Posts Tagged ‘government’

Friday September 28, 2012 is the first day I really think I got it.  Everything came together for me in one single moment of clarity.  I was punched in the face with truth, and the truth set me free.  The undisputable morsel of knowledge was this:

I am tremendously thankful that I am a man who does not have a vagina or the ability to grow life in my uterus (if I had one).

I mean, up until this point, pregnancy kind of just turned Whitney into a man….She has been gassy, burps a lot, and doesn’t sit like a lady anymore.  Let’s get this straight, she is dead sexy and glowing, but she has her Al Bundy–Married with Children moments.  I conveyed this to her the other day, but to my dismay, somehow this comment wasn’t met with the merriment I expected.

Friday, September 28, 2012, at a routine pre-labor appointment, turned close but no cigar for delivery, I realized exactly what is going down here—literally.  There were metal tools, monitors, multiple women peering into the nether regions of my wife as she sat in motorcycle rider position on a table.  I had this distinct feeling that the nurses were setting up some form of camp in my wife’s birthing area.  Seriously, it looked like they were the advanced party for a circus that is coming to town and their job was to get the big top set up ahead of the carnies’ arrival.  The sounds confirmed my suspicions.  The clanking of metal sounded like tent posts and stakes being prepared for assembly.  Nurses clamoring about grabbing straps and chains excitedly mumbling random things to one another filled the air with the same nostalgic feelings I had before the State Fair in Albuquerque, NM as a kid (minus the potential to be stabbed or killed by gang members or propositioned by local prostitutes).  Things were getting real.  And more importantly, things were getting really invasive.

I offered my hand to Whit as she lay there victim to the carnival occurring just two feet down from her head.  Whitney looked beautiful, but nervous, and rightfully so.  I needed to say something to calm her down while the nurses resurrected the biggest show on earth, so I blurted the first thing that I thought of, “Whitney, you are doing so much better than I would if the nurses were checking my cervix.”  That was it; that was the best I had.

I mean, what does a man say to a woman in this moment that really contains any meaning?  I don’t want to be a coach who just says motivational phrases.  I want to be a valuable member of the push towards life.  I don’t want to say things for the sake of saying things.  I wanted her to hear my words and know that I understand her pain.  I thought I conveyed it.  I am certain that if the nurses were checking my cervix, it would not be met with the calm look of absolute resolution that Whitney met the moment with.

Whitney was like Xena, Warrior Princess sitting there.  I was proud of her, but I cannot say that there was a moment when I thought, “let me take this pain for her.”  I think women are somehow better suited to deal with this moment than men.  Plus, I want to reiterate that Eve ate the apple, and we men just felt compelled to follow suit, because since the dawn of creation, we have just followed our ladies around hoping for a little attention, and we thought that if we were cast out of paradise at the woman’s side, she might give us a little lovin’ later.  I cannot change history…

In the end, the trip was just the beginning of what looks to be a process that is winding down.  I keep trying to coerce Whit into labor by making her do Jumping Jacks, and through a steady diet of spicy foods, but Whitney is hell bent on an October Baby—and make no if, ands, or buts about it, Whitney is this circus’s ringleader.

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


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.

An Award for Versatility in Blogging…. Part One 

If it weren’t for Lisa’s Rant, I would never win any awards, but I am cool with that because she is a cool chick.  Cool chicks can give me awards anytime.  Because she continues to pull me along on her voyage to the top of the blog world, I will continue to write, and I am glad to be considered worth reading by Lisa.  So, what are the requirements for this award you ask?  Well I am going to tell you seven things that you may not know about me and then recommend a bunch of blogs worth reading, but all of this will happen in two parts.  These are three of the seven things will change your life, or in the least, they will give you a new found appreciation for me, or not.

1.  I got caught stealing a Caramello from a local grocery store in Idaho Falls, Id.  This is kind of boring, right?  Well let me add some context.  I was in 4th grade and the next day of class was  going to be reading all day and lounging around.  We were allowed to bring snacks, and if there is one thing I love, it is snacks.  My mother dropped a friend and myself off at the entrance to the store and then she was going to circle until we were done buying a soda and a pack of chips.  Well let me tell you something, a soda and a pack of chips does not suffice for a day of reading and lounging.  I wanted a damn Caramello, and I was willing to pillage a store for it.  Plus, it was the 80s, how good could security be at a grocery store in Idaho Falls in the 1980s?  PLUS CARAMELLO’s ARE WORTH IT, so stop judging me! 

So, I put the candy bar in my pocket and exited the store.  At this moment a mustached worker of the joint ambushed me with questions about having something that doesn’t belong to me.  I did what any self respecting boy would do, and just broke down crying.  Crying like a bitch.  As planned, my mom pulled back up and rolled her window down intrigued by this man accosting her innocent child.  While the mustached man explained, I continued crying.  My friend’s reaction was one of pure stoicism.  But, he was a career criminal after that instance, so he doesn’t count against me as a man.  I thought for sure that my mother would rescue me and take me home; sure, I would be punished, but get me home where I can run off into the safety of my room.  Instead, the following words fell out her emotionless mouth.  “Take him to jail with the rest of the thieves.”  I did what any crying boy would do.  I looked at my mother, this Judas, and thought, “this woman is serious as shit right now.”  She was so serious that the mustached man had to talk her into taking me home so that he didn’t have to do additional work. 

People, this is the last time I stole anything—mostly out of fear that my mother would seek further retribution on my ginger ass.  I am still not allowed in the Buttrey’s located just off 1st Street and South Fanning Blvd in Idaho Falls, Id.  Right now, somewhere in the Idaho, a mustached man walks the aisles of a grocery store keeping the place a bit safer.  Kudos to you mustached security guard.

2.  I have been threatened by a man with a hot iron before.  Sounds kind of boring right?  Well let me add some context.  Long story short, but I had just been caught stealing a candy bar from a local grocery store in Idaho Falls, Id.  After my Judas of a mother (who I love more for it) was finally talked into taking me home vice a stay in the local juvenile hall, I was presented in front of the scariest judge and jury known to all of mankind, Lane Andrew Phillips, my father and my worst nightmare.  You see, I grew up in a family where, “Wait till your father get’s home” were the six words that could cause an immediate ulcer.   When I hurt my sisters, I would beg to the point of payment that my sisters not tell my dad.  More over, it was rumored around our house that our father had skinned children to death just by cussing at them until their skin just fell off. 

There is no real way to describe my dad except that he is comparable to the leader of hell.  Standing there before me, he may as well have been Satan; the only difference is that Satan is timid and weak in comparison to Lane Andrew Phillips.  My mom kind of just forced me in front of him and then she quickly vanished into the catacombs of the house.  I looked back once and saw her peering over a dark rock amidst my siblings, who had claimed front row seats for my slaying.  I just sniffled and murmured.  I am certain I blew a snot bubble out of my nose and drew asthmatic breaths while viscous liquids hung from my face in long strings.  My father was facing away from me ironing his uniform, but since he feeds off of little children’s fear, and I was scared shitless, he sensed I was broken and turned slowly in the most diabolically foreboding 180 degree turn.  The iron blew smoke out of the holes on the bottom and hissed at me.  Flames shot out of my dad’s fingers.  I had resigned to the fact that after this moment, my face was going to have the tell-tale iron burn starting from just above my right eye down to my lower left jaw area.   I closed my eyes, I went internal.  I watched my dad’s mouth move and heard nothing.  The iron was flailing to and fro.  All I heard was my own heart beating, thump, thump….thump, thump.  I woke up seven days later, no burn, no nothing.   None of my family members have told me what happened during the seven days following The Hot Iron Incident of 1986. 

3.  I have gone to a restaurant with my parents and been forced to eat bread and water while sitting in the corner.  Sounds kind of boring right?  Well let me add some context.  Long story short, but I had just recovered from a near-death situation where I was threatened with a hot iron.   I was in the initial stages of serving a life sentence of restriction at home.  I was permanently grounded.  Here’s how it worked.  I was actually allowed outside, but only to the end of the driveway.  This is my dad at his best.  I could go to the end of the driveway, but no one could play with me in the driveway and I couldn’t play with those out of the driveway.  In essence, it was my dad’s way of making me wish for freedom even more.  It was also my little version of a Scarlet Letter.  Kids would whisper about the poor kid, who they heard pissed himself when threatened with an iron, that couldn’t leave his driveway.  To this day when I visit, I am stuck in my parent’s driveway. 

Anyway, my parents didn’t trust me at home anymore and they had a dinner date with another couple.  I got to go with them.  We loved eating out when we were kids because it happened very infrequently.  I thought I won the lottery, and shit, if stealing got me restaurant dinners, I was ready to go for broke.  We got to the eating establishment and my parents met their friends.  They were laughing and everyone was very joyful.  The foursome and I made our way to the hostess for seating.  When we got there here is the exchange that happened.   

Hostess:  Good evening!  Is it just five of you tonight? 

Lane Andrew Phillips:  No, it is four of us.  The fifth one here is my son, of whom I am ashamed.  He is a thief and cannot be trusted.  He cannot be at home with his sisters alone, because he is half a man.  He will sit at his own table where I can watch him.  He will eat bread and water.  Please do not leave anything you want to see remain in your restaurant on the table where you seat him, because he will likely steal it.   

Hostess:  I have just the table. 

This really happened.  I do not lie, cheat, or steal anymore.  Trust me, I work for the government, I wouldn’t lie to you.   

Stay tuned to tomorrow’s post where I will finish this up and recommend six or seven blogs to read that are far better than the one you just read.  If you read this and regret it so far, you have Lisa’s Rant to thank…