A French Diet and a Mexican Weekend

Once upon a time there were two Californians who committed to a masochistic French diet one week before Memorial Day. And while the temptations of Mexican taco stands and California barbecues weighed (no pun intended) heavily on my mind, my will power showed about as much give as my jeans did a week ago.

In fact, I am pleased to report, that in the past 7 days, yours truly has lost 4 greatly-loathed pounds. Ricardo, however, has lost his will to live.

To be honest, I was blown away by RP’s commitment to Dukan. In fact, he texted me one afternoon last week to say, “I’m having lunch in my car again. I don’t know how else to eat an entire rotisserie chicken.”

Visions of him sitting in his car going to town on a hot poultry carcass were delightful enough to get me through another day of meat, cottage cheese, and more meat.

Aside from the obvious challenge of turning our backs on the fruits, veggies and carbs we’d grown to love, doing Dukan was uneventful aside from the following points:

RP and I have fought twice in the past month—both during attack phase. Coincidence?

You’d be amazed how much oat bran can taste like desert when that glorious 1.5 tablespoons is your only link to the beyond-protein world.

It takes about 30 minutes and two hungry Prices to finish off an entire 32 oz container of Fage yogurt.

Whole Foods is the ultimate oasis for a Dukaner. When I unfold my mat for afternoon prayer, it’s gonna face the tofu bar.

Texts from your husband that would normally elicit shudders and gags seem highly appropriate under the circumstances: “Honey, I don’t poo anymore.” (the feeling was mutual)

In hindsight, Dr. Atkins (RIP) seems like kind of a sissy.

Never fear, these issues didn’t keep a couple of Prices from creeping southward this weekend... and taking the kids (see photos). I crossed the border packing a healthy assortment of eggs, cottage cheese, yogurt and oat bran.

For RP, however, diet restrictions disappeared as quickly as a Mexican drug smuggler once we crossed the border.

That boy loves his tacos.
And his tortillas.
And his postres.
And his esposa.

The Couple that Starves Together...

They say marriage requires sacrifice. That may be true in regard to the amount of time I waste sitting in the Laundromat. But overall, I’ve found marriage to be the product of many, many increases. For instance, I now have increased time with RP, increased contentment upon waking in the morning, increased bank funds due to joint checking, and – this just in – an increased waistline thanks to our mutual appreciation of food in nearly all its forms.

So what does one do when one is less-than pleased with the state of one’s midsection? One finds the world’s most painful diet (but one of the only that encouraged diet coke consumption) and drags her husband along for the ride. Actually, while discussing my extreme (non)-eating plans with my husband, it was RP himself who demanded to be in on the fun. His one (slight) protest came in the form of, “but what about all that leftover pizza in the fridge?”

That said, our fridge is now a mosaic of low-fat meats in all varieties, non-fat dairy in all its splendor, and enough Fage yogurt to appease a Greek army.

Time will tell how the Price’s survive the Dukan Diet. But I’m not eating fat free hot dogs for nothin’.

And on the same note; want to know what won't lose you five pounds? A mere 5k obstacle course followed by two days of binge eating. Luckily we have a bit of fun to show for our own undoing:

Mooning with the Honey

RP/KR circa Honeymoon Numero Uno

You could probably call me the Oliver Twist of honeymooners; when I got married, I didn’t expect anything extravagant, loved what I got, but in the end wound up begging, “Please, Sir, I'd like some more!”

And while RP’s and my Malibu retreat was blissful, it was far too short-lived – and WAY too close to home. In fact, our poor cellular service was due much less to our exotic locale than it was to AT&T’s obviously subpar service.

That’s why RP and I have been scheming to plan our “official” honeymoon—when we’ll both be established enough at our respective employers to take some serious time off. And if you’ve never tried to plan the vacation-of-a-lifetime with RP….. lucky you.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about RP, it’s that he likes to analyze. He analyzes real estate investments 12 hours a day and spends his time off analyzing….well, anything else he can find. In fact, as you may know, he analyzed potential spouses for a good 33 years before settling on yours truly (Which proves that I, on the other hand, am a world-class manipulator).

Unfortunately, our individual requirements for a honeymoon locale differ slightly:

Kristen:

1. Exotic

2. Culturally-rich

3. Lots of physical activity

4. Romantic

5. Good food

BONUS: Beautiful beaches and warm water

RP:

1. Great surf

2. Great time of year to surf

3. Great temperature of water to surf in

4. Un-crowded surf

5. Optimal weather for surfing

BONUS: A real bed to share with his wife

For this reason, among our deliberations, the following destinations were crossed off the list:

South Africa – cold water/RP doesn’t like black people (just kidding)

Israel – no surf/RP doesn’t like Jesus

Canary Islands – cold water/nothing for me to do while RP surfs

Greece/Mediterranean – wussy surf/RP didn’t like Mamma Mia

Tahiti – surf may be TOO hardcore/RP doesn’t want to lose his wife to coral reef

Morocco – cold water/RP doesn’t want to lose his wife to rich businessman

Thailand - "Good" surf season interferes with previously-scheduled surf trip to Mexico

In fact, unless a new island is discovered in the South Pacific or one of Jupiter’s moons is found to have great waves (and with that distance from the sun, I find it unlikely I’d enjoy it), RP may have to settle for a subpar honeymoon – in, say, Bali.

Poor thing.

Life With Don Ricardo

If there's one thing you should know about the Prices, it's that we're classy. We own several pairs of slacks, eat off real silverware and--wait for it--attend the opera.

You know you've struck gold in a husband when he calls you a week after you get married to make sure it's okay to drop some cash on two tickets to Carmen. You REALLY know you've got it good when he spends the morning scrubbing the bathroom prior to escorting you to the show.

In fact, if he owned a cashmere sweater or didn't need me to explain what wainscoting is, I might have to wonder about his sexual orientation.

Nonetheless, my very own Don Ricardo did it up this past weekend - taking me first to a lovely little brasserie downtown, where I ate loads of calamari and made a certain table of male opera patrons cruelly jealous of my dinner date:

It's a well-known fact that the fastest way to my heart (and my hips) is a hot bag of gourmet popcorn. Imagine my delight when I found this on the menu.

Turns out one woman's tragedy is another's delight. And he didn't even stab me afterward. (Don't be jealous, Carmen.)

Holy. Mother.

Like the troops, I also support mothers on principle. And when they're given a whole day of honor, I roll with it (even if I get pretty jealous about all the attention they're given).

That's why I thought today was as good a day as any to determine whether RP and I ought to bring life into this world. After all, he works late hours and I'm finally on the road to a six-pack.

To help decide, we turned to makemebabies.com, because scientific evidence doesn't lie.



Maybe procreation isn't such a great idea after all.

A Couple of Couples for This Couple

RP/KR circa May 2009

Unless you’re a young California philly waiting to hear tell of RP’s matrimonial demise, you’ll be pleased to know that the Mr. and I celebrated a couple of months married this week. What’s more, this Thursday also marks two years since RP’s and my first date.

Ah, how far we’ve come since that fateful Italian dinner in Hillcrest. And after just two years, two breakups, one proposal (for me – several more for RP), two surgeries, five cumulative moves, one graduation, three job changes and one wedding, the young Price family seems to be doing a-ok.

In fact, aside from a few adjustments (RP attends a lot less church since he’s no longer scoping chicks and I surf a lot less now that I’m not allowed to accept dinner invitations from random men in the lineup), I’d say we’ve adjusted rather well to this little charade we call marriage.

And since I’ve already aired my dirty laundry regarding my marital peeves (one of them, ironically, being dirty laundry), I thought I’d put a positive spin on month #2:

• RP made me breakfast on my first day of my new job. That consisted of mixing yogurt with cottage cheese and topping it with Fiber One, but I found it adorable. And delicious.



• RP complimented me greatly one morning: “You’re the quietest sleeper in the world. It’s like you’re dead.”



• RP demands that I start writing a book, which means he has far more confidence in Mrs. R-Price than I do.



• My husband understands life’s necessities: like me having a gym membership near home and one near work.



• RP always gets on board with my frequent, short-lived obsessions: like HBO miniseries’ and flaxseed meal.



• I can now watch scary movies without fear of sleeping alone (but not WITHOUT fear that RP will jump out from a corner to startle me or stand eerily at the foot of the bed with a flashlight under his chin).

Here’s to a divorce-free year.

Seeking PFT (Price Family Time)

Being the quietly-brooding-devastatingly-handsome-dry-humored man that he is, there’s probably a lot you don’t know about RP. And one of those is this: He LOVES taking tests on his birthday.

Consequently, I have never spent a bona fide birthDAY with RP. You might recall that last April 30th found our young hero up to his neck in a week-long make-it-or-break-it exam project for his Master’s Degree. This year? The debonair overachiever spent the big 34 in an all-day review class for his upcoming real estate broker’s exam.

What with RP’s quest to be a broker and my new job (requiring me to learn what a broker actually is), we’ve been experiencing some major Price adjustments. For instance, Monday night featured a certain wife in a terrible mood due to traffic on the 405 and her newly-destroyed gym schedule. Tuesday night found this young married couple having dinner together in the conference room of an Orange County financial building on the wife’s way home from yet another Orange County financial building.

I guess you could say that real estate crushed these California Prices.

Nonetheless, RP allotted me three glorious hours with which to celebrate his birthday. So I made the most of it.

Some say love is a river. I say love is spending 3 hours, four bowls, a saucepan, a skillet, a food processor and a spring form pan on a flourless dark chocolate hazelnut torte, complete with chocolate ganache and fresh-roasted nuts. RP was the gracious recipient of this culinary marvel, showing his appreciation by eating ¾ of it in 24 hours.

Since it wouldn’t be a party without candles and presents, I risked the ever-feared California brush fire by lighting each of RP’s 34 candles.

As you’ve heard, there ain’t no party like a Price family party, so RP and I celebrated solo with a quiet evening at the Vintage Steakhouse in San Juan Capistrano. Having passed on the decadence of the chocolate torte, I made up for that morning’s gym session by consuming and entire gravy boat of hollandaise sauce (and never looking back).
All in all, it was a lackluster way to celebrate the birth of one of Earthdom’s most benevolent (and attractive) forces. Here’s to you, RP, and to several more (test-taking or otherwise) birthdays.