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.

April Birthdays Bring Hometown Visits

Five months shy of my 30th, I have a bone to pick with birthdays in general. That said, I'm more than happy to help other people celebrate their increase in years. And this weekend, I did just that -- in ye old Washington State.

Since this little one was celebrating her very own 29th, I flew up to surprise her. And surprised she was, much as she tried to deny it.

 This one didn't seem to care one way or another.

To put the cherry on top the proverbial (birthday) cake, I got to spend some time with these fine fellas. One of them was celebrating his own birthday (the one who also appears to be threatening the photographer with deadly assault).  

Eating inordinant amounts of food.

And consoling children due to the heartaches of this life (putting away the Wii)

Apparently it worked.

And since I'm a party-pooper by nature, mom's homemade birthday cake was a health-fest, made from black beans, xylitol, and all my daughterly affection (which is low-cal as well).

As it turns out, the old Benton-Franklin is pretty nice this time of year

So I even stopped by my old neighborhood.

Mostly to avoid mom's homemade orange cake

Happy birthday, Mom and Chase!

Coming up next: Ricardo himself turns the old (and I stress old) Three-Five. Stay tuned. 



Hollywood? WE Would.

After boring you with my intolerance for pain and my reckless display of self-pity over my last few posts, I'm ready to move on to subjects not pertaining to my spinal column.

Do you hear that, L4/L5? I forgive you. Just don't let it happen again (I BEG of you).

So, last weekend, RP and I decided to commemorate the fact that I could once again do something besides watch MadMen and lay in bed (not to say that activity isn't still one of my most prized) -- and spent the day up north.

We Prices tend to flock southward when we want an Orange County break, and we felt bad about our long-time neglect of LA. And that's what drove us to a morning hike in Hollywood (that along with a rare smog-free day in LA and a secret desire to run into reality TV stars).

One thing they never told me on 'The Hills' was that those particular hills offer quite a spectacular view:

And after wandering the trails aimlessly for a good 90 minutes, we actually made it to the Hollywood sign. We're very good at choosing the path less traveled by when confronted with two roads diverged, much to our detriment.

I'd like a word with Robert Frost.

Not to worry; my back held up like a champ -- as did this fine fellow:

And while we were in the area, we paid our respects to the Griffith Obsevatory, both to take in the views and to commemorate my young dreams of becoming an astrophysicist (sorry I gave up on that one, RP).

Luckily I was able to make my apologies to Albert in person.

LA, you're not so bad. We'll see you again soon.

Springing Forward (a/k/a BACK in action)

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned.

I’ve done nothing but sleep and watch three seasons of Mad Men in the past 10 days.

Give or take.

And that is reason #2 that surgery is awesome.

Reason #1, of course, is the fact that for the first time in 5 weeks, I cannot feel my sciatic nerve, thus enabling me to do #2 without moaning and involuntarily sobbing (except when Don Draper has another self-defining realization).

Last Monday, I had a microdiscectomy/partial laminotomy/epidural steroid injection. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what they did while I was under, but whatever it was, it was sent from on high. And it meant that finally I scored one against the as-yet undefeated L4-L5 disc.

Sadly, I’m not allowed to bend, lift, or twist my body for 4 weeks, which makes daily activities like cleaning and doing laundry out of the question.

Bummer, I know.

RP has been a wonderful nurse/servant since. He’s grown accustomed to me pointing at things below waist-level and fetching them for me, and on the day of surgery, he even stayed at home to feed me saltines and make sure I had bedside adult supervision. In this case, it was an adult rabbit.
Reason #3 and 4 that surgery is awesome came later that day, with a couple beautiful displays from my two favorite sets of parents.

By Easter I was doing a-ok, which allowed me to whip up a few little treats:

All of which were tossed in the trash by ingrate four-year-olds who hadn’t the palate for coconut.

It wouldn’t be Easter without a special shout-out to this Easter bunny, who apparently decided that this holiday was for relaxing:

What she’s trying to say is happy Easter.