Posts Tagged ‘wives’


Lets be honest for a moment. We have all seen it, especially lately. Women have a voice in today’s society and it’s a good thing, I guess….Until they use it poorly, which I am about to illustrate to you. I put this all on women, because when I hear a man speak like what I am about to describe, I know they are simply brainwashed by a woman they are trying to make want to sleep with them. Trust me, I know men; we are all the same, and we will sell our souls to the first chance at luring a woman into thinking we are worth their while.

I am going to describe for you a couple of occasions when I think women have it all wrong. I suspect this will be a very popular post among females, and under this expectation, I have conducted a RealClear Politics Poll with statistics to back up my claims that women sometimes use their voice poorly, and the poll had shocking results. Of the three people I talked to, 100 percent concurred. Of the same three that I talked to, zero percent wanted me to use their name out of fear their woman would kill them.

Before I go any further, I need to write a disclaimer: The opinions presented in this blog are not the opinions of the writer and in no way can be attributed to Heath Phillips. It is also important to understand that Heath Phillips’ wife is beautiful and he loves her. She is also hot.

So under that premise, I present to you just a couple of things that women say as a collective that need to be curbed.

1. Women describe their baby’s age in months for entirely too long. There is a point where this becomes completely useless to me. I am good with numbers in lumps of three. Once you get to three of something, we need to call it something different. I think it is the Marine in me. No Marine really ever supervises on an immediate level more than three people. They may be responsible for more people, but they use a team of three to get things done.

Back to the point. When a woman is asked how old their child is, and the reply is “32 months,” my head actually blows up inside and it hurts my soul. I don’t even know how long 32 months is. Nobody does, and the ones who do, first had to do this mathematical equation in their head:

1 Year = 12 Months.

24 Months = 2 Years.

36 Months = 3 Years.

36 – 32 = 4.

12 – 4 = 8;

Thusly, the child is 2 years, 8 months old.

Right? Yeah, I don’t know either. Hey, and listen, just because there are those among you who can do that math faster than others, doesn’t make this okay either.

When I am elected into office on Tuesday, I will do away with months as a gauge for a child’s age and everything will be addressed by how it relates to a year. For instance, on Wednesday, my daughter will be 1/12 year old. On a related note: Women probably get this from when they were teens and dating and constantly bludgeoned their boyfriend for presents after every successful month they amassed in their torrid adolescent love affairs. If you are still using months to analyze the longevity of your relationship, there is a good chance the relationship is on shaky ground…..just sayin……unless this offends you…then just disregard.

2. Women say all kinds of things, but rarely do they say what they want. If a woman could get this one thing about a man, just this one thing, they would all have the man of their dreams; this one revelation is: Men actually don’t want to be on your fighting side. We want our females happy, so that they may want to enter into some form of relations with us. While at home, practice this today: “Honey, I would like ________,” and then fill in the blank with a want you may have. I know, this is revolutionary, but I make you this promise: Men will bend over backwards to give it to you.

On a related note: Men don’t want to make a decision that a woman’s happiness hinges upon when men think women already have a decision in mind and are just hoping we come to the same one. Make sense?
This is not fair, and actually sets you up for a trip down misery lane.

It is readily apparent to me that women conduct meetings and they come to certain agreements with one another–inter-gender treaties, if you will. At one of these meetings, women must have come to the decision that how much a man loves a woman is evidenced in their ability to decide upon a place to eat that matches the place the woman was already thinking of in their head. The aforementioned is why when Whitney says, “Heath, tonight you get to decide where we eat,” I always say Taco Bell, because it forces her to just come out and say what she wants….I am a brilliant man.

These are two specific instances where women are missing the mark. There are many men all over the world right now that are breathing in a collective sigh now that I have aired this out. We are lovers not fighters, and we are actively looking for loving at every avenue we come to. So we aren’t very good at the logistics of getting to said loving. In the end, all of us men are seeking the same goal…if we have somehow found ourselves actively arguing with you women over anything, it is just as much of a surprise to us as it is to you. I guarantee you that our goal before the fight started WAS devious in nature, because we are hunters on the prowl, but our intent was without malice. All we need is love…daily and nightly, and ever so rightly.

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

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Weekends are where life really happens in the Phillips household.  Weekdays are like a pause in what we really want to do around here.  As fall sets in, the mood in our home always brightens.  Everything about the season is happy to me.  I think the fall reminds me to slow down and relax, to look out the window and see the show that nature is putting on, and to look at my wife and remember who it is I married.  She is a fun, fun lady, and during this time of year, we do a lot of “us” stuff.  We work together around the house, we set it up to look like a harvest scene, and most importantly we enjoy ourselves.  Don’t get all weird with me, I am not going to spend the rest of this blog writing about how incredible my relationship is, because those of you who have been reading my blog, already know that.  I am going to tell you about the training I have put my wife through.   She has passed a rigorous program that would have broken a lesser woman.  I started thinking about this earlier this week and felt like you needed to hear what it is like to be married to me.  I think you all would love it (being married to me), and therefore you need to catch a glimpse.

Being married to me is awesome.  I am not a braggart; I am an honest man who tells stories.  Being married to me is awesome (This is my thesis).  Besides being generally easy to deal with, I am an inciter of chaos.  I induce into an otherwise relaxing lifestyle—turmoil.

I like spending time with my wife.  I like sitting around with her while she reads smutty novels, and on occasion, I like to pick the book up, and read the passages in a very dramatic manner.  Dramatic renditions of raunchiness are awesome, and they make Whitney very happy.  She loves it when I do this and shows me by giving me the “stink eye.”   I am going to teach my daughter to do this as well.  Once a husband or child grabs the book and begins an overly dramatic monologue entitled “Saddle up and Ride (an actual book title I found on our kindle),” it probably gets a little difficult for the reader to re-engross themselves in their fantastic voyage through word porn.   If there are any men reading this, I challenge you to do the same; it will either lead to a bonding moment between you and your wife, or your wife will never feel comfortable to read around you again.  Either way, you have succeeded in the one thing all husbands love to do….terrorize their wives momentarily.  Don’t mistake what I say for wanting to hurt our wives.  We don’t want to hurt them; we want to drive them crazy.  Only crazy to a point, and then we want our wives to chill out and prepare themselves for the next battle.  (This may actually be my thesis).

We do it in little criminal actions.  A great example:  In our home, Whitney is a Nazi-like organizer of the refrigerator.  She has a very systematic method for how she sees things fit together inside, and she hold briefings on them every time she opens up the door.  On shopping days, she will actually address the press in the middle of our house where she will outline the proper shelf for beverages, dairy products, where snacks will reside, and where random products that don’t fall in line with other things will go.  It’s simple.  Whitney would have done well in Napoleon’s Army as she has a knack for ensuring her orders are always understood at the lowest level of the chain of command.  They sound  something like, “Heath, in your brain, I know you think ground turkey is a dairy product, but here in the real world it is not and, therefore, should find itself in the lowest drawer of the refrigerator.”  Sometimes when I go to the fridge, I put things back in there in the wrong spot on purpose, and I get an amazing sense of rebelliousness swelling from my soul to the tip of my head.  Then I go and hide, and I wait, and I wait, and then it happens.  Whitney goes to the fridge and notices that her yogurt has been moved to the “random fridge item” shelf.  I come out from hiding, I walk past and say this, “Whitney, you know yogurt is a dairy item, right?” I continue, “Why would you put it in the ‘random fridge item’ area?”  Because Whitney is pregnant, she can only remember 17 minutes before the current moment.  I have used this to convince her she is slowly losing it.  As I walk away, she is mumbling to herself the same way the people in the movies act like when they are in the crazy house.  This is a victory for me—a yogurt induced victory.

Adding to her frustration, I like to pretend that every time she explains to me where items should go in the fridge is the first time she has explained it.  Furthermore, I like to patronize her by saying things like, “Dude, this is weird, I was thinking the other day how disorganized the fridge is, and that we needed to get on the same page in this house.”  If there is one thing my wife loves, it is being patronized—this is just another thing I recommend all husbands start doing in their homes…good times.  This is all out of love.  I love messing with my wife, because she is the only person in the world who could deal with it.

As Whitney has progressed through this pregnancy, things have become funnier and funnier to watch.   One of the things that has quickly become a great past time for me is watching her walk, stand up, sit down.  It is similar to when a turtle is put on their shell and just kind of flailing their arms about hoping they can develop the momentum to propel themselves into the standing position.  Before you all think I am calloused, I help out.  From wherever I am sitting, I cheer her on and time the evolution to see if she is getting better at it.  Awesomeness.

A final thing that I have liked to do is slowly reveal ways I got in trouble when I was a kid.  I explain to her about the time I stole people’s mail around the neighborhood.  I remind her I am a convicted shoplifter, I remind her that I joined a gang in Idaho Falls, Idaho.  We were the “gang that wore denim jackets.”  I wore headgear and in a gang fight, which subsequently got shoved through my cheek.  How many gangsters were ginger kids with headgear?  I was.  I remind her that I one time took a knife to our neighbors tree and shaved off all of the bark.  Apparently, the neighbors weren’t happy with the makeover.  I remind her that my high school friends and I were drunkards who would have sold our siblings if it meant we could get a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best (higher alcohol content).  I tell her that I used to torture my sister about her hair and how she had the exact same hairstyle George Washington had.  What kind of ginger kid with headgear would have the audacity to make fun of other kids?  This guy.  I tell Whitney, of the time I was taking another friend to baseball practice and wanted to change the cd out in the car and wrecked it into a jeep.  Right as the car hit the jeep, Tres Delinquentes’ “Step into the Madness” blared over the car stereo and it could not have been more appropriate.  I tell her all of these stories and then remind Whitney that our child will pay us back the hell we caused our parents; get ready.

Tomorrow I will tell you the story of how I convinced another blogger to give me a blogging award.

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


My intent was to blog daily for the rest of my life.  You would all read the blog, enjoy the blog, tell your friends and it would spread like wild fire.  I would become rich.  I would forget about all of you that were the reason that I had found wealth, fame and fortune, but it wouldn’t matter because you had already helped me achieve it, and I would be doing whatever the hell I wanted to do—I would buy jet skis and other recreational devices.  Subsequently, I would have purchased my own island and invited stars to come out and use it as a place they could produce their next record, or as a place they could begin to delve into Scientology.  I am not a Scientologist, yet.  I will become one if Tom Cruise does something, I do it too.    

That was my introduction.  That is what you say when your intentions as a blogger are merely the best laid plans of mice and men, and they have been acted upon by an outside force beyond your control.  In this case, it is my boss.  I have been forced by my employer to work full days.  I know…..I am frustrated as well.  To be frank, my boss is reading this blog right now, so let me make very clear that I love my job, my boss, his family, and of course everything about the man.

I say all that to say this:  Blogs will slow down, it will be a weekly occurrence, but maybe that means you have all week to get excited about Saturday mornings again.  Seriously, cartoons are no good anymore. For years, we haven’t had anything to do.  They cancelled Smurfs, the Hannah Barbera Olympics, and Jem; I may be all you have now.  I mean Saturdays have been pretty much worthless since 1989.  Plus, the infrequency with which I post these things may drive up the demand, and quality of work I produce simultaneously. 

You have dedicated three paragraphs of your life to me and I have said nothing.  I will now talk about something.

Today is August, 4.  Today marks 13 days in a trailer.  Today marks ten days to go before leaving the trailer.  Today, the trailer that once measured 33 feet long now feels like a ten by ten box.  Today, the three dogs that live with me and the one Pregnant Woman grow restless.  Was my plan to move the five of us here as well thought out as I first thought?  Who would have thought that moving an individual with life growing inside of her and her entourage of dogs could be anything but awesome?

You have to give it to The Whitness.  She has handled it with more grace than any seven month pregnant woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  One of the coolest things I do here is go to work from 0700 to 1700.  This is especially cool because when I go to work, Whitney gets to stay in a trailer all day long and watch dogs.  And, deep down, I know that this is what she wanted; this is every woman’s dream.  I remember back to our vows the day we were wedded for eternity.   Before you think that I am not keeping any promises, I wanted to let you know what went down.  The following are the vows I read from the note card at my wedding.  These are the facts, and they are undisputable.

 I, Heath, take you, Whitney, as my lawfully wedded wife; to have and to hold; to cherish by showering you with lavish trips to unbelievable places like Jacksonville, North Carolina—henceforth referred to as the “armpit of the Marine Corps.”

-To move you into a home and then leave you there alone for two years while I, like Teddy Roosevelt during his days with The Rough Riders, gallivant across the globe to secure peace and prosperity and fight communists. 

-I do promise to rip you from the comfort of every job you gain at any duty station we live and force you to move to an equally intimidating and luxurious new duty station like Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station, where the cool hang out spot is the Dollar General.  Or, Quantico Marine Corps Base, where I will spend the majority of my time on I-95 and bring you home special gifts like ticks and weird infections on my elbows that cause the skin to blister.  Subsequently, the blistering will cause my napkins to stick to my elbows at restaurants. When I stand up, you will frantically attempt to pull the napkins from my arms and you will think it is awesome and not gross at all.

-I promise to conduct this move in the comfort and efficiency of a travel trailer in which you can place all of your necessities and dogs, under the guise that moving you this way would be more comfortable than staying in a hotel room or going out earlier and getting a house, which would have prevented us from having to reside in a trailer at all.

-Additionally, I promise love, honor and to go to my new job, which will remind you that you no longer have the comfort of a nice work place and its associated people whom you love, and leave you in said trailer where you will be forced to watch “Live with Kelly Rippa” and whomever she chooses as a guest host, because Regis has retired—and every time you see the new host, you will ask me if that is the permanent host, to which I will respond in the negative and then re-explain the fact that Regis has retired and Kelly Rippa utilizes guest hosts to keep it interesting, but since you will be pregnant at the time, you will not grasp what I consider to be easy to conceptualize.  However, you are so cute pregnant, I will continue to act like it is the first time you ask.

– I will also give you the unique opportunity to leash three dogs, well two dogs, because one has three legs and cannot be leashed or she will fall over to her front right where an arm used to be.  I will expect you to figure out, while pregnant, how you get the three dogs down the stairs, when I may or may not have parked the trailer in an area that causes the last step to the ground to be farther than the first two, and then awkwardly try to control the dogs as they all try to get out of the trailer simultaneously as if the trailer is giving birth.  The dogs will do their best to pull your pregnant ass down the stairs in a motion that unimpregnated women would find hard to maneuver through, and you will find this exciting and not an inconvenience at all.

-Finally, I promise that you can buy as many pairs of shoes as you would like to and that I won’t care if you actually ever wear them or not.  On a related note, I will also let you use a portion of the closet space that was previously designated as mine to house the superfluous shoes, because love is about understanding that a closet can never be too big. 

Yes, I am pretty sure that is what I promised our marriage would be like.  I may have paraphrased the bulleted points with the line, “Through better or worse,” but the above is what I really meant…..


Smack dab plus two in the middle of July, 198 or 199 days into the year depending on whether it is a Leap Year or not, 167 days remaining to shed in the year are all other ways that you could say July 17.  July 17th holds a lot of meaning to me.

For the following reasons, July 17th is one of my favorite days.

In 1933, after successfully crossing the Atlantic Ocean, the Lithuanian research aircraft Lituanica crashes in Europe under mysterious circumstances.  In 1944, Port Chicago disaster: Near the San Francisco Bay, two ships laden with ammunition for the war explode in Port Chicago, California, killing 320.  One of my favorite events is South Korea proclaiming its constitution in 1948.  We cannot forget that the Harvard School of Dentistry was established on this date in 1867.  Of course, we all come together on this day to commemorate the day in 1717 when King George I sailed with 50 musicians on a barge down the River Thames on the opening day of Handel’s Water Music.    (things in this paragraph were stolen from Wikipedia somewhat illegally in that I did not properly cite it.  The underlined words are indicative that I cut and pasted material directly from the site.)

I contend however that what today is really about is Whitney Phillips.  At 0705 in the morning after a night of pizza eating and walking, a sexy pregnant lady named Valerie gave birth to Whitney Waters.  Named after the highest summit in the contiguous United States, Whitney quickly rose into her name.  Her old name was beautiful to me, and rang of a really cool porn star name.  Although, Valerie doesn’t know that I think that….until now.    To be fair, Val, I am not the only one to think this, just sayin. 

I celebrate Whitney today, and truthfully, I have been celebrating her since July 1st, because in our home, Whitney gets one month to herself.  I am thankful that the child she is carrying around in her belly was not born this month.  Whitney would have had trouble sharing; I actually think that she secretly holds Independence Day in contempt.  On the 4th, when people tell her “Happy Fourth,” Whitney replies with, “and a happy 13 Days to my birthday to you….”  She always gets confused when the fireworks in her honor are accompanied by patriotic music and not the soundtrack to her favorite movie, Dirty Dancing.

So in the spirit of Whitney Month, I wanted to give you a few facts about who you should be celebrating.

  1. 1.        Whitney hates how loud my sneezes are.  When she blesses me, she says, “Bless you.”  The tone with which she says it to me is consistent with the following phrase, “I can’t stand it when you sneeze anywhere near me.  It makes me question what I ever liked about you.  I am this close to walking out the door, but I am carrying your baby, and I don’t want to take her away from her father.”
  2. 2.       Whitney is a tip toe runner.  I make fun of her for it, but she has glorious calves, which only accentuates the fact that my calves are made up purely of shin bone…
  3. 3.       Whitney taught her 5th graders to say Psalms where the “S” is silent.  There are a group of about 22 kids going into the sixth grade that are extremely well versed in their Palms.
  4. 4.       Whitney would rather me make her a homemade card than spend a thousand dollars on clothing or accessories.  Of course, this does not mean that she doesn’t want to spend thousands of dollars on clothing and accessories; she just doesn’t seem to think my taste in the aforementioned items is quite right.  Go figure.  That being said, Whitney dresses me nicely.  I would probably still dress like it is the grunge era, because in my head I am the coolest…Luckily, in Whitney’s head, I am a guy with questionable taste in clothes. 
  5. 5.       Whenever I raise my hand in a manner as if I was going to slap Whitney ( Pimps do this…), she puts her hand in the air and says, “How,” like a Native American greeting.  To me, this means the threat of me hitting her isn’t being taken seriously enough.  Unfortunately, I was only operating on what I might do, not on what I would actually do.  Now, I just look stupid.  We have actually turned it into our own little high five.
  6. 6.       Whitney is an example of the things I wish I consistently was.  She is the kind of woman who would tell someone who is littering to pick it up.  She will tell a concession worker at a theater that in customer service, the cashier should actually greet the consumer.  She tows a line and holds herself accountable.  I cannot lie; the better parts of me are that way because The Whitness won’t let the slack up. 
  7. 7.       Whitney pees with the door open, and if I ruin the moment, she gets as mad about it as she has for the worst of things I have ever done to her.  Don’t tell her I wrote this down—she might think this was personal…

So, tonight while you are gathered around the Whitney Tree drinking spirits and engaging in riveting tales of forgotten lore all in celebration of Whit, I encourage you to remember what you are celebrating for.  It is not just another Tuesday.  It is the day that marks the reason most of you even read these blogs.  Whitney.  30 years of being completely unique.  30 years of living out the name her mom gave her…not the porn star version, but the strength associated with the mountain that sits majestically overlooking California from a vantage point of over 14,000 feet.  Happy Birthday, Whitney!  We’re all going to continue looking up to you for many years to come.

Let me end this with my favorite Palm.  Palm 717 Verse 1982.  The Lord created The Whitness…..


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.