Archive for August, 2012

When my wife asked, I jumped at the opportunity to attend breastfeeding class—this is what husbands do.  We sacrifice for our spouses. I knew that I would be an exceptional student and felt like the class would have been minus a great “boob” perspective should I have declined the invitation.  Breastfeeding is intimidating.  I wanted to set a tone that conveyed to Whitney that I was serious and committed to breastfeeding.  She needed to know that sitting next to her “partnering with her” was a supportive husband who would stand on a staunch platform that come hell or high water, we were going to give breastfeeding this baby everything we had.  In a carefully planned opening comment to Whitney, I think I got this point across.  As the movie started, I said, “Dude, I am going to see a lot of boobs today….”

I wasn’t the only husband there, and I think the wives liked having their baby daddy with them, but what I found was that breastfeeding is pretty much not going to be something I get to be a tremendous help with.  I have spent many hours trying to convince Whitney that her breast milk could be a way we save on protein supplements for the Phillips Household, but I am not sure she has committed.  Although, I learned how to “latch” yesterday and I believe I would be a great candidate for a woman to feed, but that is probably the subject of a much different blog.  But, it reminds me of a time when Whitney was thinking, “hell, I am breastfeeding my own child, maybe, I could make a few c notes as a wet nurse.”  She began looking for some information on the internet and was excited to see that it was more common than she initially thought.  She came to a link that looked like a solid prospect.  Once opened, Whitney was greeted with a link for a 40 plus year old man seeking a woman who would treat him like a baby and breastfeed him.  She was pretty much against the idea from the get go.  I was on the fence; this could be a lucrative deal for Whit, and I knew she gets a lot of her identity from her work, and this could be a solid career move.  ***Will keep you posted should she commit to this new career!!!!**

There was also a second at the beginning of the class where I am certain the teacher wished Whitney and I had chosen something else to do with our Saturday morning.  The conversation betwixt Whit and the instructor went like this:

Instructor:  This is a great course that helps you avoid some of the horror stories you may have heard about from friends and or books.

Whitney:  How long does the course go today?

Instructor:  Two hours, so it is not too bad.

Whitney:  We were hoping for one hour.

Instructor:  ……..

Heath:  mmmmhhmhmhmmhm  (elbowing Whitney)

Don’t question Whitney’s commitment.  It’s more like an A-D-D thing with her.  I took her to the Battle of Fredericksburg once where we joined a tour.  About 45 minutes into the tour, Whitney went all “toddler” on me and separated from the tour so she could chase squirrels and throw rocks at trees.  She was trying to be honest with the lady, and sure as shit, 1 hour into the class during an emotionally charged portion of the movie about getting your baby to latch on to the nipple, she leans into me for what I believe is going to be a sentimental comment about the connection she will have with her daughter.  She had these tears welling up in her eyes and she says, “I am getting excited about the fall season. Halloween will be nice out here—all the leaves changing and whatnot.”

My forecast for boobs was right on track.  The movie did not disappoint.  Even Whitney was impressed with the boobs we got to see initially.  There was even a moment when she leaned into me and said, “That girl has big old knockers” This whisper was met with a calm grunt of agreement from me.  I have learned never to get overly excited when faced with the prospect of analyzing boobs to my wife.  Heath, stay cool, don’t ruin the moment.

I think I became desensitized to breasts yesterday.  They were everywhere.  The teacher was grabbing her breasts, she was playing with this stuffed animal breast, and I was on breast overload.  All of these women in the movies were just throwing breasts all over the screen.  Right now, I could go walk out in town and a woman could fling her breast out and I wouldn’t give it a second look (this is a complete lie).  I posted on Facebook that I was going to write a blog on breastfeeding, and my friends were all quick to point out that my response was probably going to be similar to an immature teenager.  Well FB friends, I didn’t disappoint you.  Something as beautiful and genuinely unbelievable as the connection a baby has with their mother was initially only exciting to me because I was going to “legally” see boobs other than Whitney’s.  It is what it is.  I am a horrible man.

I learned a lot.  A question was posed about what a man can do to help out the wife during the initial month.  The instructor was rambling about support and being there for her for the little things.  This is when Whitney points out to me what my role will be.  She, again leans into me and says, “Essentially, you will be my slave.”

I am off to prepare myself for the work week.  I am hoping this week is as filled with as many boobs as my Saturday was.  I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


There is a movie with Michael Douglas where he snaps and goes ape shit.  He just looses it. One second he is stuck in a traffic jam, and the next, he has gone berserker—absolutely out of his mind.  Over the past few weeks, I have become that man; the interstate has changed me.  Like a vampire bite from a real vampire—think the ones from Lost Boys (I am certain they used real vampires), I am slowly turning undead.* That asterisk means see the note at the bottom of the blog.  

I hate to think that the subject of my blog is going to shift to cover traffic in at least every blog I write, but my life has gone this way.  I actually thought about bringing beer with me to drink while I am on Interstate 95, because you are not actually driving while in traffic.  You are sitting in traffic with your foot on the brake, releasing the brake, and then engaging the brake.  I have done much more difficult things drunk….hell, I have conceived a child drunk….just saying.  I believe that, in order to drive, you actually have to utilize the gas pedal.  On Interstate 95 in Northern Virginia, you don’t use the gas pedal, but what you do get on Interstate 95 are five of the worst parts of humanity.  Sharing the world with other humans is difficult once you have spent as much time as I have in the past four weeks.  Here is a list of five things that people on the freeway do that make no sense.

  1.  Merging improperly.  I can probably re-write this and cover the crux of the problem by stating, Merging at Speed.  Hint:  Listen closely, my loyal followers, if you speed up to the exact same speed or just quicker than the flow of traffic, you will merge seamlessly.  Drivers will actually realize what you are doing and be able to adjust and let you in using a slight slowdown.   To merge properly, you also need to grow a pair of huevos (Spanish for eggs, but in this case, I am making a reference to balls.)  Timid drivers should buy a Vespa, utilize the shoulder, and choke themselves.  .  .   
  2. Changing from the slow lane you are in to another lane just faster than the one you are in next to you.  Let me explain to the culpable drivers, that the lane you just switched into is faster solely because the drivers have decided we don’t all need to be asshole to bellybutton with the person in front of you.  Meanwhile, what you really have accomplished is causing every car behind you to slow down and enter into the slinky effect.  You are most likely the reason for the traffic jam you are in or others like you ahead that are making the same poorly thought out decision.  If I could run you off the road, I would.  You are still alive by the grace of God.  
  3. Rubbernecking.  People on the side of the road or in an accident of some sort are very interesting, and I am not going to lie, I rubberneck, but here is the thing.  I rubberneck after I am already stuck in the mess previous rubberneckers have made. There are some responsibilities that the initial cars near the wreck or whatever mess is ahead are required to bear.  This is called the burden of responsibility; I know, this will be tough, but it is price of leadership.  You have to press, you have to continue ahead, we don’t want death and destruction because you failed to stop, but slowing down and voyeuristically watching suffering, will not save the day.  Get through the ambush zone, people.  
  4. This is the worst.  Creepers.  These people pass you and look into your car to see what is up.  Usually it is a man with a beard and sunglasses and they kind of slow down to get a good glimpse of the insanity they must believe to be happening next to them.  I know this creeper was really hoping that I was some hot, young, twenty year old driving a Dodge Ram with a massive trailer hitch down the road.  I can only imagine the disappointment in his heart when he saw my big, ginger ass picking my nose in what I thought was an impenetrable cone of privacy.  If you are a female on I-95, I feel sorry for you.  However, if you are a female looking to feel better about yourself for some reason, I recommend hitting up I-95 and sitting still there for awhile, you might just meet the man of your dreams, or gain the confidence you need to make it through the rest of your day.
  5. The Phantom Accident.  Often, I have been stopped in traffic here in Virginia.  When things start moving, I wait to see the carnage and I never see anything.  No emergency vehicles, no cops, nothing.  What just caused the problem?  Here is my opinion:  Police cars parked in the median.  If you are travelling 70 miles per hour, and you think you are in the clear, and then happen upon a police car waiting to nail you for your 5 MPH transgressions, and you believe it is necessary to ram on your brakes and slow to 50 MPH you are a moron.  Firstly, your logic is horrible and you should be killed.  There is nothing more guilty looking than a kid stealing a cookie from a cookie jar who yanks his hand back so violently that he surprises himself.  Secondly, you are a puss.  If you’re going to travel at speeds in excess of the speed limit, I am going to need you to grow a pair of huevos (Spanish for eggs, but in this case, I am referencing balls).  Own your sins.  If you are going to speed do it with authority.

That is my list of 5.  If you have more feel free to comment.  I will include them in another blog that will be much more well written and interesting.

PS.  I found the gun I lost.  I am happy that it was not in my car whilst I am stuck on the interstate.  It was located exactly where I told Whitney.  I must be brilliant because I put the gun in the room I would most likely be in during a home invasion…..The master bathroom, in the third drawer from the top.  This makes perfect sense; I just wish Whitney would have listened better when I told her where I put it.  If this paragraph made less sense than my last few paragraphs, read last week’s blog.  All is safe and in its proper place here now, I am better prepared for attack, so bring it on.

*When making analogous references to vampires with respect to Heath Phillips, it is imperative that you think Lost Boys and not other recently prevailing vampire subcultures where the vampires glow, feed on animals, have sexy hair, vampire baseball games, and most importantly fall in love with horrible acting civilians who are entirely too breathy.   Also, I don’t like vampires who enter into treaties of any kind, especially treaties with werewolves.  Werewolves would never enter into a treaty with vampires who strictly feed on animals.  This is not a logical thought process.  I am also not convinced that a vampire can still conceive children.  I believe vampire sperm is complicated. If you’re not going to give that to me, then we will never agree on anything.   I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.

You Have to be a Good Team:  Part Two of what could be more than a two part series in this blog depending on how many people like the blog…I do it for you, people.

I have rambled on for hours in this blog about relationships.  I am sure that it is this blog that has kept many a relationship from tanking, or at least four of you that have read this and applied the vast array of knowledge I am putting out there.  For instance, those of the populace that have read my blog know that a pregnant woman with night terrors will, in fact, be able to scale three dogs, climb a post of the bed and race into the bathroom all to save herself from the nightmarish entity floating in the corner of the room (an elliptical machine that comes to life in the darkness of night).  If you read my blogs and apply them to your life, you will be more sufficiently prepared to deal with your wife’s lack of a brain once conception occurs.  This is not an insult to ladies.  On the contrary, it is a reality for ladies and their husbands. 

Take earlier this week for example.  I was tearing the house apart looking for the remote controls that belong to the living room television and entertainment center.  Whitmaster 3K is sitting on the couch massaging her baby bump.  For some reason, the movers did not pack the remotes for living room stuff in the boxes labeled “living room stuff.”  This is where I used to rely on my woman.  Whitney was my “go to wife” for all matters of things that I either misplaced or lost in general.  She could remember that I put my keys in a flower pot on the porch just because she saw them there for a split second five days ago.  Do you get what I am saying here?  I never remembered anything, because I didn’t have to.  I just woke up in the morning and looked to her for guidance. 

So, Whitney looks to me and says, “Remember the mover lady said, ‘I put the remotes for your living room TV in………..,’” and then she abruptly stops, not even attempting to search for the conclusion to her statement.  That’s it.  That’s all she had.  What good does that do for me?  As a matter of fact, why even say that sentence?  It’s like when a friend says, “I have to tell you something,” and then immediately follows it up with, “Nevermind.”  No wait, it is even more like I was like a Pirate hunting for treasure with a map that didn’t have a big ass red “X” marked at the location of the treasure.  She bamboozled me, and then just kept on massaging her belly, which was the reason for her complete inability to help me locate what I needed most at that moment in my life. 

Take a couple days before that, and I want to make sure I relay to you that this one is partly my fault, but the majority of it rests on Whitney, because I am the one writing this blog, and that is the way it works.  When we first moved into the house, it was empty and seemed so big and scary, like scenes from American Horror Story.  I brought in the gun we had been using for “Trailer Protection.”  I looked to Whitney and said very clearly, “Whitney I am putting the gun……”  I write that without an ending, because I can’t remember how I ended the sentence.  In my defense, I have never been counted on to remember my sentence endings—Whitney did all this stuff.  Here we are a week later, and there is a handgun somewhere in this house…  I know that sounds reckless, but rest assured I will find the weapon and put it in a secure place as soon as I can complete that sentence.  I am a responsible gun owner when it counts—don’t judge, the blog isn’t about me, it’s about Whitney.

Back to the title of the blog, you have to be a good team.  Utilizing a teamwork strategy where I just look through every box for the remote and Whitney massages her growing baby bump, we, together as a team located the remote.  A better example is caged in the events of yesterday morning.  Whitney was buying me a special present—major league baseball tickets.  I was pumped, and I am not going to lie, I was sitting on my butt watching her do all the work.  While on hold, she said to me, “Heath, you need to call the plumber, so he can get here and fix the dishwasher.”  She then was taken off hold and continued dealing for the gift she wanted to give me.  Here is where it gets awesome.  I started acting like a teenager who was just told to go mow the lawn.  I pouted; I huffed and puffed; I silently threw a tantrum; I made angry eyes at Whitney aka, Ruiner of My Laziness.   

By the time she was off of the phone, I was done with the tortuous job of getting a plumber here to fix something I probably could have fixed if I was a man’s man.  She looked at me and said in a motivated voice, “See, that’s what I like about us, we are a good team; we get things done, although you act like a little bitch when doing it, we still get things done.”   She saw the offense I had taken with her statement and followed up with, “And, don’t get mad, I censored what I really wanted to say.”

She’s right we are a good team. 

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

I have had a ton of time to think about a thousand things.  My new life involves me sitting still on a roadway called Interstate 95.  The freeway is awesome.  It has this unbelievable ability to ruin every bit of momentum you had going for you at any point during the day.  A friend of mine had a good point.  She told me that she read a billboard sign the first time she was stuck in traffic that said, “You are not stuck in traffic; you are traffic.”  The idea itself is cool because it makes everything better.  Now, when I sit on a freeway going zero miles per hour, I am happy because I realize it is partly my fault that what is going on is going on.  None of what I have written is true.  What I have written is a nice way of saying that Interstate 95 can go straight to hell, and it can do this right now.

I wish I was Ann Landers, or more importantly, I wish I knew what she was really like.  I would write columns answering people’s questions, and everyone would listen.  I would become an icon for offering advice to people, but the irony, would be that I would do it through my wife and my relationship.  So, really, any reason I was successful would be because Whitney actually said it first.

We are unpacking things in the new Phillips’ Household.  Things are really coming together, and I know that more than anything going on in all of your lives today, you were all concerned that I was still unsettled with respect to a home.  I mean, for the love of God, I was living in a trailer with a pregnant woman—a pregnant woman I love, but nonetheless, a pregnant woman who is pregnant.  Whitney has been extremely smart lately in her ability to make things happen at the house.  I have realized a couple of things about her tactics.

You see, I have been in a school that studies the Art of War for about three weeks.  Of news to me, The Whitness is a graduate from advanced schools of warfare.  She is tactically and technically proficient.  She is both capable of a full on “total war” or warfare much farther left on the spectrum.  I have fell victim to her prowess in her ability to ninja my brain.

As we were deciding where certain items in our living room would go, she would use phrases like, “Are WE sure WE want the lamp to go there.”  So innocently said, but Whitney was so direct in her intent.  Her statement actually means, “That lamp will go there when I am dead and gone, trust me, it is not worth a fight.”  The best part about Whitney is that when I propose that she is using ninja skills to make the lamp go where she wants it, she immediately retreats to a different type of war, a war where her eyes open widely and she flirtingly says, “That lamp would ruin your ability to see the Bears play from the kitchen….”  She is an evil woman, like the Santana song from the 70’s, albeit if you ask her what the song is called, she is convinced it is called “Medieval Woman.”  I actually called my dad during the argument over this, and of course won the argument, but somehow simultaneously, I had lost!  That should have been the red flag that my wife is a Spartan warrior.  It was the warning that I needed to know I was going to marry the most effective war fighter in the history of mankind.  I have read books about less effective generals who won wars for countries.    It got me thinking about my pregnoid wife.  What other warnings were there about this unbelievable woman?  Then as I was thinking, I started realizing the world needed to know about my wife’s skills. Then I started thinking that I needed a venue to come up with a place to tell the world about Whit.  Then I started to realize that I was a famous blog writer with over 10 loyal readers (although my readership sharply declined during the Olympics).

The only problem was that Whitney is ninja, so there is no history of her skills in handing out death.

People, if you are going to marry somebody, you have to do your research.  You have to know what you are getting yourself into.  I married a tactician. Whitney knows how to work within relationships, but the thing about Whitney is that she also is the most honest and loyal tactician there is.  This translates to one thing:  She will only use her power to get furniture where it needs to go or against someone who is trifling with her family.  Now that being said, she will also use it against teenagers who work at cash registers who don’t greet the customer properly.  You can read about this in earlier blog posts.  There are people who use their powers for good and there are those who chose a much more sinister path.   For example, I saw early on that Whitney was an integrity monger, and this is one of her most “annoying” habits.  She cannot stand liars.  She always used to say, “omissions are betrayals.”  However, if “not liking liars” is a red flag, there is another issue altogether, and it is not the problem of the person who despises liars.  Maybe, the only red flags should have been for Whitney, when she had to tell me, “omissions are betrayals…”  I’m rambling, but the point is this, I knew from the get-go who this woman was.  She was going to hold me accountable, and unfortunately when you are evaluating red flags about a person you think is marryiable, you have to be honest with yourself.  In my case, maybe the best thing for me was somebody who told it like it was.

I met Whitney’s mom before we moved in with each other and entered into a life of sin….but, I asked permission.  When I talked to her mom, I quickly realized that Whitney was her mother’s daughter.  My mother-in-law is eloquent with her words, but holds no punches.  Whitney has always been this person to me—an eloquently spoken conscience.   I knew going into our marriage, that if I was going to be less than a good person, I was going to be held accountable.

I guess what I am saying is this:  Before you are going to drag your wife or significant other from their house and home and make them move with you somewhere, or before you let someone else do this to you,  you need to know the magic about and behind the person you are doing it with.  You need to pull the curtain back and find out who the great and powerful Oz really is.  You need to know what their history says about them, and I guess more importantly, you need to know that in most cases, people are not going to change drastically enough for you to waste the heartache and pain on the prospect that they can surprise you, and have left their wicked ways behind.  All the signs when I was dating Whit pointed to the fact that she would kill a person for her family, and that she would do it like a ninja.  I knew what I was getting into, and I am glad I did.  My wife is a trained killer, who is not for hire, she is all mine….

Day 20 In a Trailer:  The Natives continue to grow restless.  We have gone without a home for almost four weeks, and we are surviving—barely.  I am not sure whether Whitney doesn’t want to start a torrid love affair with the weird guy who mows the lawns for the campground.  Their relationship started innocently when he was voyeuristically looking in on The Whitness while she was getting ready for the day about a week ago.  It is the way his face looks like he was an extra in the movie, “The Hills Have Eyes” that seals the deal for the man. 

Day 22 In a Trailer:  Whitney has reached an all-time low.  I believe she has voted me off of the island.  Today, I left my shoes in the car and tried to maneuver barefoot through a gravel paved driveway to get to them.  The agony was too much for my soul to bear.  Every step was met with the excruciating pain of a thousand rocks digging into the virgin flesh of my feet.  I called out to my wife hoping she would come to my rescue.  She would be my pregnoid in shining armor.  She emerged from the trailer as happy as I have ever seen her.  “What did you do now?”  I responded in a whimper, “I need my shoes; they are in my truck just there, not too far away, can you please grab them.”  Without complaining, Whitney retrieved my shoes and started walking toward me.  Our eyes connected and I tried to convey the gratitude that I had for her in the moment.  In her eyes, she held a blank stare void of any emotion.  I stood quivering with my blistered feet desperately wanting for my shoes.  Whitney neared my position, and bent over putting my shoes on the ground—a foot beyond my reach.  She stood up and looked down on me in silence.  Turning to walk away from me, I heard her exhale a sigh of breath.  It was a breath of satisfaction.

Day 24 In a Trailer:  Whitney has tried to kill me three times.  In an argument over whether what we are doing here is camping or living, I believe I started to win.  Utilizing my vast understanding of rhetoric and logic, I had cornered Whitney.  She was left with nothing to say.  I was certain that I had convinced her that if we were really camping this would be more exciting, but since we are actually living in this trailer, it has lost its luster.  The exact phrase I used was, “If we were really camping, this would be a much more fun experience, and it would be a much better place to be at.”  Her response to me sums up why I can never really beat Whitney in anything.  She said, “Heath, I am not interested in the details as you see them, I am interested in the facts….”  She quickly followed with a sentence that nailed it for her, “And Heath, don’t end your sentences in a prepositional phrase if you want to be taken seriously in an argument…”

Day 25 In a Trailer:  We had our first work social at my boss’s house.  I learned one really solid thing about myself.  Given an opportunity to innocently say something that would sound so wrong, I will do it.  Whitney and I gathered around the buffet style food table and started filling up our plates.  Whitney does buffets differently than most people do.  She likes to knock it out in one shot.  She gets her main course and simultaneously gets her dessert.  I like to go back like seven times and just graze on things for about three hours.  Anyways, Whitney had her little plate of main course dessert combo.  I noticed people gathering around the buffet table and decided I needed to be the center of attention, now if I could only come up with something to say…..Here is the statement that will live in infamy:  “Whitney (said as loud as I can), we don’t need to get it all in one sweep, damn.”  I look to the crowd for validation with a look that said, “c’mon people agree with me…am I right, or am I right?”  The crowd scattered.  All I could hear was a collective grumble of disappointment in my statement.  I am brilliant.  The look on Whitney’s face was one that said, “later, in the car ride, on the way home, I am going to kill you.”

Day 26: Last Full Day in a Trailer:  I make it exciting.  After the argument I won/lost earlier in the week, I thought I would try to make this feel like a camping experience.  I started a fire.  We got marshmallows out and made s’mores.  It was fun.  As the fire was really getting going, I noticed it was billowing smoke.  I looked to Whitney, who had made knife hands and was attempting to waft smoke away from her by rapidly moving both hands in front of her face.  She looked at me in anger and said, “Heath, this is how you kill a baby.”  End result:  Camping is awesome!

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

My intent was to blog daily for the rest of my life.  You would all read the blog, enjoy the blog, tell your friends and it would spread like wild fire.  I would become rich.  I would forget about all of you that were the reason that I had found wealth, fame and fortune, but it wouldn’t matter because you had already helped me achieve it, and I would be doing whatever the hell I wanted to do—I would buy jet skis and other recreational devices.  Subsequently, I would have purchased my own island and invited stars to come out and use it as a place they could produce their next record, or as a place they could begin to delve into Scientology.  I am not a Scientologist, yet.  I will become one if Tom Cruise does something, I do it too.    

That was my introduction.  That is what you say when your intentions as a blogger are merely the best laid plans of mice and men, and they have been acted upon by an outside force beyond your control.  In this case, it is my boss.  I have been forced by my employer to work full days.  I know…..I am frustrated as well.  To be frank, my boss is reading this blog right now, so let me make very clear that I love my job, my boss, his family, and of course everything about the man.

I say all that to say this:  Blogs will slow down, it will be a weekly occurrence, but maybe that means you have all week to get excited about Saturday mornings again.  Seriously, cartoons are no good anymore. For years, we haven’t had anything to do.  They cancelled Smurfs, the Hannah Barbera Olympics, and Jem; I may be all you have now.  I mean Saturdays have been pretty much worthless since 1989.  Plus, the infrequency with which I post these things may drive up the demand, and quality of work I produce simultaneously. 

You have dedicated three paragraphs of your life to me and I have said nothing.  I will now talk about something.

Today is August, 4.  Today marks 13 days in a trailer.  Today marks ten days to go before leaving the trailer.  Today, the trailer that once measured 33 feet long now feels like a ten by ten box.  Today, the three dogs that live with me and the one Pregnant Woman grow restless.  Was my plan to move the five of us here as well thought out as I first thought?  Who would have thought that moving an individual with life growing inside of her and her entourage of dogs could be anything but awesome?

You have to give it to The Whitness.  She has handled it with more grace than any seven month pregnant woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  One of the coolest things I do here is go to work from 0700 to 1700.  This is especially cool because when I go to work, Whitney gets to stay in a trailer all day long and watch dogs.  And, deep down, I know that this is what she wanted; this is every woman’s dream.  I remember back to our vows the day we were wedded for eternity.   Before you think that I am not keeping any promises, I wanted to let you know what went down.  The following are the vows I read from the note card at my wedding.  These are the facts, and they are undisputable.

 I, Heath, take you, Whitney, as my lawfully wedded wife; to have and to hold; to cherish by showering you with lavish trips to unbelievable places like Jacksonville, North Carolina—henceforth referred to as the “armpit of the Marine Corps.”

-To move you into a home and then leave you there alone for two years while I, like Teddy Roosevelt during his days with The Rough Riders, gallivant across the globe to secure peace and prosperity and fight communists. 

-I do promise to rip you from the comfort of every job you gain at any duty station we live and force you to move to an equally intimidating and luxurious new duty station like Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station, where the cool hang out spot is the Dollar General.  Or, Quantico Marine Corps Base, where I will spend the majority of my time on I-95 and bring you home special gifts like ticks and weird infections on my elbows that cause the skin to blister.  Subsequently, the blistering will cause my napkins to stick to my elbows at restaurants. When I stand up, you will frantically attempt to pull the napkins from my arms and you will think it is awesome and not gross at all.

-I promise to conduct this move in the comfort and efficiency of a travel trailer in which you can place all of your necessities and dogs, under the guise that moving you this way would be more comfortable than staying in a hotel room or going out earlier and getting a house, which would have prevented us from having to reside in a trailer at all.

-Additionally, I promise love, honor and to go to my new job, which will remind you that you no longer have the comfort of a nice work place and its associated people whom you love, and leave you in said trailer where you will be forced to watch “Live with Kelly Rippa” and whomever she chooses as a guest host, because Regis has retired—and every time you see the new host, you will ask me if that is the permanent host, to which I will respond in the negative and then re-explain the fact that Regis has retired and Kelly Rippa utilizes guest hosts to keep it interesting, but since you will be pregnant at the time, you will not grasp what I consider to be easy to conceptualize.  However, you are so cute pregnant, I will continue to act like it is the first time you ask.

– I will also give you the unique opportunity to leash three dogs, well two dogs, because one has three legs and cannot be leashed or she will fall over to her front right where an arm used to be.  I will expect you to figure out, while pregnant, how you get the three dogs down the stairs, when I may or may not have parked the trailer in an area that causes the last step to the ground to be farther than the first two, and then awkwardly try to control the dogs as they all try to get out of the trailer simultaneously as if the trailer is giving birth.  The dogs will do their best to pull your pregnant ass down the stairs in a motion that unimpregnated women would find hard to maneuver through, and you will find this exciting and not an inconvenience at all.

-Finally, I promise that you can buy as many pairs of shoes as you would like to and that I won’t care if you actually ever wear them or not.  On a related note, I will also let you use a portion of the closet space that was previously designated as mine to house the superfluous shoes, because love is about understanding that a closet can never be too big. 

Yes, I am pretty sure that is what I promised our marriage would be like.  I may have paraphrased the bulleted points with the line, “Through better or worse,” but the above is what I really meant…..