Posts Tagged ‘good times’

Earlier this week I happened upon.  No, no, no, let me be honest, because Whitney is going to read this and she will know that I am being dishonest lying.  About a month ago a tragedy happened.  My wife and I were leaving our home to attend a movie together.  Our driveway is above average in length, which means that things that happen at the end of the driveway are far enough away from the house that they occur unbeknownst to us.  As we got to end of the driveway, we saw it…the scene of a crime, a horrible, unsolicited attack on my mailbox.  There it was frail, barely clinging to life, its mouth flung open like a boxer just hit with a left hook.  Its red flag pointing downward bent beyond the joint’s range of motion.  Nails were broken out of the wood, but somehow, the post was still able to support the aluminum house for travelling letters.  Only now, the box was ripped 90 degrees to the left from the destructive nature of the impact from the vehicle that hit it.  It needed to be fixed, so what did I do?  I did what any self respecting young man on his way to the movies would do—I stood it back up and drove off vowing to Whitney that I would fix it.  Whitney muddled something under her breath that sounded an awful lot like sarcasm with a side of doubt and disappointment.

Okay, so for reals now, yesterday I happened upon slow agonizing death in action.  I pulled up to my home and saw what was coming for a month now.  On the ground, in two pieces lay the beat up mailbox and two feet from its lonely grave rested the post, which once supported the box through rain, sleet, and snow.  I was to be tested this morning, and I would prove myself—MAN.

With a hammer and nails, I created life!!  I took a mailbox destroyed by a teenager who sucks at life and at driving, and with the tools that have been the staple of manhood for years, brought it back to all its mail holding potential.   I was a man today for thirty entire minutes.  I swung that hammer with authority and purpose driving the nails into the post.  Two cars drove by and noticed the swagger with which I made two into one.  They saw what a man does out there, and they were impressed.  I waved at them as they passed, and our eyes met momentarily and they approved.

I grabbed my man tools and headed into the house where I was certain I would receive the praise of a king returning to his kingdom from the battlefield—victorious.  In a black nightgown up at the top of the stairs was my fair, impregnated maiden.  She saw it too.  She saw a man walk through the doors of her castle, and she was impressed with his tone of walk.  I shouted out, letting it echo through the house, “I am Man!”  I was going to grab my crotch and spit on the floor, but it seemed like it would have been met with disappointment.  Instead, I flexed every muscle in my body and drooled.

I marched around the entryway of our home and moved things, and stomped, and grunted, and said things like, “I created fire!”  When I calmed down and let things get quiet, I heard Whitney say the following statement:

“A man’s job is never finished.”  Without letting a second past, she retracted and corrected her statement, “Well, with you, Heath, a man’s job is always halfway finished.”

Either way, people.  I fixed the hell out of that mailbox, and for today, that is enough for me.  I will thrive off of this for two weeks.   The day that the baby decides to introduce itself here, I am sure will be another day of unabashed masculinity.  I will have created life.  Just like I did today with that mailbox.

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


My life has turned into something that dreams are made of…at least the stuff my dreams are made of. I have this pregnant lady wandering around my house, showing me different odd things going on with her body, and making weird and irrational statements.

She has started this new thing that is most amusing. It begins with her sitting on the couch and reading herself to sleep. I, being an unbelievable man, let her nap and get her much needed rest. For weeks and weeks to this point when I ask her if she wants to go eat or do anything really active, she has responded with one of two things:

1. “I have been doing the equivalent of mountain climbing, what have you done today?” Or

2. “I made a placenta today, what have you been up to?”

However, now she is raring and ready to take on the world. New found energy, a well and sturdily built placenta, and Whitney is in beast mode.

So, what she does is something I refer to as Tornadoing. Tornadoing is where, for some reason or another, I have to wake her from sleep. When I wake her up, I am now forced to take two dramatic steps back and then duck and cover. She springs up, yells at the dogs, tells them they are all jerks, gives me the stink eye and then barges into the bedroom. All of us stay in the living room until the “all-clear” siren rings and then we go on about our business. I never bring up the Tornadoing because I have been told it is not good to remind her of the incident…

Added to this, my wife has developed a new and wittier sense of humor. I am not sure some of it is supposed to be funny, but this girl is good. Here are a couple of real life instances that went down just the other day.

Situation 1

Yesterday I woke up and as is routine, was out in the kitchen making my meals for the day and preparing to go to work. My wife comes out of the room and without as much as a “good morning most handsomest man in the world (her and my mother voted me into this category),” she states very matter of factly, “I am sure my baby bump grew and so did my left nipple.” She then proceeds to pull her left nipple out and show me all of the new and exciting developments in nipple land. I loved it. My life now resembles the Bunny Ranch, but instead of many women, there is just one hot, naked, pregnant lady. Luckily, she has developed multiple personalities, so it has the same feel as a brothel.

Situation B:

I arrived home from work yesterday nursing a sore shoulder from the gym. I was massaging it and brought up its tender state to my wife who was on the couch, no doubt, preparing to Tornado. Here is how the conversation went:

Heath: My shoulder is a little sore.

Whitney: Well, guess who has heartburn? That’s right, me, and I haven’t even eaten in the near future…

I told her the near future hasn’t happened yet, and her reply was, and I quote, “exactly.”

My head actually exploded.

Situation Tres:

Whitney found some cool 80’s glasses in her car. You remember the ones that have the blinds on them, so you look through slits into the outside world. While I was driving, she slipped them on and became very proud of her new style. Conversation goes:

Heath: Oh, look at you, you are so fun there with your glasses.

Whitneyin a cold and demeaning tone: No, I am the “fun one.” Which infers only one of us is any fun.

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

My wife is a genius and as such is afflicted with all kinds of genius problems.  Ordinary people like me don’t have the same burdens.  Sometimes when I have trouble relating to her, she explains it like this.  “Heath, don’t feel bad, I operate at a higher intellectual level and these things are going to happen….”  She has such a sweet way of always making me feel a little better.  The funniest way I have heard her put this was in response to her mother when asked to explain her personality being so well developed for a genius.  My wife to her mother: “Mom, I had a decision to make:  I was a genius, yes, but I also wanted to be like you, pretty and popular.”  I am certain her mother felt much better after being relegated to a hot body with lots of friends….

One of the afflictions she deals with is a serious case of Night Terrors, and at times in the past, the terrors have been pretty frequent and involved.  Other times the sleep issues are kind of funny and very fleeting.  These are the ones that I will center on.  Following these nightmares, my wife usually has zero recollection of the previous night’s mêlée, and these are usually the funniest for her when retold because they are the scariest for me.

To give you some context to the story:  As the man of the house, I take certain responsibilities solely as being mine.  These include, but are not limited to the following:  Dog Crap Removal; Trash Taker Outer; Lifter of Heavy Objects; Yelling at Dogs; Washer of Cars; Cleaner of Dog Vomit; Killer of Mice, which I have only undertaken on one occasion, also for which my wife takes credit (she will take offense to me insinuating I did it even though I hit the mouse with a broom stick severing its leg—her role was to put the mouse into a Tupperware container we probably stole (see The Italian Job) and throw it in the trash, which I took out (see previous responsibilities).  She did get the mouse out from underneath the washing machine, but how hard is that?); All Driving While Hauling Anything; and finally, Head of Security.

Head of Security is the role I hold most dear because it makes me feel like a powerful player in the Phillips Family.  I have designed routes for egression and very complex plans meant to render a night intruder of any sort ineffective.  I have a drawer by my nightstand full of tools to help me take care of an attacker.  Its contents include:  a baseball, two practice fighting knives, a remote control, some of the underwear I no longer wear because I chafe when I wear them, and finally a gun with associated rounds.  If an intruder enters my house, he will face the entire contents of this drawer.

I have walked Whit through all possible attacks centered on the most likely avenues of approach and we have come up with emergency action procedures.  She has been briefed and has approved all courses of action.  Unfortunately, I had not planned for the worst case scenario…..the attacker comes from within, in the form of your wife.

I am almost sure my wife doesn’t want to kill me, however there was an incident earlier in the week where she attempted to kill me with croissants.  The problem rests in the fact that Sleeping Whitney is a different game altogether.  Awake Whitney recognizes who I am and seems to find me appealing enough to keep around.  Sleeping Whitney wants nothing to do with me.  Sleeping Whitney is scary.

One such example occurred shortly after Whitney and I started living together.  I knew she was a nightwalker and that she rambled on in her sleep all sorts of non-sensical phrases, but rarely did it go beyond innocent fun.  Whitney and I had just purchased our first handgun and were excited to have it as a measure in our home defense repertoire.  We both go to sleep that night and for the first four hours everything was normal.  Around 2 am, I am rustled from sleep by thrashing and moving about coming from the closet area.  Whitney is throwing things around and in a full on motivated search.  I say, “Whitney, what are you doing?”  Her response still echoes in my mind.  In a stone cold and emotionless voice she says, “I am looking for my gun.”  I naturally reply, “For what?”  She then says, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”  I then realize that Sleeping Whitney was trying to find a gun to kill an intruder who was in the house and apparently fell asleep in bed with her…..In the morning we discussed her attempted murder; she giggled and feigned no recollection of the incident.  I knew then that when I went to sleep I was sleeping with the enemy….There is a running joke that Whitney will be the subject of a Lifetime Movie called, She Kills When She Sleeps…

Sometimes Sleeping Whitney only attempts to give me a heart attack.  I once woke up to her pounding on my sternum area, screaming bloody murder that somebody was standing in the corner getting ready to attack us.  This causes an array of emotions from a man but mostly, when a man is attacked, he generally turns into a space cadet and just goes berserker trying not to fall victim to another man.  So, in this case, I rise from my sleep throw my hands in the air and go berserker trying to avoid falling victim to another man.  By the time I have come to realize that the attacker was the elliptical machine and not actually an attacker, Sleeping Whitney is back asleep all peaceful like.  In the morning we discussed her attempted murder; she giggled and feigned no recollection of the incident.

The above happens somewhat often.  Sometimes the attackers are snakes all over the floor.  Sometimes the attacker is an image floating above her in the night.  Sometimes she is confused.  Once Sleeping Whitney rose up in the bed and successfully completed a perfect karate kick and subsequently started screaming at an invisible attacker.  I rose up and grabbed the gun and pointed it towards the door while jumping out of the bed to find a better defensive stance.  When I hit the floor, I confused Sleeping Whitney.  My sudden movment had made me morph into the intruder.  I am now trying to calm Sleeping Whitney who is running back and forth across the room doing some kind of linebacker drill combined with banshee screams, which are loud enough to pierce my eardrums.  I yelled as loud as I could, “WHITNEY, GO TO BED!”  Her response:  “Gaaaawddd, you don’t have to scream at me…..”  In the morning, when we discussed the incident, she was mad at me for yelling at her for no reason……

Which brings me to last night.  Last night started very similar to the karate / linebacker / banshee incident from yesteryear.  Because I am a thinking and adapting man, this time I grabbed her before she rose up and said in the most soothing voice possible, “Whitney, it’s me, and I love you.  You are safe.”  Sleeping Whitney looked me square in the eye and said, “Why should I trust you, I barely even know you?”  Then I realized that Sleeping Whitney must have been having a one night stand in her dream……I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for hours…..