see post regarding prior living conditions.) I guess it's pretty easy when it comes to RP - the man chuckles when I bring cereal into bed, smiles at my covert shoe purchases and has been known to buy secret symphony and opera tickets.

Nonetheless, my marital contentment has been contaminated by one glaring problem:

My husband won't take me to Disneyland.

Oh, he will deny this claim, but the fact of the matter is that during our two-year relationship, RP and I have been to many a place on land and sea - but the magical kingdom we have not.

So now I ask myself, what did Disneyland do to RP? Is he allergic to churros? Did he once date a red-haired mermaid? Has he been banished from the park by an evil queen on account of his beauty?

These are questions that, as a wife, I am ready to understand. Perhaps I'll even compromise. But for now, I am just a girl, asking a boy .... to take her to Disneyland.

And in case he needs further motivation, I've opted to post photos of my Disney partners through the ages. xoxo, my love.

Death, Thy Name is Meal Moth

RP recently said that one of the things he loves about me is that I never yell. Well, there's a simple explanation for that; he is not a meal moth.

A mere month into my new life of marriage and I was relatively proud of my household management skills (well, aside from the living/breathing/eating/sleeping/lounging on a mattress on a floor for the better part of three weeks); I bought groceries, cooked dinner, even planned FHE a time or two.

I guess you could say I was feeling pretty good about domestic life.

That is, until the meal moths arrived.

Like a thief in the night (except more like a vermin from the bulk whole wheat bin at Henry's Market), the moths arrived in my baking cupboard. RP was the first to notice, as he was well-acquainted with pest-infested kitchens due to his life of bachelorhood.

You could say it was a low point for these high Prices.

It was then that I realized the four stages of meal mothery:

1. DENIAL

Me: "What are these stupid little moths?"
RP: "They look like the kind that live in your flour."
Me: "That's ridiculous. That's weevil, and we certainly don't have those."
RP: "No, I've had them before. They live in flour."
Me: "There's no way. We're not THOSE kind of people."

==== One Google Search Later ====

2. ANGER

Me: "Get out here, you filthy vermin!"
Me: "You sick SOBs!"
==== Throws Away All Baking Products ====
Me: "Get a job and buy your OWN flour, you freeloading b------s!"
Me: "I'll kill you, your women and your children too!"

3. VENGEANCE

Riddle: How do you get back at meal moths?
Answer: Spend $20 on Amazon on food-grade pesticides and $50 at Costco on air-tight containers. Then smoke the buggers out with a concoction of Lysol and diatomaceous earth. Then you bury your head under the covers while your husband cleans out the cupboard and sprinkles in the poison.

4. RESOLUTION

Conclusion #1: I never had pest issues until I moved in with a boy.
Conclusion #2: On the other hand, boys are perfect for dirty jobs like touching infested flour.
Conclusion #3: I wouldn't have this problem if I ate out for every meal.
Conclusion #4: I love RP. Almost as much as I hate meal moths.


PS: Yes, I do like Fiber One and black licorice Altoids that much.

Priceless Price-ism #1

Sometimes, your husband says something that is so original and sweet that you can't help but want to document it for time and posterity. Take an average weeknight last week: RP came home. I had cooked him a spinach omelet and was, per usual, dancing around the kitchen:

RP: You're being really suspicious.
Me: Because I'm dancing around the kitchen?
RP: No, because you look really pretty.

Priceless.

Prices and Padres (a/k/a Married People Have Friends Too)

RP and I may have joined hearts just over a month ago, but in actuality we left both of ours in San Diego.

Not to say we don't enjoy the Starbucks/gym/Range Rover/tiny dog crowd of Orange County, but there's just something about that Del Mar/Solana Beach/Cardiff/Encinitas stretch that gets right to my core.

So on Saturday, we reunited (and yes, it felt so good) with San Diego and some of our SD friends. Lunch at Lockwood Table in Solana Beach, dinner at Pizza Nova by the Harbor, a double-header (loss) for the Padres and even a quick trip to the Crate & Barrel Outlet for lamps. (I'll never forget my swelling pride when RP said, "well, we could surf again but I'd kind of like to go up to Crate & Barrel with you." Ah, amor.

And to answer your question, yes, it was that cold in San Diego.

Recession Pudding

There is a strange phenomenon in my household regarding baked delicacies. I love to make them, but I don't eat them. My husband, on the other hand, adores them, but after hanging around me for the better part of two years, finds himself in a love/hate tug-of-war with all things sugar-laden.

And so Sunday found me making one of his favorites - homemade cinnamon rolls. But since he's watching his figure, he only ate half the batch, leaving the discards on the kitchen counter on a slow, steady trek toward staleness.

Well, come Wednesday I considered throwing them out. But they were homemade cinnamon rolls, and do we not remember life in the USSR or recall that we're currently in a global economic crisis? It's like no one has even read the Grapes of Wrath.

And so I give you Recession Pudding - the dessert that gives twice. I took my remaining rolls and threw in a sliced large apple and pulled off a pudding/cobbler concoction that, in RP's words "tastes like a giant hot doughnut." I even topped them with leftover cream cheese frosting, because--let's be serious--that could make dirt delectable.

Transform your unsuspecting stale cinnamon rolls into....


Something that tastes better than this looks. Promise.



Proof (in the pudding).

Recession Pudding

2 cups stale cinnamon rolls, cubed
1 cup thinly-sliced apples (one large)
1/2 cup brown sugar
3/4 cups milk
2 tbs butter
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 beaten egg

Place cinnamon rolls and apples in a medium greased baking dish. In a saucepan, combine brown sugar, milk and butter. Cook over low heat, stirring, until butter is melted. Pour over the bread/apple mixture. In a small bowl, beat the egg and add vanilla and cinnamon. Drizzle mixture over the bread and apples. Bake in a 350 oven for about 35 minutes. Top with something delicious (recommended: cream cheese frosting).



And speaking of recessions, if you're ever in the mood to spend $80 on measuring cups, I'm completely enamored with All-Clad. These cups and spoons are the best thing to grace my kitchen since RP brought home a large Roma from Pizza Port (and trust me, that's saying something).

What a Difference a Month Makes

Since yesterday officially marked one month in this little venture we call marriage, there's no time like today to document my reflections for the sake of my posterity (and the world wide web).

Sure, life has changed slightly during the course of the last four weeks. And while many nuances of married life still elude me, I've experienced a few noteworthy discrepancies from my former single life:

• I think twice before purchasing boots online (alternately I have them sent to my office).
• I now purchase flour-based foods.
• I've become accustomed to sitting on open toilet bowls in the middle of the night.
• I've learned to field questions regarding my procreation timetable (by deriving tips from the decade spent fielding questions about my marriage timetable).
• Blockbusters and action films are now part of my Netflix queue.
  
• My pillow doesn't get to see me until at least 11 pm.
• "Not eating" is no longer a viable alternative to grocery shopping.
• I realize that most of my favorite TV shows are completely ridiculous.
  
• Being referred to as "my girlfriend" now annoys me.

Nonetheless, my month internment has been nothing short of bliss. Here's to (at least) one more month.

An Orange County Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a peasant girl who lived a simple life in San Diego. Then one day, she met a prince who promised to move her to a mysterious land filled with Juicy Couture sweatsuits and giant purses filled with tiny chihuahuas. It was called Orange County.

But the peasant girl, upon arrival in the sun-soaked county, found not a castle, but an old, cramped apartment with not a stitch of furniture to be found.

The peasant girl was sad.

She moped about on the mattress (for that was the only sitting surface they had), and thrice cried at the state of her life. There was no dresser for her clothes, no rug for her feet, no sofa for her weary bum.

So the prince, who loved the peasant girl and feared she might leave for a run one morning and sprint all the way back to San Diego, scoured furniture stores, home goods websites and Craig's List ads in hopes of making the peasant girl happy again.

It worked.

The end.