Posts Tagged ‘literature’


Have you ever been tortured? I have. I have lived, hell I live, with the constant and agonizing terror of not knowing when my torturer will come back through the door–when the purveyor of pain will return to peddle their product to the innocent man that is me. For years, I have faced the fanatical fiend that found her way under the false pretenses of a fortuitous future into my life. The problem, my friends is that the perpetrator who propagates my plight, is so sweet in the day and evil in the night.

So this alliterative attempt, albeit now with added assonance, is the introduction in another episode of my anguished sleep life.

I have written to you all before of my wife’s nightly antics. I want to record them so badly, but I worry that if I was to show “Awake Whitney,” “Asleep Whitney,” that some tragedy would occur like in Back to the Future with the polaroid and the whole “Marty McFly disappearing while playing Earth Angel” thing.

Lately, its taken a turn for the even more insane. It has become a harrowing experience complete with me waking up to Whitney standing on the bed, looking nine feet tall from my vantage point, head on pillow. In her eyes, resided a look that said, “I am going to stomp your head now.” When I asked her what she was doing up there, Sleeping Whitney scrambled for an excuse, as not to give her true intention of stomping my noggin into flatness. Her answer was simple and logical.

“I was trying to catch the floating baby.”

I am not even sure how to have responded to her statement. Why? Well it’s simple. I am not sure that the floating baby scenario isn’t just about the creepiest thing she could have said at that moment. It’s like interviewing a psychopath using the Rorschach Ink Blot Test. You know how it goes. I hold up a card that looks remarkably like an innocent butterfly and say, “What do you see, Whitney?” To which Sleeping Whitney would respond calmly and like it is obvious, “I see a butterfly…………..with wings made of human skin and the ability to talk, but when the butterfly talks it can only say perverse and vulgar phrases.”

Adding to the drama, once Sleeping Whitney explained her heroic intentions of catching the floating baby, she panicked and dropped in place like she was shot, or worse still, like the demon in her body promptly exited, stage left, and in doing so, her hind end hit the marble top of the bedside table, cracking it, and leaving a triangular shaped purple mass. For two weeks now, when Awake Heath pats Awake Whitney’s butt as an affectionate gesture, Whitney glares at him in pain. For just a moment, a fleeting and brief moment, we remember what lies beneath the seemingly sweet facade that is my wife’s awake body.

And this, my faithful following, was only one event, and it was the most innocent of them all. The following night, I was scared awake by Sleeping Whitney yelling in her sleep. Sadly, this is not too out of the norm in my house, but what ensued was unexpected. After about ten seconds of unintelligible ramblings, Sleeping Whitney somehow propelled herself, without having left the laying down position, three feet out of the bed slamming into the wall. The abrupt meeting with the wall was enough to wake Whitney.

Dazed and confused, she looked at me and said, “See what happens when you steal all of the covers?”

This was horrifying.

“After the “Floating Baby Incident,” and the world record setting “Three Foot Flop,” I quickly realized that crazy had come to town and that it had taken up residence in my bed. Alas, these two were just the labor pains of something much more terrifying.

In the middle of sweet dreams of unicorns, puppies frolicking upon clouds made of marshmallow goodness, and beams of rainbows and Oompa Loompa’s singing rhythmic riddles, I was jerked out of slumber. Sleeping Whitney must have saw my Ooompa induced smiling and felt the necessity to end all happiness. I can only guess as to what led up to it, but I picture a wide eyed beauty, now overcome with evil, panting as she reached across the bed and dug her fingers into my eyes. Grabbing with such violent tenacity, one of her fingers was actually able to get beneath my left eyelid, so that when I jerked away and grabbed her hand, my eyelid actually popped from Sleeping Whitney’s gripping fingers and slapped with elastic fervor back onto my eyeball. It was stretched so far and tight that when it connected with my eye, it created an audible popping sound and sent my head backwards; back and to the left; back and to the left like JFK.

Quickly, I blinked and felt for my eyes, certain I would find a gaping hole where once a deep Sinatra blue orb, capable of wooing myriads of women existed. To my surprise, I still had both eyeballs and my vision seemed only momentarily blurred by the tears resultant from a good quality eye gouging and eyelid popping.

I pushed Sleeping Whitney back onto her side of the bed. Sitting still, breathing heavily, I watched Sleeping Whitney. She appeared to be back to normal sleep. Curiously, I leaned in closely and tried to see through blurry tears. Too dark to get a really good look, I leaned in even closer. Silently breathing, eyes closed and resting, she looked as if nothing had happened. I kept close.

The following is not an exaggeration. I would not joke of such things. As I stared, Whitney’s eyes popped open glaring into my face, a small grin appeared on her face as I jumped back and recoiled under the covers. For the next three hours, I felt that lifeless, wide-eyed grin watching me as I feigned sleep. It was the longest night of my life.

So, let me retract my earlier contestation that crazy was now residing in my house, or in the least, let me revise the statement. Crazy just doesn’t do it, for Sleeping Whitney is far more sinister.

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


On New Year’s Eve, 2011, I made the one and only resolution I have ever made. I have never needed to sell my soul to the devil in trade for a healthier me, as I am pretty devoutly insecure about my body all year round, which drives me to constantly seek another pound of lean muscle—another hard fought session in the gym—another day trying to look more like whatever it is I am chasing in my head.

I do, however, hate seeing all of the resolutionists for the first two weeks of the year in my gym. It is difficult to watch them struggle through the most painful part of getting in shape and then slowly die out and head back to their sedentary life. They carry with them a thousand excuses in disguise as reasons that the fitness lifestyle doesn’t fit into theirs. It is a tragic and unnecessary rationalization. But that is blog for another time.

Last year I spoke aloud, in front of the friends at my house bringing in the New Year that I was going to impregnate my wife with my seed. I would create life in 2012, and I would reign supreme as man. Fourteen days later, I sat on my throne, victorious. I am one for one on resolution completion, and I have no plans to fail. I don’t enter into a resolution with reckless abandon. I research, I research, and I research some more. I had spent the ten years prior to last year researching this whole reproduction thing, and I figured it out and did it…it was actually pretty simple on my part. Whitney had the hard work, mine was mostly a pleasure. I could do it every day if necessary…

This year, my blog will change, but just for thirty days. I am going to walk you through my trek into a Paleolithic diet. I have been reading and researching the benefits of leaving behind all the agricultural revolution brought with it. I am not going to peddle it to you. I am not even sure I will like it at all. I am a victim of the government’s subsidizing of the whole grain market, so this is very new territory. However, I am going to document my feelings on the process as I go through the delirium tremens associated with giving up all processed sugar, whole grains, and complex carbohydrates from other sources like legumes and whatnot. I am not trying to lose weight; on the contrary, I will try to continue gaining slow, lean, beautiful weight while trimming off the result of a holiday season. I knew for the last month that I was going to do this, and I think I ate like it. I ate like tomorrow I would never see sugar cookies again, and I feel horrible today. I am optimistic about the possible changes that may be in store for me. My blog will continue to entertain and I will try and be as honest as I can about my progress. Here is the kicker. My wife is the one who started this whole deal and I will also tell her story. She has been working hard in the gym to get back her pre-baby form, and this is the next logical step in the process.

She bought the book, The Paleo Solution: The Original Human Diet. I read it in two days absolutely riveted by the implications. I want to see where this goes, and so I shall. I am entering the month with no preconceived notions about whether it is a perfect diet or really anything revolutionary. I am just going to do it. We are going to do it together, and I am excited to describe the process. Whitney has given me full on permission to document her issues as we go. This means you will see us fail, and see us succeed. I think it will be kind of cool to watch and maybe this blog will make it more difficult to cheat. I am not going to discredit the Paleo ideology without being as strict with the process as possible. That would not be fair or honest. This is going to be fun. I do not want to call this a resolution, because it is a thirty day process that may or may not lead to something different. I want this to be an experiment with follow on implications for something much greater. I believe in the science of the diet, so here goes.

I will continue to write my blog, and it will tell my life as I know it. I think it will be worth your while—even if it is just so you can be overly critical of my decision making. The cool deal in all of it is that you don’t even have to read the damned thing.

After 30 days, I will stop telling you my story, and write only incoherent rants about teenagers, child rearing, and Whitney. Until then, you are stuck with this.

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


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.


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…


This morning, as is my usual, I found myself in a war with a high school student, who is probably smarter than I am. To avoid sounding like an internet predator, this high school student is a family friend of ours. Long story short, I found myself going back in forth with her in a war of words. Sounds easy, and more importantly it sounds like I should have won, right? Well, in my head, it sounds like I should have. The great equalizer is we only fought in Haiku form. People, this means that 17 syllables are all I had to desecrate my enemy. Well, I lost, oddly enough; I lost because I miscounted syllables on two occasions. Sometimes six syllables looks a lot like five syllables. I even put my hand under my lower jaw and spoke the haiku, counting every time my mouth opened to monitor syllables. What a failure.

Anyways it got me thinking, I need practice, so I now present to you ten Haikus about my life dealing with a pregnant wife, who I love. Each are works of art that you should print out and put by your bed to wake to every morning. I fully expect that these Haikus will be used in the poetry section of your children’s high school English class, so you might as well read it to them now. The meaning of each can go in so many directions, and moreover, they really speak to my mastery of the English language.

1. Pregnant Morning Rising

 I wake to Whitney.

She wants to be fed right now.

She wants some pickles.

2. What She Said Part One

I peed ten times and

I again feel the need to

Pee. You’re a bastard.

3. Bladder River Dance, What She Said Part Two

Baby is dancing

on my bladder, I think I

just peed a little.

4. What She Said Last Night Part One

We have reached a point

Where I need back and foot rubs.

I’ll find a boyfriend.

5. What She Said Last Night Part Two

I hope our kid is

Psychic, so she can make us

Rich like real housewives. (Real is one syllable).

6. My Husband, the Slumlord (A Haiku from Whitney’s Perspective)

I hate picking up

After you in the kitchen.

You are weak sauce, Heath.

7. Air Conditioning Is Not Free

Pregnant chicks cannot

Ever get comfortable.

House is freezing now.

8. Your Cologne is Disgusting (A Haiku from Whitney’s Perspective)

Although I bought it,

I hate your cologne. It makes

Me throw up in mouth.

9. Pregnancy Fetish (A Haiku from Heath’s Perspective)

Pregnant Girls are the

Sexiest girls in the world.

I want ten babies.

10. Falling Down

Pregnant women seem

To trip on everything.

They are a menace. These took me at least 15 minutes to write, so I expect you will need hours to explicate their individual meanings and how they have impacted you. Your assignment for the evening is to pick your favorite and let me know how it affected you. Its due first thing in the morning. I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.