Archive for July, 2012


News Flash:  Sitting outside, in the heat of the evening last night, I was drinking a beer with our neighbor RV’er.  Innocent as an angel, I was attacked by a yellow jacket.  In my three and a halfish decades of life, I have never been stung by a bee, wasp, or stingy type bug.  However, I was certain that if stung, I would handle it with grace and dignity that you expect from a man as ruggedly amazing as the writer of this blog is.  I learned some things about myself.  I am not going to lie, for years I have wondered whether or not I would be a screamer.  Last night may have shed some light on my reaction.

I call the neighbor, “Gentleman,” because he told me his name, but as usual, I was either too self obsessed to really listen to the man, or the trauma that ensued moments later also caused memory lapses.  Because I am not afraid to lay my faults out there for you, I need you to know that he told me his name three days ago, and I am a pathetic first acquaintance.  I am an awesome friend, but you have to earn a place in my memory.  Do you know what kind of things that I am storing in my head that would be forced out if I chose to remember everything?  I am clinging to things and memories like a hoarder of thought.  I know all of the words to the opening theme song of “Who’s the Boss,” and “Growing Pains.”  I can tell you the plot lines of every “Saved by the Bell.”  These are things I need to stay balanced, to stay a renaissance man.  If I couldn’t immediately recall the fact that Zach Morris, Slater, and Screech snuck out to a club called, The Attic, underage, I would never last in future conversations that demanded the instantaneous recall of information as important as this.

So, the Gentleman is sitting across from me and sharing his life with me.  A horse photographer, that had a stint in the Navy back in ‘Nam, and has had like 37 separate careers, the Gentleman is charming and has a “man’s man” appeal.  He offers up stories of the rich people that he caters to in the equestrian world and the day-to-day grind that the rich people deal with out there.  I felt sorry for the rich people and their “first world” problems.  I mean, these people have so much money that they cannot find happiness in it, and that is sad, because money and happiness to me are directly related.  I don’t care what anybody who is reading this says; money is awesome!  When you have money, sure it can bring problems, but it can also buy awesomeness like unlimited Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  Or, you can fill your gas tank all the way up instead of putting in 30 dollars and then just driving slowly with your windows down and the a/c off.  Money may not directly buy happiness, but it buys a lot of things that rock!

So, the Gentleman is sitting across from me.  I look down to my left ring finger and yellow jacket that has decided to land there and chill.  Because I always react with calm, cool, and collected emotions, you can expect that what followed would be nothing short of manly….

Here is what ensued.

I cannot recall if the yellow jacket was already stinging me, or that I am such a dancing nancy, that I just plain went crazy upon sighting this monster of the stinging bug world and jerked forward.  Because I was in this reclined chair, my jerk caused a flopping motion that I assume appeared as if I was electrocuted.  Because I had a beer in my right hand, I could not immediately swoosh this killer off of me.  Because, there was another man in front of me, I didn’t throw the full beer ten feet away from me and scream a string of five obscenities and three unintelligible ramblings, or did I?  Because, I can tolerate an insane amount of pain, I didn’t grip my ring finger like it may or may not have been there when I reached down, and then look astonishingly at the Gentleman when I found the finger to still be there, or did I?  Because I am my father’s son, maybe I not only killed the yellow jacket, but I sent it straight to hell with black magic words and tantrums and some form of rain dance.

As I gathered myself, I looked up at the Gentleman.  In his eyes, there was this look that I’ve seen before and could not mistake.  I have seen this look once when I was a kid and my father tried to kill me by cooking dinner using a hot skillet to fry pork chops.  I know….what a dick. I reached up and grabbed the skillet and burned my arm, I winced and cried, and then, when I looked to father for reassurance, he just said, “what were you expecting to happen there?”

That is the look I saw in the man’s eyes, except what he said was, “You know, you need to try and think through the pain….”  When another man gives you advice about dealing with pain, you have been dominated; you are no longer in any form, the alpha; you need to haze yourself.  So, I went inside the trailer and looked at my pregnant wife, who was sitting in the 64 degree temperatures looking as if she just ran a marathon, sweating, pounding water, and breathing erratically.  I informed her that I was nearly killed by a leviathan sized yellow jacket.  There in all her pregnancy, and knowing that in only two months time, she would force a baby out of her uterus and into the free world, through a canal not normally used to pass an object of this proportion, in a violent, scream filled moment where skin tears, and lesser men will pass out, Whitney will make the final push to creating life, completing the female’s punishment for eating the apple years and years ago of torturous labor pain.  Knowing all of this, I looked her in the eyes, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, put pressure on my fresh wound, gritted my teeth, and in pain wrought words I uttered the following, “You will never know pain like I have felt tonight….”

I just wanted you to know, because I have been sitting here in pain for nine hours…

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Two and three quarter days into my three day trek from Pensacola, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia, the phone rings in my truck.  Directly to my front, I can see my future.  Dark storm clouds are billowing towards my caravan pushing their way around the buildings of downtown Richmond.  My caravan, a motley crew, made up of a truck whose occupants include a handsome driver named, me, and two heavily sedated dogs, as their travel anxiety causes driver anxiety.  Following the truck, is a car whose occupants include a seven month pregnant woman, her swollen feet, which the pregnant woman contests are their own entity in themselves now, and behind her, in the rear passenger side seat, a three-legged Chihuahua sits shaking, because that’s what three-legged Chihuahuas do.  I am going to get to the phone call trust me.  Just not yet.  I want you to sit there and wonder why I would start this blog off by alluding to a phone call near the end of the journey and not the beginning of the three day drive that tested every facet of my being, from the fibers of my marriage to my ability to handle stress while manipulating a trailer through horrifying situations.

Trucks.  Huge trucks.  Huge trucks everywhere.  They growl like monsters.  They roar when they pass me, and the inhalation leading up to said roar sucks the trailer I am desperately trying to keep behind me towards them.  For split seconds every time I am passed by these beasts of the roadway I lose control of my train.  I feel it; my stomach feels it, and behind me, my pregnant wife has decided at these moments she should text me, the following, “Honey, are you okay, just checking cuz you’re swerving into the trucks…” 

I don’t know why but I have always felt like truck drivers are intimidating.  I feel the same way I would when I drive around them that I would if I was playing a pickup game of basketball with Michael Jordan—that being, completely out of my league.  I do this thing when they pass me to let them know I think they are cool.  One quick off and on of my brights to say to them, “you are past me, please feel free to come back over into this lane.”  They love me for this.  Sometimes they blink their taillights at me in an expression of gratitude.  I act like the kid who is trying as hard as he can to be part of the “in-crowd.”  At gas stations, I go out of my way to say hello them while standing in front of my trailer, my “beast of the roadway” leaning in the coolest pose I can muster.  I see them in the restrooms of the truck stops we frequent along our route and I probably spend too much time watching their mannerisms.  Once, Pregnant Whitney and I pulled into a gas station and walked in front of about five big rigs filling up their tanks.  I proudly escorted my pregnoid wife from their right to left and for just one awesome instance, I thought, “yeah, this is my lot lizard—I knocked her up.”  I was so proud at that moment.  Seconds later, Whitney did this weird pregnant leap, which actually means she stepped an inch farther than comfort would normally allow.  She lets out an odd whimper and then immediately stops, looks down and pulls the dog away from something that is unbelievably tantalizing.  Moments earlier, I had pulled a chicken bone from the dog that she had found on the side of the lot, so I assumed it was something similar.  Wrong.  There laying in all its awesomeness was a freshly used condom….My trucker brothers had been busy on this very piece of land…..I wanted to take a picture for my scrap booking….

As the trip begins, I can tell that my truck is in an uphill battle against the trailer.  My first acceleration to 65 mph took five minutes and I could watch as the gas gauge fell.  I looked up to the monitor that lets me know the fuel economy: 7 MPG.  Excellent, this was a good decision.  As the trip would wind up, I filled up my tank every 150 miles…..this is not bragging.  My wife filled her car up twice.  Excellent, this was a good decision.  I keep noting that the trailer is riding awfully.  Lurching forward, and pulling the truck downward in such a sharp motion, I thought that it was bad.  At the first stop, my wife, who is pregnant and has extensive knowledge of pulling a trailer or at least in her head she does, points out that the trailer is probably connected incorrectly; I ignore her opinion…remember the phone call…

Day two, my wife pulls out from behind me on the road and snaps a picture of my truck pulling the trailer.  She posts it to FB with a statement worshipping her ruggedly handsome husband pulling the trailer like a professional.  Comments pour in rooting us on as we struggle down Interstate 95.  My father was noticeably absent in my travels.  Not a word, a comment about how proud he is of his manly son who, like him, now pulls a trailer down the highway.  This could have been a connecting moment in our lives.  Maybe it could have been that moment in the father-son relationship where he thinks, “My boy has become a man.”   Nope, nothing, silence.  Our convoy continues northbound.

At some point on the evening of the second travel day, Fred Flintstone had entered my wife’s car and exchanged his feet with hers.  Initially, I was in such a hurry to fill up my tank and get back on the road that I didn’t notice what had progressed from knee down to my pregnant companion on this hellish journey.  Something happened.  It looked as if a balloon artist that worked at amusement parks constructed her legs out of those condom shaped balloons in such a manner that no distinguishable difference existed in the circumference of her legs from knee down.  At the bottom of her leg, where normal people have feet, were five round little balloons extending outward as if the balloon artist had adapted toes by twisting the balloons.  Couple this with her new walking style, and I now had a pregnant wife who looked like she was walking on wooden clubs with nubs for toes.  Cute as can be, but nevertheless, she was walking on wooden clubs.  Somewhere, Fred Flintstone was gallivanting around with Dino on a pair of normal human sexy feet, while my wife was a prisoner to wooden club legs adorned with Fred Flintstone feet. 

The storm clouds continued pummeling the scenery and at any moment, I knew I would be pulling my trailer through unknown roadways in a torrential downpour.  My phone rings and I look to see who would call me at this moment.  Had someone sensed my stress?  Had God shined down upon me with some voice that could calm my nerves?  It was my father.  I hastily answered waiting for the words from his mouth of recognition of my trailer pulling prowess.  My dad started talking, at first bantering about being on the road, but quickly, cutting to the chase.  The following exchange occurred two and three quarter days into my three day journey from Pensacola, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia:

Dad:  Son, I saw the picture Whitney posted of you pulling the trailer on Facebook.

Heath:  Yeah? (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Whitney got a good picture of the moment.

Heath: Yeah?  (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Two things.

Heath:  Yeah?  (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Your truck is too small, and the trailer is hooked up wrong…..

I immediately flashed back to when Whitney first pointed it out…I can’t stand it when she is right about things I ignored the first time she said it…..whatever.  So, I sit here in Fredericksburg, Virginia proof that you don’t have to do things right to get them done…  I sit here in the freezing catacombs of my trailer with my three dogs who all want dog mittens to keep their dog paws from freezing.  My wife sits across from me wearing summer gear wiping the sweat from her pregnant brow.  Excellent, this was a great idea….  

More to come…..


Boxes are piled everywhere.  Tape being pulled from the roll makes a screeching sound that is now beginning to echo throughout the emptying house.  Through the window of the back door, two dogs watch confusedly, as movers move in and out of their home.  You can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to the workers as they pass by you weaving in and out of the crooked towers of boxes.  Deadlines:  must meet deadlines.  A small lingering anxiety lurks just above the Phillips’ House.  Moving day is here and you cannot run from yourself today.  Couches are gone; you just ate a chicken breast while dipping it in hot wing sauce.  You are trying to eat everything in your kitchen which makes for very random combinations of food.  For mid morning snack, you had olives meant for martinis and shredded cheese from a bag.  Delicious.  You next think about putting warm water and rice in your mouth and holding it there until it softens just to get rid of the rice you have acquired over two years.

Why do you have so much vegetable oil?  These are the moments you curse the invention of Sam’s Club.    You think to yourself, “How many children are starving to death right now that would love to have the vegetable oil excesses that you have in your pantry?”  Will I be arrested if I go out back and pour the vegetable oil into the yard?  It is a vegetable… 

The second you see them pack up your treadmill you think, “damn, I could be running right now.”  The following second you spend trying to remember the last time you used the treadmill for running and not just hanging clothes on while you ironed. 

All is not lost.  You have a plan, and your plan is stellar.  You are going to put your pregnant wife, Shepherd Dog, Blue Heeler, and three legged Chihuahua right into the middle of a three day road trip.  To make things easier, you have a 33ft RV that when actually placed on the road feels 50 feet plus.  Your RV has been nothing but a source of excitement between your pregnoid wife and you, but you think to yourself, “that’s just because we haven’t spent enough time in it….yeah, that’s it.”  You ask the truck driver packing your stuff up for advice on pulling a trailer and the advice he offers you leaves you wanting.  His answer, “Don’t piss the truck drivers off.”  The second he says this, you think of the movie Joyride where an evil and vengeful trucker takes his wrath out on a couple drivers. 

Luckily for you, your wife is pretty good at being pregnant.  Yesterday, she watched the packers loading things into boxes and fell asleep because of how hard the work was.  Later, you overhear her say to the neighbor, “I know I look like I just woke up, but the movers are here and it has been exhausting.”  At this moment, you flash back to earlier when she was sleeping next to you.  She was snoring and the movers actually tried to work in silence out of fear of a pregnant woman, which I understand.  The movers are here to do a service for you and you appreciate them for it.  When one of the mover’s phone rings, she apologizes profusely.  You say to her, “no, it is okay, you are working hard.”  She replies immediately and without thought, “Sir, I have been pregnant, and she deserves some quiet while she sleeps.”  You realize at that moment the following:  All women who have bore children are naturally against all men who haven’t. 

All women who have bore children are naturally against all men who have not.  What a great sentence.  You take another bite of your chicken and this time you dip it into mayonnaise.  You do this because you have two jars of mayonnaise, and you have to get rid of it.  You think about leaving a box of random noodles (you find six boxes of angel hair pasta), mayonnaise, and vegetable oil on your neighbor’s doorstep and then running.  You wish that your wife was here so you could watch her pregnantly trip over boxes and try and fit through areas her belly won’t let her smoothly travel through, but she is not, because she has abandoned you for girl time with friends.  All friends of women who have bore children who have also bore children themselves are natural enemies of all men who have not.

You look down and dip your chicken into vegetable oil, because you have to get rid of it…


Smack dab plus two in the middle of July, 198 or 199 days into the year depending on whether it is a Leap Year or not, 167 days remaining to shed in the year are all other ways that you could say July 17.  July 17th holds a lot of meaning to me.

For the following reasons, July 17th is one of my favorite days.

In 1933, after successfully crossing the Atlantic Ocean, the Lithuanian research aircraft Lituanica crashes in Europe under mysterious circumstances.  In 1944, Port Chicago disaster: Near the San Francisco Bay, two ships laden with ammunition for the war explode in Port Chicago, California, killing 320.  One of my favorite events is South Korea proclaiming its constitution in 1948.  We cannot forget that the Harvard School of Dentistry was established on this date in 1867.  Of course, we all come together on this day to commemorate the day in 1717 when King George I sailed with 50 musicians on a barge down the River Thames on the opening day of Handel’s Water Music.    (things in this paragraph were stolen from Wikipedia somewhat illegally in that I did not properly cite it.  The underlined words are indicative that I cut and pasted material directly from the site.)

I contend however that what today is really about is Whitney Phillips.  At 0705 in the morning after a night of pizza eating and walking, a sexy pregnant lady named Valerie gave birth to Whitney Waters.  Named after the highest summit in the contiguous United States, Whitney quickly rose into her name.  Her old name was beautiful to me, and rang of a really cool porn star name.  Although, Valerie doesn’t know that I think that….until now.    To be fair, Val, I am not the only one to think this, just sayin. 

I celebrate Whitney today, and truthfully, I have been celebrating her since July 1st, because in our home, Whitney gets one month to herself.  I am thankful that the child she is carrying around in her belly was not born this month.  Whitney would have had trouble sharing; I actually think that she secretly holds Independence Day in contempt.  On the 4th, when people tell her “Happy Fourth,” Whitney replies with, “and a happy 13 Days to my birthday to you….”  She always gets confused when the fireworks in her honor are accompanied by patriotic music and not the soundtrack to her favorite movie, Dirty Dancing.

So in the spirit of Whitney Month, I wanted to give you a few facts about who you should be celebrating.

  1. 1.        Whitney hates how loud my sneezes are.  When she blesses me, she says, “Bless you.”  The tone with which she says it to me is consistent with the following phrase, “I can’t stand it when you sneeze anywhere near me.  It makes me question what I ever liked about you.  I am this close to walking out the door, but I am carrying your baby, and I don’t want to take her away from her father.”
  2. 2.       Whitney is a tip toe runner.  I make fun of her for it, but she has glorious calves, which only accentuates the fact that my calves are made up purely of shin bone…
  3. 3.       Whitney taught her 5th graders to say Psalms where the “S” is silent.  There are a group of about 22 kids going into the sixth grade that are extremely well versed in their Palms.
  4. 4.       Whitney would rather me make her a homemade card than spend a thousand dollars on clothing or accessories.  Of course, this does not mean that she doesn’t want to spend thousands of dollars on clothing and accessories; she just doesn’t seem to think my taste in the aforementioned items is quite right.  Go figure.  That being said, Whitney dresses me nicely.  I would probably still dress like it is the grunge era, because in my head I am the coolest…Luckily, in Whitney’s head, I am a guy with questionable taste in clothes. 
  5. 5.       Whenever I raise my hand in a manner as if I was going to slap Whitney ( Pimps do this…), she puts her hand in the air and says, “How,” like a Native American greeting.  To me, this means the threat of me hitting her isn’t being taken seriously enough.  Unfortunately, I was only operating on what I might do, not on what I would actually do.  Now, I just look stupid.  We have actually turned it into our own little high five.
  6. 6.       Whitney is an example of the things I wish I consistently was.  She is the kind of woman who would tell someone who is littering to pick it up.  She will tell a concession worker at a theater that in customer service, the cashier should actually greet the consumer.  She tows a line and holds herself accountable.  I cannot lie; the better parts of me are that way because The Whitness won’t let the slack up. 
  7. 7.       Whitney pees with the door open, and if I ruin the moment, she gets as mad about it as she has for the worst of things I have ever done to her.  Don’t tell her I wrote this down—she might think this was personal…

So, tonight while you are gathered around the Whitney Tree drinking spirits and engaging in riveting tales of forgotten lore all in celebration of Whit, I encourage you to remember what you are celebrating for.  It is not just another Tuesday.  It is the day that marks the reason most of you even read these blogs.  Whitney.  30 years of being completely unique.  30 years of living out the name her mom gave her…not the porn star version, but the strength associated with the mountain that sits majestically overlooking California from a vantage point of over 14,000 feet.  Happy Birthday, Whitney!  We’re all going to continue looking up to you for many years to come.

Let me end this with my favorite Palm.  Palm 717 Verse 1982.  The Lord created The Whitness…..


The ferry to The Magic Kingdom lumbered ahead pushing the water out of its way forcing it to ripple away from the bow as if to send a warning to the distant shore of our arrival.  Above, the weight of a bazillion people, half of which were students from foreign countries waiting excitedly for the impending magic of Disney, placed a noticeable strain on the ferry’s engine.  Mounted on the horizon stood the most recognizable feature in all of Disney, the famed castle we all recognize from the beginning to our favorite movies.  The tower seemed to grow bigger as we approached and I am not going to lie, if the chatter from the zillion teenage girls encroaching into my personal space without remorse were to die down, you may have heard a sigh of satisfaction, but the girls would never shut their mouths, and they would only continue to get up in my personal space. 

To my right, snuggled up in my arm and snuggling tighter as the teenage girls continued to press up into her personal space, clung my wife in the most beautiful, brightly colored dress.   Her baby bump sat perfectly and was accentuated by the flowing fabric that hugged her curves.  Whitney proudly displays her growing baby like a badge of courage, and I am a fan.  I think women need to wear their baby bump like it is the coolest accessory.  Hell, you have to deal with so much other crap like gas, cramping, discomfort, swollen feet, waddling, no alcohol, no caffeine, heartburn, and all of the other punishment for eating the apple—which in all fairness us men only ate because we thought we might get sex out of it…..just think, man could have been chilling in paradise whilst women lived in constant strain and labor for their inequities, but again, and I bet if I went back in time, Eve gave Adam a look that struck fear into the heart of the man, and boom, not only are us men banished from paradise as well, but we are suffering under the thumb of a woman…just sayin’. 

Two adults, one seven months pregnant, one married to woman who is seven months pregnant, two camelbacks, two four day park hopping passes, one hotel with two pools, five days to kill, five parks to hit, one thousand miles to walk, over five quadrillion tourists, one woman who is seven months pregnant and has at least four different personalities, and finally, one pregnant woman and what do you get?  The following blog:

Be Our Guest…

I could tell as we drove into the park by the look on Whitney’s face that she was confused as to why all these other people were meandering about and forming lines everywhere.  That moment should have been the omen I needed to understand many of the comments that would come out of her mouth throughout four days of braving huge crowds of people.  As a matter of fact, I believe that the tickets we held in our hands were, in Whitney’s mind, park rentals and not merely general admission stubs.  She wanted a Griswold vacation where she got an amusement park to herself, and for just a moment, one small fraction of a second, hidden in a fleeting glance from Whit, I saw it.  I saw a distinct look of disappointment in me for not making the park her own.  It was her pre-birthday celebration after all.

Arabian Nights…

Listen, I am not saying that it is wrong or right, or that one person is better than another person, but we need to remember a couple of things about enclosed spaces, heat, and their direct relationship to body odor.  I breathed in more mustiness than I ever wanted to.  I remember Pregneeping Beauty turning to me and saying with the saddest eyes.  “People stink, and it’s just not fair….”  Seven words have never had so much meaning before except maybe, “We hold these truths to be self-evident .”  And maybe the same seven work here.  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equally capable of emitting an odor that to a normal nose would be difficult to stand, but to the heightened senses of a Pregnosed woman, it is unbearable.”  Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.  (Coincidentally, “just because you can doesn’t mean you should” also applies to teenage boys and their stupid longing to grow whatever facial hair they can). 

The best part of the body odors from all over the world isn’t that it is just awesome, but that Walt Disney placed wind fans in the waiting lines meant to provide refuge from the Orlando heat.  The collateral damage from the fans is that they also serve to waft the delicious scents from those in front of you into your face and the face of the pregnant woman you brought with you.  Wait, it gets better, Walt Disney put fans in that blow at hurricane force.  Thanks to Walt, the sweat from the brow of the guy in front of you acts like a mister from Hooters.  So, to clarify, the perspiration from the guy ahead of you lands on your face and is then cooled by the wind from the fan.  Awesome.

Can You Feel the Love Tonight…                         

Going to restrooms as often as we did meant much of our shenanigans occurred in or around a bathroom.  One of my favorite instances occurred outside of the latrine at The Magic Kingdom.  To be honest here, The Magic Kingdom is my own little hell, at least in the way I experienced it. 

Finished doing what I do in the bathroom, I was standing outside waiting for Pregnerella to finish her business.  Suddenly, a cacophonous screaming sound emanates from a family just next to me.  I, being a natural rubber necker, look to see if there is anything worth judging others about.  Right there, a balling child, I mean crocodile tears of embarrassment and horror, is being forced to disrobe and use this portable toilet.  The image is burned into my eyes.  Mere feet from the bathroom and these people are forcing the child to use a camping toilet in the middle of the street.  There is absolutely nothing magical about this.  Worried that this is something that is normal for parents, I turn to see PregnAriel walking up terrified at what is going on.  The child’s mother then proceeded to dump the urine in the gutter….

I am all for field expedient urination, it’s what Marines do, but given the choice for a restroom, with no line, and dropping trouser in The Magic Kingdom, I choose the former.

Neither Preg-White, nor I understood whether this is normal parenting, but the good news is that we agreed it won’t be normal in our house, or our Magic Kingdom.   Awesome.

I Can Show You the World…

SeaWorld was amazing.  I have been before, and I think I like it every time I go more than the last.  Whitney, being an insane animal lover, was going to enjoy the hell out of this place.  Rain was threatening the entire process and as we settled in to see Shamu, it looked bad.  The show was delayed, but the extra time offered me some time to get some snacks.  As my pregnant wife was going through the decision making process that she has to go through before engaging in a snack eating session, I notice that a crowd is gathering below us that slowly passes from my left to right looking up my way.  At first, I thought they were eyeballing the seats behind us as a possible arena from which to watch Shamu. 

Returning from my trek to get snacks, I pass Whitney and realize that while Shamu was what drew the crowds to the stadium, it was another show keeping the men here….Let’s just say that what was being displayed were the prettiest show of lace these men had seen in years.  It was indeed shining, shimmering, splendid….and from this point on, every time she sat down, I would say the following:

“Are we going to sit like a lady today…or a tramp?” (Get it, Disney reference). 

The funnier part of this is that Whitney was never as amused as I was about it. 

Cruella De Vil

Hustling to get out of The Magic Kingdom, we were gliding in and out of foot traffic with precision.  We broke into an opening and started gaining speed.  Now, because Whit has to waddle, we were going ½ normal human speed—making really great time.  I have discussed before Whitney’s propensity to engage in redneck fighting, and let me tell you, Whitney found her a redneck to spar with. 

The only two people in the opening in the crowd, besides Pregoid and I, was a teenage girl and her mom.  The teenage girl, like all teenagers, believed she was the only person in the world that mattered.  Apparently, the teenage girl didn’t know what to do with her awkward arms, and she was kind of just going to flail them about the area.  Her plan also seemed to make it look like an old “clothes-line” maneuver from the WWF (I refuse to call it the WWE).  Teenage girl whipped her arm back just as Whitney passed, and thankfully, missed Whit’s neck.  Instead, Teenage girl hammer punched Whitney in her pregnant boobs.  As the blow landed, knocking the air from Whit’s lungs, Whitney forced out the following words:

Whitney:  SHIIIIIIITTTTTTT

Heath:  OOOOOOOHHHHHH NOOOOOOOO

Teenage girl:  (Dumb Silence….not even sure she knew she did it)

Teenage girl’s mom:  SHIT YOURSELF

This is where it gets good…Whitney took decisive action and hurled herself around, clinging desperately to her sore pregnant boob.  She drew her fist up to shoulder level, extending her index finger outward, in a pointing gesture towards the Teenage girl and Teenage girl’s mother.  In the same voice that I picture Satan using as he addresses a demon who has failed, Whitney rattled off,

“YOU HAD BETTER WATCH YOUR MOUTH LITTLE GIRL” in perfect Iambic Pentameter…

The crowd had formed a circle around the action now, and as much as I wanted it to spiral into a better form of chaos (picture the fight scene from Beat It), I managed to get out the following phrase:

“MMMmmm, mmmm, mm.”  I grabbed her arm and we wobbled off into the crowd.

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

I have to tell you that among all of what I saw and heard this past week, there were moments when everything was right.  There were moments when I didn’t think humans were disgusting.  There were moments when all that mattered was standing next to me, or leaning on me, or rubbing her little (big) baby bump.  There were moments when I watched tears well up in her eyes, and in the saline, I could see reflections of fireworks dancing about.  I could see the colors crackling from orange to red and red to blue and then fade back into the night’s sky.  I could feel her hand in mine and its grip tightening as a familiar tune brought feelings of nostalgia to Whitney and her face would brighten up.   There were moments when I could see her as a child without a care, a Whitney before life started playing its games, a Whitney where all she dealt with was the moment in which she stood.   There is magic there, in her eyes, and I have to tell you it made the crowds worth the trouble.  I am not sure that there is anything better than seeing Whitney get so excited just to be standing in a moment with me.

I remember watching her kind of wobble up onto the tram that was to take us back to our car, and I thought, this woman not only walks funny now, but she is worth travelling anywhere with….she brings the magic.

And this is why, after all of the years, most people you see at Disney are adults, I think.  I think we all need it.  We all need to be kids, right, for a second.  I promise you that the bills and the wars and heartache will all be there when you get back…

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in since Friday…


 

Firstly, I want you to know, that I know, that this blog is written in multiple fonts.  I don’t know how to fix it.  Just know, I know.

 

This is my last blog entry for at least a week.  I know that was straight forward and difficult to digest, but I wanted to lay it all out there for you.  I feel like, as adults, we pull too many punches with each other.  People don’t want to be lied to about everything.  We want to be lied to about some things, but not everything.  Like, I don’t really want to know that you think I suck at life; I don’t care if you think it, and I would venture to say that if you think I suck at life, you are spending too much time reading things I write.  But, if you do think I suck, just keep it to yourself or lie about it.  Lying is really cool when used properly, but conversely, lying is really bad when you use it poorly.  I rarely read stuff by people I think suck at life.  The more stuff I read by people that suck at life, the more agitated I get, and who wants to lead this type of sadistic lifestyle.

So, for the sake of full disclosure, you need to know that I am embarking on a Babymoon.  According to Wikipedia where I go to learn about everything just enough to draw horribly misguided conclusions on things I don’t know enough about, a (pay attention to the italicized and bold font).

Babymoon has several meanings. The original meaning is a period of time that parents spend bonding with a recently-born baby.

More recently the term has come to be used to describe a vacation taken by a couple that is expecting a baby in order to allow the couple to enjoy a final trip together before the many sleepless nights that usually accompany a newborn baby. Babymoons usually take place at a resort that offers appropriate services like prenatal massage.

Babymoon can also be used for a trip taken by a couple even before they get pregnant. As long as the trip is intended to be a final romantic fling before venturing into parenthood, the term babymoon applies.

The term babymoon comes from the more traditional term honeymoon, which is a vacation taken by a newlywed couple after their wedding ceremony.

A babymoon is enticing to me because it means a couple of things for me.

  1. 1.       Wikipedia has me excited that this is the point in my pregnancy where my wife gets those crazy hormones that will make us spend five straight days in our hotel room working on our Olympic gymnastic floor routines……Wikipedia stated, “long as the trip is intended to be a final romantic fling before venturing into parenthood…” (Proper MLA citation here).  My interpretation of this definition offered by the all knowing Wikipedia is that as long as I am romantic with my intentions, Whitney must succumb to my desires…and there will be plenty of prenatal massages, if you know what I am talking about……

 

  1. 2.      And on a related note.  My actual honeymoon had this incident where Whitney got really drunk off of wine at the resort restaurant.  As she became more and more inebriated she started yelling out to all those who walked by, “Do not drink the wine, it has alcohol in it!!”  When I say yelling, I want you to understand that it was the kind of yelling where the drunk guy stumbles up to you, puts his finger into your chest and slur yells at you.  I took her back to the room thinking she was just drunk enough that I could trick her into some sort of kink.  Not so much.  In minutes, she was passed out on top of the towels that were folded together to look like kissing geese….So, since this time around, Whitney is a forced teetotaler, I plan on drinking 50 Beers from 50 different country and then slur yelling at all the people at the theme park.

 

  1. 3.      And on a related note.  I took Whitney to Las Vegas one New Years Eve.  Three words: it was a freaking blast!  On two occasions during this trip, my wife’s adventurous drunk twin showed up.  The first instance involved a line for a cab and a guy who showed up to the line later than his friends did that were already in line ahead of us.  Well, Whitney was just drunk enough not to grasp that he was meeting his friends that were in line ahead of us, and felt like the guy had just pulled off the “cut of the century.”  Her reaction has been a story told on Thanksgivings and wherever two or more gather since the day it went down.  She pressed her finger to the guy’s chest and slur yelled the following:  “MY HUSBAND CAN KILL YOU WITH HIS PINKY FINGER….”  Needless to say, I killed no one that day, but it didn’t-not happen without a mighty protest from Drunken Whitney.  The best part about my wife is her commitment to her convictions.  To this day, no matter how blurred by years and the fact she was drunk, she is convinced the guy cut and therefore deserved to die.  Trust me, even as she is reading this line she is frustrated that I am not telling the whole truth in her eyes.  So, when I get all krunk next week, I am going to yell at some random female the following:  “My pregnant wife could kick the shit out of you!”  The second instance involves a concerned woman running up to me in The New York Casino and saying, “I think your wife is doing snow angels on the restroom floor…but I don’t want you to have all the good info in one blog.

In summation, as I am getting ready to end this blog.  I am heading to Orlando, the land of all things Disney.  I am going to take pictures.  I will surely blog about my experiences.  I will woo my lovely bride by offering her massages and then pass out after two rubs.  I will show her I love her by letting her watch as I ride all kinds of exciting thrill rides.  She will hold all of my valuables as we trek through The Magic Kingdom.  It will be an epic babymoon—the first of seven.  I want seven kids all of which will be named for a dwarf they can go see on their own vacations years later to the same spot we had their respective babymoons. 

I just wanted you to know, because I know you’ll miss me.


I figure the title alone screams of all things controversial.  Well, just to ease your mind a bit, I am not going to write anything you will disagree with, because I find self-value in your wanting to come back and read this.  But, to let you know, I do have a back bone and beliefs that lean against it. I probably have one or two political views that you all would agree with, conversely I probably have ten to twelve, which you would all hate me for.  For instance, I have an uncanny obsession with keeping my own money, but I am all about others giving theirs away.  If a candidate could just come up with a way where I get everything I want all the time, even at the expense of others, I would vote for that candidate.  The “Heath Gets Everything He Wants Candidate” is by far my favorite prospect for any election and at any level of government.  I promise not to abuse this.  Trust me, I am a man of great character and self discipline, I will only take what I need, until I see something I want.

No, this blog entry is about something much more important.  I want to talk about Religion, Politics, and how they pertain to my unborn daughter.  Why?  Because I am concerned about what happens after the birth of my child.  Obviously my life changes and I have a daughter, who will have a vagina, which both scares the shit out of me, and will complicate my existence.  I will, no doubt, become protective of her.  As such, I have decided that instead of father, she will call me Lord Protectorate.  I don’t want her to see me as a nurturing parent, but instead as a hand of justice, discipline, and safety to which she can cling to in moments of despair.  I want her to see me as a safety net; I am her welfare system; I am her government.  I plan to tax the hell out her, while demanding constant work and production.   I am going to teach her that I can make her life great and that if she just gives me complete power over her personal life, she can do whatever she wants….as long as I say she can.  Of course, I have not discussed this with my Lord Protectorate, Whitney, she will have final approval. 

Religion.  As for religion, I am going to go with whatever Whitney wants to do here, but I want to give you some context into Whitney’s understanding of some religious ceremonies she has witnessed in her life.  I give this to you in the form of a story that happened yesterday at our home. 

I own a dog.  His name is Lobo, and he is beautiful and charming when he is not being a complete asshole.   His coat is beautiful and similar to a German Shepherd, but without the real dark muzzle.  Right smack dab in the middle of his forehead is a black spot that so resembles a person who just attended Catholic Mass on Ash Wednesday. 

I have heard over the course of the year of Lobo’s life the following dozens of times.  Whitney says, “Everyday is Ash Wednesday in the Phillips Household!”  She says this as she touches Lobo on the forehead.  I have never heard her follow up this comment with any other phrase—until yesterday.  Yesterday, as she mimicked the priest during the Ash Wednesday ceremony, the following actually occurred: 

Whitney:  Lobo, everyday is Ash Wednesday in the Phillips Household.  (She pauses, and ceremonially touches the dog’s forehead, and pretends to brush ash.  She then says) MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.

Heath:  Whitney, what did you say when you pretend brushed the ash on Lobo?

Whitney:  I said the same thing the priests say, “MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.”

Heath:  I am not sure you have that right.

Whitney:  I do, trust me. 

I am not Catholic, and I am not trying to be, but let me tell you this.  I looked up what the priest says today on Wikipedia, where I find all of my knowledge.  MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU, is not quite accurate.  However, I like where Whitney was going with this, and therefore, I will digress on all matters religion to her.  Another great story worth mentioning regarding Whitney and religion dates back to a Jeopardy episode where the answer was something like, “this person dreamt of a ladder to heaven…..”

Whitney firmly believed that the answer was Jason.  Yes, the answer is Jason’s Ladder.  Pregnancy is awesome. 

Finally, Whitney informed me yesterday that my blog from Tuesday ended abruptly and without notice; thusly I wanted to ease you into my conclusion.   I am getting ready to end this submission of LifeasIKnowit.  You need to know that I will raise my daughter to be a smart, productive member of society.  I will teach her about politics by making her understand something my best friend taught me a few years ago.  He learned it from a book, so it must be true.  The book’s title was, There is No Such Thing as a Free Lunch.  I interpret it this way having not read the book.  Never trust people who offer you things for free.  There is always a catch.  Drug slingers offer you a free taste; kidnappers offer you free candy; and people wishing to hold you down, while gaining your loyalty, offer to give you something for nothing that will make you happy and content with where you currently rest.  If my daughter understands this alone, I think she will be okay…..MAY THE FORCE BE WITH HER… 


I have to admit, I understand the allure.  It got me too, years ago.  She is a natural leader and hypnotist; I’ve always told her that she would make a really good mob wife, if she could just get by her insatiable appetite to not break the law.  (I wish her name was Marie, that’s a strong mafia wife name).  I was talking with some friends that I have had since forever, and I pointed out to them that I have thousands of words to write about myself and my fun adventures.  Like, when my dad tried to kill me after shoplifting and other instances where my dad tried to kill me, but nothing is as well received as essays on a rambling pregnant woman.  These are friends that should be loyal to me, but no, they have joined Team Whitney, and in doing so, turned their backs on everything I thought we were…Alas, I resign myself to the fact that I have known, but denied for years—pregnant people steal the show, and you come off as a jerk if you try to get it back from them.  The miracle of carrying life in your innards, I guess.

A natural segue here is to let you know this.  Yesterday, my blog had record readership.  I have narrowed down the reasons to be either

  1. 1.        The subject of a pregnant Whitney is indeed as alluring as I think it should be, or
  2. 2.       I used the word “panties” in the title and there were a lot of pervs initially disappointed, who were conducting internet searches for the word “panties” that happened upon a relatively clean story about a man and his pregnant wife’s crazy life.  Could you imagine the poor guy as he kept reading hoping I was going to get into some kink, only to realize I was describing a woman’s natural transition into the realm of the Granny Panty?   

So, let me continue where we left off then.

I live and die by routines.  Every second of my morning is a routine.  I wake up the same side of the bed, I meander to the bathroom, I put in eye drops, I turn on the shower, I brush my teeth while the water warms up, and I use the restroom.  I do a complete flexing routine—the one that I will do when I take the stage for my first Mr. Olympia: date TBD.  I get in the shower.  In the shower, my washing routine has been the same for years with only small breaks for Boot Camp, Officer Candidates School, and the deserts of Iraq.  If I wash a body part out of turn, I actually feel like my day started off improperly.  The point is simple, my routing is a day-to-day ritual that my wife has become accustomed to seeing unfold.  Every work day is the same as the last, and it is my own monotonous drumbeat that I love—and need for that matter.

This morning I walked out of the bathroom and began my “kiss Whitney on the cheek and tell her she is dead sexy” routine.  She rose up and said in the most serious of tones, “what are doing, and where are you going?”  Confused at her sudden accusatory tone, and more confused with the look on her face, which screamed that she could not comprehend where a grown man would be going on a week day at, say around 0700, I replied with, “To an amusement park, Whitney, and you can’t come because pregnant girls are not allowed; it’s too bad, I bet you would have enjoyed it too.”   

If it doesn’t read as hilarious to you, then you and Whitney have something else in common.  Apparently, my “amusement park” comment was not amusing.   Her next comment was equally bewildering to me.  Whitney, in desperate move to distract me from the fact that her pregnant brain had again rendered her incapacitated, said the following line, “Well, I am glad it’s Friday, at least.”   I just let it go.

I need to give her some credit, though.  The woman has lost more sleep on trips to the bathroom over the past two nights than I have seen her pee our entire marriage.  What can this woman possibly have left in her to pee?  The Whitness has been quick to inform me that she produces double the saliva when compared to an average woman.  I guess that could be at the root of all this.

I just wanted you to know my wife has an excess of saliva, because I have been holding it in for 26 weeks. 

 


It’s Monday, and it’s time to reunite with my loyal readers….although, I know some of you are taking a break from my posts or behind as life has decided to interrupt the most glorious part of your day, which should be reading your daily dose of my wife’s wild and crazy antics.  To my friend, who I will call Shari to protect her identity, Whitney is happy she has found her way into your decision making process.  If she could type my blog for me, she would tell you the following:

When you happen upon a decision of any sort, ask yourself not whether Whitney would think it’s cool, but instead, ask yourself what Heath would think, and then you simply do the opposite.  This has worked for me for 10 years. 

In the sentiment of Whitney’s Wild and Crazy Pregnancy, I offer this submission to LifeasIknowit.

Women in large groups are probably the single scariest thing that can happen.  Women in large groups all feed off of each other and plant these things I call “Ideas” into one another’s heads.  I have mentioned for years that I tried to curb Whitney’s horrible habit of reading, because it seemed to cause her to grow intellectually.  Unfortunately, I was unable to do so, and as fate would have it, she is now smarter than I am.  In an effort to stave off any more growth in her brain housing group, I have made her transition to reading only erotic fiction.  A positive result from this switch is that I am certain that 50 Shades of Grey is a huge player in the fact that my wife is pregnant right now (I never heard more shame ridden giggling than I did those few weeks that she read the series).

Back to the lecture at hand:  Whitness’s baby shower was yesterday; and in all accounts, it was an expertly thrown and conducted evolution.  Whitney was raving about the entire party, and she came home with a cornucopia of awesome gifts.  She also came home with a revelation that I am not as excited about….a decision made solely for her comfort and general happiness, without so much as a second thought to my opinion:  Goodbye Thong, and hello Granny Panties…..As she told me her thoughts, I pictured her and 20 other girls talking about the granny panty switch.  I do not think this scenario really happened, but in my head all of these women were super excited about the prospects of granny panties in Whitney’s life.  This shot down my earlier fantasy that a baby shower was a bunch of scantily clad women having a pillow fight…Nope, instead it was like a modern day quilting bee where all of the quilters attempt to coerce the sexy pregnant quilter it is time to go granny.  (Again, I have no evidence even pointing to the women in attendance at the party having even discussed granny panties; conversely, I have no evidence that the party wasn’t, in fact, scantily clad women all having a massive pillow fight). 

People, granny panties don’t bother me that much; she’ll rock the hell out of some granny panties (hopefully, I can get her some Wonder Woman ones and she can pretend to fly in an invisible plane, and lasso me up).  I should have seen it coming when Whitney came home Friday with what I call either a Pregnatard, or a Pregnancy Straight Jacket.  She has these elastic type bands running all over her body now that are meant to help support her baby belly.  It is like S&M gone tragically wrong.  2012, and this is the best they can do….I told her I wish it restrained her arms more so that it acted more like a straight jacket—that would be awesome.  The best part is the front of the box says, “So comfortable, you’ll forget you’re wearing it!”  Whitney might forget, but I won’t.   The coolest thing about the Pregnatard is that it looks a bit like she is a pregnant mummy who has just unwound most of the wrapping she had on.  It fills my “pregnant mummy” check box on my bucket list of things to do…. 

Everything is happening so fast.  I swear to God, as Whitney stands around in her Pregnatard, I can see the baby moving inside of her.  I worry that Baby Shakes, is going to punch through the thing.   I am certain I created a superhero, because this girl can kick.  I can almost play rock paper scissors with her and see what symbol she is holding up through the belly.   

So, my day ended with the Granny Panty Revelation of 2012, and it started equally crazy. 

I walked into the bedroom and found Whitney sitting on the bed.  Here is the conversation that unfolded:

Heath:  Good morning, Whitney

Whitney:  Good morning, Heath.  (In the same breath) You forgot to tell me Happy 17 Days until My Birthday, Happy 26 Weeks, and Happy Baby Shower Day.

Heath:  Wow, I don’t think I have been set up for success here.

Whitney:  All three of these things warrant individual recognition, you know, well apparently you don’t.

This conversation should have forecasted that by the end of the day, Whitney, her mom, and I would be in Wal-Mart in a full on granny panty hunt.  It was like a weird version of Wizard of Oz as we trekked down the aisles. 

So, for those of you who are out shopping, from now on, you should be asking yourself, “Would Whitney think these granny panties are cool?”  First stop this weekend for me is the local Fredericks of Hollywood where I have heard they sell some really sleazy granny panties—this is gonna be awesome.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.