Posts Tagged ‘marriage advice’


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…

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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.


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 to admit, I understand the allure.  It got me too, years ago.  She is a natural leader and hypnotist; I’ve always told her that she would make a really good mob wife, if she could just get by her insatiable appetite to not break the law.  (I wish her name was Marie, that’s a strong mafia wife name).  I was talking with some friends that I have had since forever, and I pointed out to them that I have thousands of words to write about myself and my fun adventures.  Like, when my dad tried to kill me after shoplifting and other instances where my dad tried to kill me, but nothing is as well received as essays on a rambling pregnant woman.  These are friends that should be loyal to me, but no, they have joined Team Whitney, and in doing so, turned their backs on everything I thought we were…Alas, I resign myself to the fact that I have known, but denied for years—pregnant people steal the show, and you come off as a jerk if you try to get it back from them.  The miracle of carrying life in your innards, I guess.

A natural segue here is to let you know this.  Yesterday, my blog had record readership.  I have narrowed down the reasons to be either

  1. 1.        The subject of a pregnant Whitney is indeed as alluring as I think it should be, or
  2. 2.       I used the word “panties” in the title and there were a lot of pervs initially disappointed, who were conducting internet searches for the word “panties” that happened upon a relatively clean story about a man and his pregnant wife’s crazy life.  Could you imagine the poor guy as he kept reading hoping I was going to get into some kink, only to realize I was describing a woman’s natural transition into the realm of the Granny Panty?   

So, let me continue where we left off then.

I live and die by routines.  Every second of my morning is a routine.  I wake up the same side of the bed, I meander to the bathroom, I put in eye drops, I turn on the shower, I brush my teeth while the water warms up, and I use the restroom.  I do a complete flexing routine—the one that I will do when I take the stage for my first Mr. Olympia: date TBD.  I get in the shower.  In the shower, my washing routine has been the same for years with only small breaks for Boot Camp, Officer Candidates School, and the deserts of Iraq.  If I wash a body part out of turn, I actually feel like my day started off improperly.  The point is simple, my routing is a day-to-day ritual that my wife has become accustomed to seeing unfold.  Every work day is the same as the last, and it is my own monotonous drumbeat that I love—and need for that matter.

This morning I walked out of the bathroom and began my “kiss Whitney on the cheek and tell her she is dead sexy” routine.  She rose up and said in the most serious of tones, “what are doing, and where are you going?”  Confused at her sudden accusatory tone, and more confused with the look on her face, which screamed that she could not comprehend where a grown man would be going on a week day at, say around 0700, I replied with, “To an amusement park, Whitney, and you can’t come because pregnant girls are not allowed; it’s too bad, I bet you would have enjoyed it too.”   

If it doesn’t read as hilarious to you, then you and Whitney have something else in common.  Apparently, my “amusement park” comment was not amusing.   Her next comment was equally bewildering to me.  Whitney, in desperate move to distract me from the fact that her pregnant brain had again rendered her incapacitated, said the following line, “Well, I am glad it’s Friday, at least.”   I just let it go.

I need to give her some credit, though.  The woman has lost more sleep on trips to the bathroom over the past two nights than I have seen her pee our entire marriage.  What can this woman possibly have left in her to pee?  The Whitness has been quick to inform me that she produces double the saliva when compared to an average woman.  I guess that could be at the root of all this.

I just wanted you to know my wife has an excess of saliva, because I have been holding it in for 26 weeks. 

 


Being a human being means two things.  These two things are certain, everything else people tell you are lies and these people cannot be trusted.  Understanding that these two things will probably be the most important realization of your life because it directly affects everything else you do.  Here it is written in Georgia size 10 Font:  1. You will at some point have to acknowledge the presence of other human beings in your life, and 2. You will enter into some sort of long term relationship with at least one of the humans you acknowledge as being stuck here with you.  I don’t know if you know this about me, but I freely offer up my opinion to anyone willing to listen.  As a matter of fact, my advice is, not only unsolicited, but also probably not worth reading.  So in that sentiment, I am offering up some advice to all of you in, or contemplating entering into, a long term relationship.  

I have one of those jobs, which happens to employ other human beings.  These other humans and I work together to do all kinds of crazy things.  Working with other humans makes you realize that we all have one thing in common—we all have human being problems. One human being problem stems from one of the certain facts I mentioned in paragraph one.  We will enter into long term relationships with other humans; some of us enter into life relationships we call marriage.  What I want to lay down for you here are two of the most solid pieces of marital advice I have ever given.  If you chose to read on, and then apply it to your marriage, and then live through the experiences, I make another guarantee.  I guarantee that your marriage will be stronger than it ever was before, because it will have been tested to the limits. 

I have heard it said that a couple should go on a road trip together to help them decide if they are meant to be.  You know how it goes.  The prospect of sitting in a car for longer than 30 minutes where you actually have to make conversation with this human you have chosen to attempt long term cohabitation with is really daunting.  That is child’s play.  Man-up and read on.

Firstly, Make A Major Purchase Together.

I am not talking a new coffee table; I am talking in the hundreds of thousands of dollars.  I am talking life altering purchases.  I am talking a substantial financial commitment that brings with it stressful monthly obligations.  I am talking about something where the process just to purchase the thing is months long and incredibly inconvenient and stressful.  I recommend you buy a house together.   My life is a great example of how this can work for you.

After years of renting, my wife and I were ready to test the fibers of our marriage.  Renting just wasn’t stressful enough and we needed more excitement. We had been looking for months for that perfect home, but nothing seemed to speak to us and we were quickly losing hope.  One weekend the realtor we were working with took us to a house where another couple was already looking.  It was awkward and felt weird walking through a house thinking about buying it with someone else there doing the same thing.  I think it would be similar to speed dating where you listen to some pathetic dude plead his case to this girl just before you sit down, and you pretty much think everything he is saying is stupid, and furthermore that the girl sitting there would be so much better off if she selected you rather than the d-bag currently in front of her.  Ironically, the girl is probably not that great, but that is not the point.  This is when I realize two things about Whitney. 1.  She is extremely competitive, and 2.  She is either plagued with extreme buyer’s remorse over any purchase above $17.99, or is she is perhaps the savviest women on the face of the planet and she should be both loved and feared equally.  

When Whitney heard this alien couple discussing where they would put their couch or their dining room table, she gripped my hand harder than any man has ever during any handshake before or since. Now it is important you know for your own safety in case you ever deal with my wife, who I call, The Whitness that when my wife gets into the competitive spirit, she tends to develop a redneck accent.  It is not always, but I have witnessed in on multiple occasions to include once in a fight with another customer at a local Wal-Mart.  The conversation I heard at that Wal-Mart went like this: 

True Story:

Other redneck customer yelling:  “There is no way my son threw the dog food at that pregnant woman.  HE DIDN’T DID IT, he’s a good kid.”

Whitney  (5th grade teacher and college graduate with honors):  “If he DIDN’T DID IT, I WOULDN’T BE HERE, BUT HE DID DID IT, I was watching the whole time!” 

Back to my unsolicited advice:  She looked at me and in the redneckiest voice I have ever heard, she said “I want this god damned place, I want it something awful.”  When my wife goes redneck, you don’t argue, you just do as you’re told.  This was the house we would buy.  This was what I had dreamed of for years.   I pictured Karen Carpenter coming back to our closing and zombie singing, “We’ve Only Just Begun.”  I thought that this would be the happiest moment in our marriage to this point.  I thought rainbows and unicorns would frolic through the closing and leave fairy dust on all of the documents.  I pictured the Oompa Loompas singing to us, “Oooompa ooompa oooompity ooom I’ve got another riddle for you.  What will you do when the money is spent?  You will live in a home that you don’t have to rent…”  That’s right; I not only just referenced Oooomp Looompas in a blog, but I also wrote a quick little lyric they would sing if they showed up at a closing to a house…..even though I know this doesn’t make sense….everyone knows the Ooompas never leave the chocolate factory. 

What actually occurred was more like what I have seen in the videos following the death of President Kennedy.  On the day of the walk through and closing, my wife entered into buyer’s remorse mode.  It was like a funeral procession through the house.  The home we saw weeks earlier was  now seen  a new dismal light.  The previous owners had moved out and left it less than clean, and the initial picture of love and happiness had faded distinctly.  I could feel my wife’s mood change.  I had seen this look in her eyes before, and it makes my stomach hurt to this day. 

After leaving the walk-through, my wife said, “call the realtor and back out.”  What does a good husband do at this point in their marriage?  I don’t know, but I called my realtor.  My realtor promised me at that moment that if I could get my wife to the closing, he would make it worth it.  Needless to say, at the closing, Whitney was dressed in all black and had huge Jackie Onassis glasses on crying the entire time.  I was looking for Oooompa Looompas everywhere, but there were no little people, except lawyers….  In the end, after hours of wiping tears and blowing noses, the lawyer felt so guilty, he refunded all of his fees to us and we walked away from our first closing with a check for $1773.00.  

We ended up loving the home, but to this day I am not sure that 1. Whitney ever really initially wanted the house, or really just didn’t want the d-bag couple already there to have it, and 2. Whether my wife is so savvy that she didn’t orchestrate the entire thing….when I saw the Lawyer writing the check, I glanced at Whitney and I swear to god, for a split second, she lifted her glass and there was a look in her eyes, something I have seen before in the eyes of warriors and heroes.  It was a look of…..victory.

That was the day I learned my wife is like the Godfather, minus the random killings and other criminal activity…so far.  She is a “made” woman and should not be trifled with. 

Tomorrow stay tuned for Part Two called, “Buy an RV and Then Ask Your Wife to Help You Back it Up Through Tight Spaces because it Will Change Your Life.”

 

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