War and Peace and Independence

There’s a couple things you may not know about RP and me: one is that we’re creatures of habit. The other is that we like to fight on the 4^th of July. I tell you the former only to impress you with the fact that we got through this Independence Day still friends (with benefits).

I don’t know what it is about celebrating freedom, but it seems to spur RP and I into fightin moods. Take for instance the year we met; two months into our “casual dating” relationship, he casually invited me to spend the 4^th with him. I casually agreed, and then casually stood him up for a party in Newport. Thus ensued not only our first fight, but our first 4^th of July fight.

Independence argument #2 came when we were again separated for our Nation’s birthday and I was hopped up on painkillers. That should be enough said. Then last year, as our first married Independence Day, we had a little tiff over a text he had sent to a friend wherein he referred to his wife as “cranky.”

That is why I’m pleased to report that RP and I have officially broken our Independence Day fighting tradition.

Not to say I didn’t try to keep it alive.

For instance, I came home with yet another “necessary” kitchen gadget that I found wondrous and all but mystified RP. Am I really expected to dry my salad with paper towels?

Then I poured too much ice cream into the machine, thus requiring RP to stand by and eat the (totally delicious) soft serve as it expanded and threatened to overflow.

Not to mention that San Clemente itself tried to grate on our nerves. Not only did the inclement weather keep us from our scheduled day of basking on the beach, but the crowds and cars and lack of parking spaces made it so we couldn’t leave either.

But we made amends where we could. For instance, I faced my fear of pastry-making and baked this strawberry pie from scratch – much to RP’s delight.

He pitched in as well, by wearing his short-shorts for my viewing pleasure and demonstrating his grill-master abilities.

Oh, and bringing me 4^th of July flowers. Sadie also received a carnation. But she ate hers and I preferred to look at mine.

We ended the day with fireworks on the beach with the rest of the English-speaking (and Spanish – who am I kidding?) world. SC put up a good show, and I even stayed up past 10 on a work night.

Here’s to peace (and independence).

 (Sadly, this was the BEST photo to come out of our efforts at self-photography)

NorCal, Let's Hang.

Sometimes, nothing sounds more pleasant than a chance to leave your heart in San Francisco… and your rabbit in Orange County.

No offense to Sadie, the cold-hearted doe of San Clemente proper, but the Mr. and I needed some alone time. And since RP has lately seen fit to spend many a night without me in the City by the Bay, it was time I joined him.

San Francisco taught us a lot:

-          RP has great taste in hotels. We spent the weekend at the Westin St. Francis, conveniently flanked by Saks 5^th Ave, Macy’s, and William-Sonoma. Serendipity, thy name is Priceline.

-         Grace cathedral is worth the (quad-burning) trek up Nob Hill, even if I do visit every time I’m in the area. We particularly enjoyed walking the labyrinth, which, much to RP’s dismay, was nothing at all like the movie.

-         There is no end to what we’ll do for good food. Struck by his (usual) late-night donut craving, RP and I trekked three miles at 11 p.m. to get him the best (or three best) donuts in San Francisco. Bob’s, we’ll be back.

-         A bicycle is a magnificent way to see the city on a Saturday afternoon. However, after riding from Embarcadero to Fisherman’s Wharf to the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito to the Muir Woods shuttle and back to Sausalito, it’s also a good way to make sure you feel your butt bones every time you sit down from there on out.

-     Also, yes, you CAN ride around for 4-5 hours in a skirt and riding boots. It's fine. No matter what your husband tells you.

-         The Prices are certified public transportation gurus, even if our BART ride from SFO downtown went something like this:

RP: “Honey, this is a train that we pay to ride all the way into town. See all these people? They’re also paying to ride the train. It’s called puuubbb—liiick trannns-porrr-taayyy-shun.”

KP: “Why are you so annoying?”

RP: “See, we couldn’t afford to buy a whole train, could we? But when everyone pitches in, it ends up being very cheap to ride it. Isn’t that neat?”

KP: “Stop talking.”

RP: “And tomorrow, if you’re good, I’ll teach you about trolley cars and street cars and even subways that go UNDER the water.”

KP: “I’m getting off at the next stop.”

-         I may never again be satisfied with another breakfast, after spending the morning with Dottie’s Blue Ribbon Café. Chili-cheese cornbread toast with jalapeno jelly? I’m destroyed.

-         Orange County kids don’t fit in too well in Haight-Ashbury, mostly due to the fact that we don’t smell like pot/incense and usually remember to wear pants. Nonetheless, we enjoyed their annual street fair immensely (mostly due to giant snow cones).

-          RP and I need babies. It will really help us not look like pedophiles in Golden Gate Park.

Yes, SFO, we heart you. 

The iMonster

As you might recall, when RP turned the ripe age of 35, I gave him a shiny new toy: the iPad 3. This was for three reasons: 1. I thought he could use it for work. 2. I'm an awesome wife. 3. I wanted an iPad 3.

What I didn't know at the time was that I was creating an iMonster.

Just this weekend, RP's new iPad was the source of many "character-bearing" experiences.  

Take his recent affinity for playing "Family Feud (in church, in bed, at the beach, etc.)." Just yesterday, we had the following conversations:

RP: "Honey! Family Feud is asking for 5 reasons someone wouldn't want to be married to me."

KP: "To you specifically?"

RP: "Well, the player."

KP: "Umm... I feel like I'm being set up."

RP: "No! That's the real question!"

.......

RP: "Ugh."

.......

RP: "I ran out of time. I can't think of any reasons someone wouldn't want to be married to me."

An hour later....

RP: "What are six things a woman would rather be than beautiful?"

KP: "U----"

RP: (Immediately) "Skinny."

RP: "Sexy."

RP: "Rich?"

30 seconds later...

RP: "Oh, 'kind' and 'smart.' I wouldn't have thought of those."

And lest we leave all our fun to Family Feud, I also caught RP using his iPad during church, whilst I led 9 children in coloring pictures of Jesus. So engrossed was he in taking self-portraits via Photobooth that he neglected to notice me filming him:



Thanks again, Steve Jobs.

California (b)Ad-Venture

Call me Snow White, because I have my very own Grumpy on my hands. Or at least I did Saturday, when RP and I visited the happiest place on Earth's illegitimate half-brother, California Adventure.

In truth, RP was a great sport, but if there's one thing that amusement parks have taught this couple this year, it's that we're OLD.

We lasted 3 1/2 hours, one of which was spent entirely waiting in line for a corn dog and then devouring said delicacy.

Lucky for me, our spirits were still high when we made it onto Tower of Terror, my personal favorite. Sadly, our spirits were far too low (and the crowds to heavy, and our feet too sore, and a wife too hungry) to make it on Soarin' Over California, RP's personal favorite.

Sorry RP.

Some of the highlights of the day included:

- Our willingness to wait twice as long for corn dogs as we would for rides
- RP looking glumly at my open camera lens and saying "I'm a 35 year-old man at an amusement park. Do you really need to document it?"
- Getting leather shoes and a leather purse DRENCHED on the river rapids ride (That purse was Sara Berman. I hope you're happy Mr. Disney.).
- Leaving so early there wasn't even anyone to charge us for parking as we exited
- Me quietly stating, "This is fun, but so is Costco. And a Costco pass is only 50 bucks a year."

Guess we're not so adventurous after all.

Mountain Snobbery

Having lived both in Utah and in Idaho (shhh... don’t tell anyone), I love a good trip to the mountains.

Unfortunately, RP doesn’t. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. As previously stated, the man is determined to one day be a subject of a Krakauer survival story. That said, he does not appreciate “not-quite-mountain” trips.

And that’s what he considers Big Bear Lake, California.

As made apparent by our weekend trip there.

In case you were wondering, Big Bear sports a beautiful lake, darling town, and all kinds of trout fishing.

This did not please RP. Much as I tried to console him with mountain hikes and trout fishing, he still had his (numerous) complaints. For instance:

KP: “Honey, you should bring your fishing gear. I hear there are tons of trout in the lake.”

RP: “Yeah, but they’re all farm-raised and dumped into the lake.  And you can’t fly fish on a lake, so I’d have to bring a spinner.”

KP: “It’ll be nice to get into the mountains though.”

RP: “Eh, yeah, I guess. It’s like 6,000 feet but it’s more desert than mountains. It’s not like it’s Wyoming.”

KP: “I hope there are some good hikes. I found a 6-mile loop with views of the lake.”

RP: “It’ll probably be pretty hot. It is the desert. And I bet those trails are really easy.”

KP: “Well, at least we’ll have a nice little cabin to relax in.”

RP: “Yeah, but I’d rather be in a real cabin. That’s just a house in town, not a mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

Despite the many clouds RP found within my silver linings, I had a lovely time with our friends this weekend. 

We managed to hike, visit the shops, eat ourselves silly, play a few board games, and spend some much-needed time outside Orange County.

We even had the luxury of a giant jetted Jacuzzi tub in the middle of the kitchen (don’t be jealous).

So, despite the frequent insults to RP’s mountaineering pride, I’d give the quaint little lake town two thumbs up.

So there.

Home Sweet San Clemente



When I moved to California three years ago, I had nothing but ten bucks and a dream to my name.

That’s actually not true. I had a job that was transferring me to San Diego and a moving truck full of stuff to take with me. But still, I like to think it was an adventure.

But I didn’t really think I’d stick around this long.

Then RP happened.

And now I’m buying a house in sleepy little San Clemente (well, as sleepy as coastal Orange County gets).

And even though I complain about California – like traffic, income tax, and our choice of governors – I can’t really complain about my neighborhood. After taking a very rudimentary photography class on Saturday, RP and I took a little walk around the neighborhood to practice.

It’s not so bad around here.

Old Men Rule

Confession: I’ve been kissing a 35 year-old.

THIS one, to be more specific.

There are few things I like better than celebrating birth – mine, for the most part, but RP’s comes in at a close second. And since I’ve spent the last four weeks unable to exercise and officially off narcotic drugs, there is very little else in my life to celebrate.

In his own celebration, RP left me last weekend for a little boys’ jaunt down to Mexico. Since I am currently barred from swimming, surfing, and even hot-tubbing, Mexico held little appeal for me aside from marzipan candy and delicious vanilla extract.

So I stayed home and watched Mad Men rested.

And whipped up this little confection.

RP had it for dinner Sunday, along with my sad version of German Rouladen.

He also ate it for breakfast Monday.

And then as a midnight snack.

He likes chocolate cake.

I can’t blame him; the mere bite I had raised my blood sugar to levels not surpassed since 1999.

Even though I could celebrate RP all day long, let’s bring this post back around to ME –or, rather, my oral health.  I was awkward enough as a pre-teen, so I skipped out on the whole braces phase (even though I creatively utilized paperclips to “pretend” now and again).

That said, at 29, I’m entering the world of orthodontics. This means that not only am I barred from eating anything except during my highly regulated Invisalign breaks, I also get to be that awkward chick brushing her teeth in the office bathroom at least twice a day. Not to mention I slur my speech like Lindsay Lohan at a Sunday brunch.

It’sh thuff.

And take douchebag-like car photos of myself to see how noticeable it really is:

By my calculations, in 18 months my self-esteem will have fallen to Colombian-prostitute levels. But by that point I’ll have perfect teeth and weigh approximately 87 pounds.

I’m on board.