Posts Tagged ‘heath phillips’


For two years now, I have been on a sad and obstacle ridden journey to find the password to this blog, the blog that made me famous with the “faithful forty.” Well, in case you haven’t figured it out, I found it, and I am back from the dead.

For a cool year and a half, this blog addressed myriad subjects, but the most popular ones were stories of my wife’s antics, my childhood issues, and generally my disdain for teenagers. Hell, some of the teenagers that read this blog when it was first published and found themselves offended are now adults and hate teenagers as well.

This is an exciting prospect being back on this thing.

A whole lot has changed from the time I stopped blogging. In the two years I haven’t blogged, my daughter has aged two years…She has been raised predominately by my wife. This is a great thing, my wife has compelled my daughter to possess a startlingly well-developed vocabulary. The term well-developed means she walks around the house like a three foot tall version of her mother. In many ways, she has become the hall monitor of my house enforcing the rules that the Principal has burned into stone tablets. “No Shoes in the House, Dad.” “Look at the Mess You’ve Made, Dad.”

In the two years since I last wrote, my wife has continued to be the same brutally honest partner in crime that I’ve always had.

Recently, my wife and I were preparing ourselves to head to a Holiday party of some sort. Whitney’s “getting ready” routine has become the stuff legends are made of. There is an unwritten rule in the house that while she gets ready you say nothing to her, you don’t go near her and risk making her sweat, and for the love of God, you can never surprise her. This in mind, my “getting ready” routine is usually very much a solitary experience without the aid of supervision. On this specific occasion, I decided to do some digging around through clothes that I have carried with me for years. As I rummaged around the darker recess of my closet, I happened upon the most amazing re-discovery.

As a matter of fact, there was this spiritual moment where I believe the light of my Lord and Savior, his Father, and the Holy Spirit, let loose in my closet making it glow in unbearable brilliance. For a second, an angelic chorus—a multitude of ethereal voices rang out into the small room. Reaching down into the abyss of forgotten shirts and old rags, I pulled from the pile, in Arthurian movements as if unsheathing a sword from its stone home, a pair of corduroy pants I actually bought in the year 1996. Beautiful khaki-colored wide-lined corduroy pants complete with worn and smoothed areas, the result of wonderful moments and memories now twenty years old.

Because of the lifting I have done since I turned 18, I was certain these pants would be nothing more than something nice to look at. Maybe, the pair would compel me to some walk through nostalgic bliss, but nothing more. That didn’t stop me from trying to put them on with the same nervous apprehension of a woman trying on a pair of pre-pregnancy pants in hopes of finding out she is back in business.

To my surprise, I slid the pants on, one leg at a time, and realized that they fit, clinging in all the right places. Sadly, this also proved that my leg regimen in the gym is probably lacking, but, for the sake of good story telling, I remind you that we wore our pants baggy in the day, and just maybe, the lifting I had done is just what these pants needed to stay relevant in an era of snugger fitting jeans.

Whitney was still engrossed in her processes as I rounded out what was turning into an epic ensemble. This day was going to be great. The party we would attend would no doubt go down in history as the Holiday Party that brought back the 90s experience—things were going to be all right in the world again. Of course, this outfit had to make it through one last gigantic hurdle in order to make this a reality.

When the time came that it was safe to approach my wife without fear of violent recourse, I strutted down the hallway preparing to peacock into the bathroom where she currently resided. I was filled with undeniable joy, preparing to defend myself against the passionate throws of love Whitney would no doubt force upon me. We might not even make it to this party—she may want me too badly right here and now, I thought. I let my mind wander that road for a second and a smile formed on my weak-chinned face.

As it turns out, I was not completely wrong. Whitney’s eyes grew two sizes wider than I have ever seen, and it looked like we may be a mere step away from disrobing in passionate lovemaking. Things were going just as I planned. It was true—disrobing was going to happen, but unfortunately only one of us would partake…

Whitney smiled and said, “I see its official, you’re an old man now and have finally chosen your decade to be stuck in….I half expect you to smell like cigarettes and marijuana, or Teen Spirit.”

She, ever gracious in her criticism, let me off the hook like I had somehow developed an elaborate scheme just to let her have a laugh. “Okay, babe, seriously, we need to get out of here, go put on what you’re really wearing…”

“Yeah, it was funny, though, right?”

“Yes, Heath, you are the funniest…” She continued, “God, you should probably work out your legs more if you can still fit in those pants…” There it is, I thought.

 

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

Advertisements

By definition, I am a Day Walker.  I can go outside during the day, but I meet most other prerequisites of the Ginger—except I have smaller toes than they do.  True Gingers have longer toes and fingers than the average human—for reals, I am a Ginger, I know this to be true—I would love to tell you it translates to larger than average other things, but I have yet to conduct any conclusive research—but for the sake of bravado, it does translate.  That isn’t to say I have normal toes and are somehow better than Gingers; to the contrary, my feet look like they were mangled in an accident.  My feet are the exact mix of my mother’s, who has Flintstone style feet, and my father’s, whose are dainty and horse hooves.  His feet actually look like they were bound as a child.

My hair has like glittering red to it, but can come across brown, which gives me my Day Walker status, but make no mistake about it, I have no soul.  If I were to grow out a goatee, my gingerality would become very evident.  I just invented “gingerality.” 

Gingers are amazing individuals.  I implore you to befriend one and see what it is I am talking about.  Gingers’ awesomeness is in all actuality a product of the rough life we lead, especially in our early years.  Blondes, brunettes, and all other hair tones have great examples of heroes to look to in times of self doubt.  Little boys with blue black hair have superman and a myriad of other super folks to admire.  Gingers have Howdy Doody, which coincidentally, my mother dressed me up as for my first ten Halloweens of my life.  Hey everybody, its Howdy Doody time.  I actually had to say this at every door for candy, because the people just thought I was a loser ginger kid looking for somebody’s pity candy.  I remember after I said it, they would have this horrible look of sadness for me, tears would well up in the bottom of their eyes and they would close the doors after giving me a package of Smarties and turn and say, “poor kid, he had no other options.”  See Figure 1 for a graphic depiction. 

 Figure 1.1  This is an actual photograph from my early Halloweens.

 

Now, of course, Gingers are becoming cool thanks to Horatio Cane from NCIS Miami, but I think it got cancelled…..

Gingers have well developed personalities.  Our senses of humor are above average because we are forced to use these attributes to convince ladies we are not alien, and furthermore that we are worth their time.  Now, all men have to come up with some gimmick to get the ladies’ attention, but for us gingers, it takes a little extra effort.    What hurts us are gingers like Carrot Top.  Even if I was Brad Pitt, but had red hair, we are still overcoming the Carrot Top stigma.   I am not saying gingers are ugly, we are not, we are a handsome and beautiful species, but we are different.  Because we are different, sometimes we are viewed as a novelty.  I think, people think about being with gingers the same way they would checking off the “mile high” notch on their list of things to do before marrying.  Also driving our personalities is our inability to tan.  I have a good body, but no one will ever see it because when I take my shirt off, you have to close your eyes.  The only way to appreciate my body is like reading Braille—close your eyes and start touching the contours of my body with your fingertips……just saying.  Every now and then when Whitney is being extra special nice to me, she will say, “Heath, I think you are a little bit tan!”  Sometimes its the little things that mean the most. 

Take some time off from what you are doing today and say hello to the ginger working down the hall from you.  You will find in them the most loyal friend you’ve ever had.  They will make you look tanner in the very least.  We may not have souls, but we have feelings.  You’d be surprised how cool a ginger kid is. 

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