How to keep a marriage together Part Two

Posted: June 12, 2012 in Pregnant Wife Stories
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Buying an RV and then utilizing your wife to help in its maneuvering can be a rockin’ good time. Should you do this and then survive the impending doom that will be your marriage for the initial few trips, your marriage will come out stronger and more ready to deal with other issues that life may throw at you.

Buying a Travel Trailer was a big move for us. I already had a mullet, the 250 dollar swimming pool from Wal-Mart in our backyard, and I wanted to complete the redneck trifecta. So, a trailer felt right. I have mentioned before my man skills and that some of them, well most of them aren’t as developed as they should be. One of the traits that I had never even attempted to test was my ability to pull and maneuver a trailer. Because I had never tested my skills in this area, I went and bought the longest damned trailer my truck would pull—33 feet of absolute insanity. My wife was with me on this, the whole time, like a trooper. She may be a pregnant zombie with crazy and irrational pregnant behavior, but she is the most supportive and blindly loyal woman in the world. If her husband had to have this trailer, then for the love of God, he was going to get it.

After the trailer was hooked up and we got an entire days training on how the thing works, what it does, and what not to touch, we got into the truck ready to pull it off into the city. It was at this point when reality hit us. We felt like children in way over our heads. I remember looking at Whitney and saying, “they are going to let us leave with this thing, do they know who I am?”

Some background that I left out: I am certain that I talked Whitney into this trailer, it is not like her to own something like this; it is all me. I had one when I was a kid and felt like this would be a great move. I had fantasies of going on really cool outings and just enjoying a new dimension in our lives. Whitney is a fast car and rims girl. She is into fashion and accessorizing. She is a pretty, party girl, a socialite. She is more royalty than redneck (except when she gets in fights at local Wal-Marts: see Part One), and in one sweeping decision I brought all of it down. The first instant I realized what I had done was on the way home when I made a surprise stop at the Cracker Barrel. After nearly ripping the mirrors off of six or seven cars, I pulled that rig into the Cracker Barrel parking lot and stretched it across like twenty spots. I looked at Whitney and I swear I heard her voice crack when she said, “Oh my God, I am one of those people now….”

The reason I bring up the trailer is because there is nothing more difficult in the world than backing it up through tight places when 1. The driver is an inexperienced man-child with a bad temper, and 2. The wife is gifted, but operates on her own plain. Another really cool thing about my wife is something I call “Professional at Whatever We’re Doing Right Now” Syndrome. It comes out whenever we undertake any do-it-yourself projects around the house.

Two Examples:

I was putting a new chandelier in the dining room once and I was working on it alone. My wife was in the other room doing her own thing. She came into the dining room for one thing or another and started giving me advice on my methodology. Her dispersing of advice is probably warranted because I am man-skill challenged, but that doesn’t mean that her dispersing of advice is going to be met with understanding ears. I am on a ladder, holding a chandelier up that is dangling by the wires from the ceiling by balancing it on my shoulder. If I move too much one way, the chandelier will come crashing to the ground. Sweat is pouring down my face; my fingers are fumbling for two wire nuts that lay just beyond my reach, and I am a step away from Hulk Smashing the entire fixture, and it would have felt great. My wife must have seen the struggle on my face, and she must have recognized the rising anger burning a hole in me, because in what must have been an attempt to soothe my soul, she said, “I don’t think you’re doing something right, the box says install in minutes and it’s been an hour…..” I am so thankful she was there to point out the error of my ways, but before I could look up and exchange pleasantries with her, she had vanished like a thief in the night, a thief who has had practice in witty banter.

This is the same girl who was napping one year when I was hanging Christmas lights outside. Halfway through the project she appeared. I was half dangling off of the roof and attempting to fasten a light to a brittle edge of a roof shingle, while gripping the roof with my inner thigh and groin muscles. IMy wife must have seen the struggle on my face, and she must have recognized the rising anger burning a hole in me, because in what must have been an attempt to soothe my soul she began explaining to me that, if I had began the lights on the opposite side of the house, I wouldn’t have the odd amount of lighting left just suspended over the ledge—and further wouldn’t be in this awkward predicament. God damn it if she wasn’t right. There is nothing worse than when she is right, and god damn it, it happens every time. My reaction at this point is my favorite ever. I released the Hulk. This means that I stood up on the roof, climbed to the highest point and yelled out “Merry F*&%$ng Christmas!!!!” I knew this wouldn’t cause any problems or embarrassment. My wife’s reaction at this point is my favorite ever. She released the She-Hulk. This means that she knocked the ladder over and went inside after shouting back “Merry Christmas to you, Dick!” I stayed on the roof until she felt guilty enough to come fix the ladder.

So, where to store the trailer? We decided spot 38 at a local storage facility was ideal and signed the contract. I brief Whitney on the plan to get the trailer into the storage area and then from there where we will back up the trailer into. She seems to understand and I start the work of getting us there. When we arrive at the storage place, there is a truck, a truck painted in camouflage blocking the entrance. I drive by and cursed his redneck ass. My wife says, “Your father told you never to travel down a road that you don’t know where it leads to.” If there is something I can’t stand it is when my father or any man is used to underline the fact that I am making poor decisions. I say, “c’mon Whitney, like this road is just going to end abruptly without a spot to turn around a 33ft trailer.” No sooner had I said this then we rounded a corner to an abrupt end of the street with no possible way to turn around a 33ft trailer. God damn it if she wasn’t right. There is nothing worse than when Whitney is right, and God damn it, it happens every time. Needless to say, she expertly guided me up a driveway and we conducted a precision turnaround.

Once we entered the storage facility, I get the trailer into the area where we will begin backing it up against a fence. Whitney gets in position and starts hand and arm signals. I learn a lot about Whitney during this evolution. The first thing I learn is that Whitney is not a slave to conventional backing up hand and arms signals. She understands them, and utilizes them, but once her arm is tired, she just switches the motion up. For her this is a great strategy, for me, all it does is confuse the shit out of me. She was making a normal back up motion and suddenly she switches to a motion reminiscent of making some biscuits in the air. I have no clue what biscuits in the air means so I yell at her. She gets frustrated and I get more frustrated, but I just adapt and realize that biscuit making motion means “keep it coming.” I am backing up, she is making biscuits. As I get closer and feel like I am nearing the fence, the following exchange occurs and I learn my second fact about Whitney:

Heath: Whitney, why don’t you do something like count down the feet left , you know like six feet, five feet, steady as you go, four feet, and so on…..

Whitney: I am not good with feet, can we come up with some more familiar benchmark?

Heath: What do you mean, you’re not good with feet? You’re thirty years old and a teacher.

Whitney: I just don’t judge feet well. Can we use something more familiar?

Heath: (still backing up slowly) Okay Whitney, whatever benchmark you can work with.

Whitney: Okay, you have approximately one of me left when I am not wearing high heels.

Heath: Are you serious? We are using you without high heels as the benchmark?

Whitney: Yes, I am very familiar with my height, with or without high heels….

These are the times that try men’s souls….

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in since the day she used herself as a benchmark….

Advertisements
Comments
  1. Baz says:

    Heath, one of the finest pieces of prose I have had the pleasure of reading in a while… I can entirely relate to the light fixture and to the fact that the female in the relationship is usually always right. I’m still laughing, probably too hard right now to provide adequate feedback on yet another fine installment.

  2. Professional at Whatever We’re Doing Right Now” Syndrome-I had no idea that’s what this syndrome was called, but I definitely have a few relatives who suffer from this… 🙂

    Did your wife really push over the ladder? Do you still hang Christmas lights? I can’t get my hubby to hang Christmas lights regardless!

    • haphillips says:

      This story is real! I screamed as loud as I could to the neighborhood. It was hysterical in retrospect. Whitney didn’t actually push the ladder over, she put the ladder into a position so that if I put my weight on it, it would fall over. It was her brightest moment!!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s