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.