Posts Tagged ‘zombies’

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.


Longterm relationships, boyfriends and girlfriends, married, gay, straight, all carry around with them the same types of issues. All couples fight, and the ones that don’t are probably more destructive than the ones that actually have members that say what they are feeling to one another. In these relationships, there is a chance for growth. In the silent, seemingly happy and fight-less couples, one member is, no doubt feeling voiceless and oppressed. I told my wife on a couple of occasions, that there has to be at least one moment occasionally, in a marriage where the man should think he wants to become a monk and run off into some form of solitary lifestyle with just men, who all think the same way they do. I picture it being a little slice of heaven in some far off land. It will have over one hundred taps and all the beers will be my favorite microbrews. There would be a place to smoke cigars and it would be well ventilated. Other men would would show up and we’d all talk about 17th Century Literature, and everyone would agree with me…the problem in the end of all of this is that after the first drink from the bar, I would have think, “man, I wish my wife was here, she’d love this place..”

This is not a blog about fighting, you need to figure that our on your own, but you need to know it happens and to suck it up. Nope, enter this blog into the “How to Continue Dating Your Spouse, Long-term Boy/girlfriend” category. You didn’t ask for the advice, but then again, you didn’t ask for anything else I have written either.

Zombie movies are, in my opinion, the number one way to date your wife. Mine pulls me into her and holds on tight when humans are eating other humans. So, World War Z was going to be the venue of our first date (where we actually hired a babysitter and went out). I love my wife, and I want her to be happy. I want her to look at me and think, “damn, I won the husband lottery.”
In my quest for doing so, I compiled the following list of important behaviors. Some are proven, and some are conjecture. Either way, I would immediately include them in your relationships.

1. Open the door for your significant other.
This is huge, and it shouldn’t be that difficult. I open building doors for her, and generally, I am a man of great manners with an extremely chivalrous nature. So naturally, I chose to forego this necessity. Additionally, I opted to further compound my omission by making a joke. It went like this:

My wife says to me, “Just how I pictured our first date in months starting; my husband jumping in the car and waiting for me to open my own door.” I told her that it was rude of me and I would do better. My coping strategy is always to go to humor in order to move past any moment where I have screwed up. So I say to my wife, “If I have to remember these technicalities involved in car-door opening while dating, you have to remember your obligations for lewd and lascivious behavior once in the car, whose door was graciously opened for you.”

In perfect Whitney timing, she responds, “That’s not a problem, I will just think about Brad Pitt fighting zombies…mmmmmmmm.”

2. If going to a movie at a theater, show your wife how much you value her love by stopping at a Walgreens and buy boxes of candy ahead of time.

Don’t read that as sarcasm. This is actually a huge move in a marriage. One box of candy at the movie costs the same as three gallons of gas. It is like the airport and movie theater have the same owners and they are both dicks. Rich dicks. Anyway, I did this yesterday and this actually made my wife fall more in love with me more than ever. She runs the finances, so it is actually romantic for her to see me being economical.

I went into the store and saw the plethora of options for possible candy enjoyment. Panic ensued. I couldn’t remember the last thing Whitney said she was craving, (we don’t eat a ton of candy, so it has been awhile). So what I did was absolutely genius: I pretty much bought every candy there was. Once in the movies, she reached in her purse (the one that all women have that was purely brought to smuggle large items of “stuff” into areas that do not allow the “stuff” to be brought in from off the premises. One of the boxes was Whoppers. I had struck gold. Whitney breathed in a long content sigh and said in a high pitched voice she whisper yelled, “You remembered!!!! You love me!!!!”
Now, I hope she doesn’t realize that in not remembering the actual candy, subsequently panicking, and following that up with buying everything in reach, I spent more money on candy than we would have at the airport/movie theater.

3. When you leave the movie theater, and you remember to open her car door, also remind her of her obligations once inside again, because that joke never gets old, right?

I didn’t do this, but I really wish I did.

4. Make your wife or significant other laugh.
This is what I do to make up for my lack of “conventional good looks.” Making a woman laugh actually makes you more attractive to them. Make them laugh like it is your sole mission. It will show them that they are worth the effort, and there is nothing better than a wife who is smiling.

5. Don’t belittle your wife when she has non-sensical requests.
I say to Whitney, “Baby, little woman, sweet thing, do you want a Starbucks on the way to the theater.” She replied with, “No, I need a Starbucks, but I would rather have a coffee.”
I know, I know, but just let it go.

6. If you see a girl who your wife points out is pretty, always say she is dressed like a slut.
I didn’t do this, but it is always a good move. It is especially important to add a dimension of disgust to your voice. If you say it with excitement, it will not have the desired intent.

These are six important aspects of dating within a relationships that are sure to work.

In the end, I believe all of this is relatively true. We as humans put more time into impressing our bosses, random acquaintances, and just people who don’t matter than we do our spouses or boyfriends, or girlfriends, or whatever. My wife used to teach dance lessons, and she had this strange habit of not letting married people dance together when initially learning steps. Her answer when asked why was startling and true. “Most married people will treat a stranger nicer when they screw up the dance than they would their spouse.”

So find a good zombie movie and go. Buy some cheap candy and make her laugh. You’d be surprised what behavior that could lead to in a car….

When you take vows at the wedding ceremony, the traditional ending is “Till death do us part.” I said it, you married guys have said something like it, and if you haven’t said it, you have seen something that makes this understandable. Instead, I think the woman should have to say, “Till I kill you” because this is what they are thinking. The nicest of women, my wife for example, will kill a man. Trust me. Look at your wife right now, sitting over there all innocent. That woman will kill. That woman will kill you–no questions asked. She will kill you because it just seemed like the right thing to do, and everyone will agree with her. The good news is that woman loves you, and she will just as easily die for you just so long as you don’t mess up the baby’s schedule, or eat the curly potato chip, which she has silently claimed to be hers, and if you loved her, I mean really loved her, you’ll understand why that chip is hers. But again, do not let this give you an overwhelming sense of security, wives are trained like Batman and the League of Shadows, to take men’s souls.

My wife, who I have written extensively about, is a great case study. She has terrific skills with a bow staff and can hang with the worst of men in fights. I’m certain of it. Having a baby has added another dimension–more depth to her fighting portfolio. We had an old method of arguing where we incorporated the “studio audience” method. One of us addresses a fake studio audience and makes fun of the the other’s irrational behavior.

It goes like this. Your wife says something, then you pause and look into the fake crowd of onlookers and say something like, “here is where my wife uses all inclusive statements to irrationally prove that she is right…”

Whitney has developed new weaponry. It is what I call the “baby talk” defense. This is where she looks at the baby and says something in random high and low pitch tones, “Look at you so cute sitting there with your foot in your mouth…Your daddy puts his foot in his mouth all of the time and one day I am going to put my foot in his ass…” It is quite effective because it now becomes parenting and allows you to say things you probably wouldn’t say to each other. She is a respectable foe and lover…

Now, I know in a fair fight, I could take my wife to school. She is strong, but I think I could win–maybe not by knockout, but I’d get the judges decision for sure. But this is only if the judges have the balls to tell her to her face that they think I won. It reminds me of a story about my wife.

Another couple, Whit and I were gathered together over the holidays playing a very competitive game that pitted couple against couple. The game was like the old game show Million Dollar Pyramid. One person had a word that they needed the other person to guess, but they were restrained by a list of words they could not use as clues. The game was back and forth, and Whitney was growing increasingly competitive as time passed. Soon, it came to Whitney to give me clues. I sat anxiously awaiting Whit’s masterful barrage of brilliant clues. She is a genius, for the love of god, we got this in the bag. Whitney began:

Whitney: (Slowly and matter of factly) I want to mont.

Heath: I don’t know what that means

Whitney: (still calm) I want to mont.

Heath: Okay, you’re sick, death, dying, montgomery, Alabama, the Confederacy….(Digressing into words that barely relate to one another, but pretending that Whitney is leading me down this road.

Whitney: (Growing Frustrated at my apparent idiocy) Listen, Heath! I WANT to MONT. I want to mont. (She then motions with her hands to me a gesture that says, “see how obvious it is now.”

Heath: Mont. You want to mont? Need, hungry, starving, children with no food, poor kids in Africa, famine, death and famine, rape, torture, water boarding, surfing, shark bite, apple sauce… (more words spilling out of my mouth at the rapid rate)

Whitney: (Yelling as the last sand falls through the minute glass) I WANT TO MONT. I WANT TO MONT. HEATH, I WANT TO MONT!!!!

Other couple: Time! They yell it with exuberance knowing that they have just been put into the perfect position to win this game.

I turn to Whitney feeling a bit embarrassed that I didn’t solve her clue. I say, “Whitney, I don’t know what a “mont” is. I don’t think it is a word. Whitney’s face is now riddled with disappointment. She breathes in and out big breaths and says “It isn’t a word, its what I was doing….I was rhyming. Want and Mont rhyme. Rhyming was the word you needed to guess.”

I explain to her that she could have rattled off a sequence of words like bat, hat, cat, mat, and that eventually, maybe three words into it, I would have put it together. I even said that I could understand the first go round using “I want to mont” and then seeing that I wasn’t comprehending, maybe moving to a new set of words that rhymed. Moreover, I felt that clinging to a nonsensical phrase was the worst strategy I have ever seen in the history of this game.

Whitney leaned in real close. Her lips so close to my ears that I could feel her breath on my lobes. She is silent. Long pause. She then says to me slowly and well enunciated and loud enough for all to hear. “If you really knew and loved me, you would have figured it out with the clue I provided.”

You have all seen the facts. It is clear that I am right in this case, but let me tell you what happened in that room. The other couple hearing Whitney’s words, understood something I should have figured out by then. Don’t mess with Whitney. If she wants to mont. Let her.

So, I say to Whitney, “You win, you’re right.” She reaches up and grabs my chin gently, caressing it softly with her thumb, and In a tone dripping with love and rainbows and unicorns and puppies and candy canes, she says, as she always does, “Heath, its not about winning…”

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

Stop! Pay attention, because the people I’m going to describe right now are everywhere. Worse still, the type of person I am going to describe may be similar to you, and I just might be saving you from yourself. I’ve said this before, I am here to make the world a better place one blog at a time; unfortunately for you normal, well adjusted individuals, my audience consists of the same 29 loyal readers and three or four random people from Pakistan, Eurasia, and some smaller countries that make up South America. As such, the 29 of you need to work like foot soldiers helping spread the word of progress. But, I digress.

I want to talk to you briefly about a certain type of person that has been surfacing more and more in my day-to-day existence. I call these people the, “I am missing the piece of biological machinery necessary to understand and subsequently stop me from being annoying” people. These people run rampant today. They are everywhere and involve themselves in all kinds of fun. These people show up and make whatever activity you are doing suck worse than it originally sucked, or make otherwise enjoyable activities have moments that suck that shouldn’t. These people do things that most people understand are annoying, but don’t get it themselves. Here are examples to aid you in your fight against the annoying:

1. In group functions or lectures, these are the students or members of the group that talk for the sake of talking, that continually ask questions that you can tell they are making up as they go along, or are meant purely to impress the person they are questioning with their unbelievable knowledge and vocabulary. These people work very hard to be considered astute, but in the very act of doing so become horribly annoying. What is being considered astute if no one ever wants to hear you talk?

It is okay to have questions, to be inquisitive in nature, and to seek knowledge, but it is a flaw in a person’s personality to ruin other people’s lives by dragging out things unnecessarily because you want to string together a sentence with a bunch ten cent words and a question mark so that you can impress your peers.

Screw it, let me just write what I’m feeling, because I can if I want.

I hate when anybody asks questions I didn’t need to know the answer to in order to function. I’m sorry if this is the wrong mentality to have, but it’s the way I feel. If you are that in disagreement with me, you can write a blog to the contrary, but it will be short and most normal people will think it’s annoying…Of course, all of this is assuming I am normal, which could be a stretch.

2. These people go to the lanes at the grocery store that are unmanned and meant to be utilized with speed and agility. You know the lanes, you scan and bag your own merchandise, and it keeps you from having to wait in longer lines with real humans scanning your garbage. Only for annoying people, once they start scanning they become the only people in the world. They take their time, they start other activities in the middle of this larger activity and then forget to continue the larger activity. Somewhere, someone made this person forget to be a good human to others–to be considerate.

Screw it, let me just write what I am thinking, because I can if I want.

I like other humans, I think when everything is working right, we generally do pretty well together. Insert annoying people into the mix, and suddenly getting to be around generally likable humans becomes not worth the annoyance.

3. People missing the annoying switch show up to casual functions overdressed and act like they dress that way all the time…(this may or may not be accurate).

4. They take up a spot at a crowded gas station, fill their car up, and then run inside the store for an hour while the rest of us decent humans run out of gas waiting (this is deadly accurate).

5. Unaware Annoying People interject into your private conversations things called nerd facts. They are convinced that their nerd fact will somehow be so profound that there is no need for your conversation to continue and will then hover around to ensure it doesn’t (this cannot be argued).

6. Annoying people write blogs belittling other annoying people just because they can (I know a guy like this).

These annoying people are developmentally challenged, I am convinced of it. Most normal people know when they are being annoying. Think about it. How many times have you stopped and held yourself back from saying or doing something for any reason? That very stopping mechanism is the thing that makes you normal. It is the very thing preventing you from being annoying. Rejoice! It is a great thing to have! It is the “stupid filter,” and I wish it was fitted on us all.


I just want you to know, because I’ve been holding it in for years…

My blog could have been titled:

Happiness is All Around Us, Except in Me…

I Want to be Happy For You, But I am Having Trouble Making it My First Priority

Please Don’t Be Like Me: A Study in How I Have Trouble Being Overly Critical

Or Finally,

I’m Insecure, So Excuse Me While I Look For Ways to Bring You Down to an Acceptable Level of Average…

I chose, No, I am Happy For You, I’m Serious….Just Not All the Way, because I think this sounds a bit kinder towards the object of the statement. I want to go down in the records as being a kind and welcoming man, but I also want to be painted with honesty, and so should you. I want to think that after reading this, you walk away thinking, “Hey, Heath is just like me, and maybe, we all need a little work,” or most likely, “Sweet, I am not the only one who has trouble with being a human.”

Congratulations, you’re normal. What I am talking about is the same emotion we feel when we see the trashy looking soul that won a zillion dollars in a lottery we played, but lost. It is the same lottery that you had already fantasized how you would spend the money should you had won, and more so, how you were going to impress all around with how respectable and responsible you were in your fiscal prowess. But now, because you lost, you spend the next fifteen minutes of your life wasting it on playing the winning guy’s miserable existence out in your mind. Immediately, you flash forward ten years in this guy’s life and hope that he is desperately addicted to meth or coke; that he took out a million dollars in ones and gave it to a stripper at the local club, only to show up on the news after being beaten by the stripper’s ex-boyfriend; her ex-boyfriend recently learned that the love of his life and baby’s mama, Cinnamon, was seen philandering with that guy who won the millions—he, in an attempt to save his pride that had been stripped away like Cinnamon’s last thong on stage at TD’s Gentlemen’s Club, took his frustrations out on the subject of our fantastical voyage into the future, and, oh by the way, he stole the last bit of his coke, and found the briefcase full of ones that the winner had intended to use to convince Cinnamon to escape with him to a better life; subsequently, her boyfriend leaves the miserable winner in the gutter, face down, mumbling garbled phrases of longing for simpler days when his worst worries consisted of how he was going to afford the next six pack of Natural Light from the 7-11 down the street and still be able to buy another carton of cigarettes…you know, the bare necessities.

You quickly insert into this unfortunately lucky guy’s life an ineptness that is so profound that he will not be able to function as a normal person, because he has never dealt with real responsibility…not the kind you have. Oh. My. God. You could have done so many more responsible things should you have taken home the millions.

That is what I am talking about. We humans spend a lot of time making sure that we are doing okay. To a large extent, this is relatively harmless, at least towards others. It is a thought process we utilize to maintain an operational level of self-esteem and self-concept. Why did that guy deserve millions? It must be because he is going to be a parable for something larger to the world. He is the proverbial example of “be careful what you wish for.” Now that you have denigrated the dude’s existence, you can go on and be successful. This is the average man’s way of not murdering people out of envy or jealousy…we do it mentally and then we move on. Admit it. None of you are happy for the guy. If you say right now that you are, then you are the worst type of person….dishonest—and there is a level of Hell that Dante built especially for you…

And to a much smaller scale, we do this every day in our normal lives. The good news is that the victims of our little murders are generally not people we know and care about.

Girls, it works this way…It is the girl you see at the mall, who is dressed to the 9s and looking good…but maybe, a little too good for a trip to the mall, maybe a bit too revealingly clad, and you can tell this girl is as superficial as can be and that her entire existence is to get attention from men. You should be happy she is confident and pretty, right? Not in my world. She is looking at the same type of clothes you are and moves on to an area you are not interested in, but you kind of meander that way just so you can find the flaws in this little, under-dressed tramp…You examine her from top to bottom, you notice that she holds her bag, a certain way, that her make-up is a bit too thick….oooooohhhh there it is, this girl is hiding her real face from the world. Satisfied that you have deconstructed this girl sufficiently and kept your self esteem levels at functioning levels, you walk by her and say, “Girl, I just love your hair, it frames your face so well….” And then the girl knows you looked at her face…she is effectively neutralized.

It is what we do. Please tell me it is what we do…I want, so bad, to be normal…Personally, my “mental murders” are probably a bit over the top, but that is who I am. I am a man who constantly enters into imaginary fist fights with people and I win all of them. Usually the imaginary fights are the beginning of my mental destruction of whoever deserves it at that moment. Imaginarily, I have fought and won hundreds of battles. They have taken place in gyms, bars, bar restrooms, libraries, walking into work, and on Interstate 95 just outside my truck during a traffic jam. I have beaten many a redneck just for looking weirdly at me when they pass me by at Wal-Mart—all in my imagination.

The best part about my imaginary beatings is that they are all imaginary. No one ever gets hurt except the imaginary victim, and let me tell you, none of the imaginary victims were even close to imaginarily beating me. In the end, these imaginary conquests are just as much a part of me as the personality that you all see and hear. I cannot help what goes on in my insecure little brain. The imaginary fight is an unbelievable stress reliever for me, and an absolutely great way to boost my self-actualization levels. Have there been innocent victims on my imaginary battlefield? Sure, but such is life in my imaginary landscape. I have no time to get caught up in the “guilt game.” And guess what, I am a well functioning member of society. Imagine people who don’t function well and their inner thought life. I bet it is a scary, scary place. I contend they, too, have imaginary fights, but unfortunately, they cannot separate the two existences. Also, let’s be honest. I am undefeated in my imaginary world. My real world fighting experiences don’t always pan out as successfully….

To be completely honest, this is the part of me I hate the most. It is the part of me that reminds me that I am insecure about being among other humans. Worse still, it is the part of me that gives power to others over my existence. I hear other people say great and nice things to others, and I cannot help but harbor some skepticism towards what is being said simultaneously in their inner monologue. So, you can see, I project my inadequacies on others, again in hopes that it makes me more normal.

The Good News:

I know I do it. I know that I am probably going to continue to do it. However, I want you to know that many of the people I am closest to now started out as a person I tried to marginalize through my mental processes. This means that the feelings I have are not really affecting my ability to relate to them once meaningful discourse occurs. So, I am Happy for You, Just Not All the Way.

I am a work in progress. I will keep moving towards perfection, and along the way, I will probably mentally murder thousands, but I will be fine. I will write about it and be open with you people.

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

Things I have written down in my phone notepad that haven’t really got enough legs to make it into a blog as of yet, but are still worth reading.

On Reading in the Military….Or more aptly: My Work Makes Me Read Things I’d Rather Not…..

I have been reading. I read a lot. I read mostly things I am forced to read and little that I’m not. I read a lot of books and such about tanks and bombs and guns; I read a little Shakespeare, but mostly, I read none. I often wonder how reading would be if I could choose the book, but I don’t chase the dream too long, because of where I work.

Things That Are Cooler in Idea than in Practice

This Blog.

Running marathons

Cross Fit

Eating an entire can of frosting

Remaking Karate Kid with Will Smith’s kid and making it based around a twelve year old kid. Subsequently, I went and saw the movie with another gung ho fan of Karate Kid the day it opened and looked like a child molester….Not to mention the awkward romance between two twelve year olds. Ali with an “I” was hot and every man wanted her….and here I am watching some Chinese child and whatever Will Smith’s son’s name is and trying to connect with the characters. When I was twelve, I was scared shitless of girls, and just wanted to play. Whatever.

More than two spoonfuls of fruit cocktail

I bet people who have showers with multiple heads that come at you from all angles and levels mostly use the normal shower setting.

My wife has a car with a camera that displays on the center console when you are going in reverse. It shows you everything, and to a certain extent, even looks around the corner. My truck does not have this feature. My truck has a normal stereo in the center console. I have now backed out of multiple areas while staring at my stereo console and never even looked to see who I was about to kill…..

A Notice of the Things I Want Upon My Death:

When I die I want a band that plays a song like Puff the Magic Dragon or Gloria Estefan’s “Christmas Through Your Eyes” in my honor, and then I hope that song is stuck in all of your heads, perpetually.

Since I will die old, I want all of my children and grandchildren brought into a room and told of a vast inheritance they are due. I want the lawyer to leave the room for fifteen minutes while my kids and grandkids grow giddy with excitement. I then want the lawyer to return and explain that the inheritance is all debt. I am not even sure people can inherit debt, but I would still like this done, because I am dead and I deserve my wishes be granted.

When I die, I hope all those who have angered me or betrayed me get stuck waiting while my vast train of a funeral procession drives by, and I hope those waiting, who deserve their fate, have to pee. (In some states, when a funeral procession goes by all traffic going in either direction must stop out of respect for the dead. I like this the most of all ceremonial traditions, because in this ceremony, the person who died finally gets to do to others what others have done to him or her his entire life—screw them over on his or her way somewhere. It is the one moment where the world stops for the person being transported to their final resting place has complete power—they are like the president for a day. Plus, they get those motorcycle cops, which remind me of CHIPS, and CHIPS was a great television show.)

I actually want Officer Frank “Ponch” Poncherello (Eric Estrada) as an escort for my funeral procession. This may seem impossible due to age differences, but that is not my problem; you people need to make this happen—have some respect. (I do not under any circumstances want his partner involved in any way, shape, or form.)

When I die, I hope that people throw a party, but not because I am gone. I hope the party is like I was still there and we all just partied on.

I want a casket with explicit instructions on 1) who I am, 2) who are my relatives, 3) relevant addresses 4) a list of my enemies. I will use this information to help me determine whose entrails I will eat first, after I turn to a zombie. I will eat my enemy’s entrails first and all others who are not on my “relatives list” second. Of note: I will sell spots on the “relatives list” to people who are not actually my relatives. The money will go to the band that will play at my death party. (No guarantee I will not kill you; there is little research into how much of the brain a zombie utilizes; therefore, I cannot, with any level of certainty, commit to not eating your entrails).

I want a breakaway lid to the casket and I want a shovel with me to help me get to the surface faster after I turn zombie, as well. The shovel should have a short handle, no more than 12 inches as I will not be able to utilize a shovel of regulation size. Picture, in your head, the difficulties involved in negotiating the shovel handle when with only a foot and a half of depth, plus the pressure of six feet of dirt pushing downwards on me and all you have left me is a regulation shovel? I need to preserve my zombie energy.

Additionally, I want a fresh pair of corduroys and Doc Martins in the casket because I want to be a zombie with grunge era fashion sense.

It is important that you all pay attention to my desires, because If I come back as a ghost, I will haunt the living hell out of anyone who denies me what I want.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been writing these little things on my iPhone for weeks, but didn’t know what to do….

  1. I swear to God I will bring up to people I see in the future that have un-friended me on Facebook the fact that they un-friended me on Facebook.  Facebook lets passive aggressive people feel powerful because they never have to talk to someone face to face.  I am going to force people to confront their actions head on and own them.  I am going to do it right off too, and then I promise I will let it go.  I am going to say to them, “Hey, brother, it’s good to see ya, why did you un-friend me?”  To make it more awkward, I won’t tell them I don’t really care that they did it.
  2. I want to pick a random friend I have on Facebook and copy word for word every post they put on their wall.  I want to do this until it makes them awkward and then I want them to un-friend me.  Then, I will confront them about it if and when we run into each other in the real world. 
  3. I swear to God, I will never run a marathon.  I don’t care if running a marathon becomes as popular as Bieber, I will never run one.  Of note, I will run a marathon if the zombie apocalypse happens and it is required of me to survive.  However, I will only run it just faster than one person more than the amount of zombies that are chasing us.  To clarify:  if six zombies are chasing me and a group of nine others, I only need to run finish the marathon in fourth place.  If a group of twenty zombies are chasing a group of ten survivors, I will injure some of my fellow survivors in hopes that more than one zombie will crowd around the fallen survivor and this will allow me a window to escape. 
  4. I swear to God, I will choose the persons that I injure based off of a well defined thought process of how much each survivor offers to the group.  Or, if you didn’t laugh at my jokes, you will be injured. 
  5. I swear to God that I want to get in a fight at a diner to defend my wife’s honor.  I want to be sitting in a circular chair that is attached to the floor that spins.  As the individual attempts to subjugate my wife’s honor, I will spin around and quote a bible verse, but I want the bible verse to be relevant only in a manner that takes a second to comprehend.  Like, I spin around and say, “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.”  This relates.  It is a biblical way of saying, “I am going to tax your ass.”  Or it’s a biblical way of saying, “dude, you should pay your taxes, because you should avoid breaking the law.”  Either way, there is a second where the subjugator of my wife’s honor is going to struggle to find relevance in my ramblings–enter my fists of rage.
  6. I swear to God that interpretive dancing makes little to no sense to me.  If you are doing your own interpretive dance routine and mess up, do you really mess up?  It all looks like you are just doing the next thing that pops into your head anyway.  If the next thing that you think of is to fall down clumsily, then you just did it.  Its dancing. 
  7. I swear to God, I want to join a hip-hop dance troop and design a routine for said troop.  I want to get involved in a horrible romantic relationship with the lead dancer that causes the rest of the group to suffer.  Right before the big day where we reveal our dance, that I created the lead dancer and I have a falling out that jeopardizes the entire show.  Everything is in chaos, will the show happen?  Will my hot female dance lead and I be able to get our stuff together in time and have a dance performance that gets us into dance college?  I don’t know.  Dance is a tough, tough world for lovers. 
  8. I swear to God that I will be better about judging other people before I talk to them.  I have this horrible habit of assuming that all people are not worth my while, initially.  To clarify:  I will not do better about my judgment of the teenagers, because the teenagers are bat-shit crazy.  The worst part about teenagers is that they keep growing more of themselves.
  9. I swear to God that when I get famous, I will take the 50 dedicated readers of this blog with me like MC Hammer did in the early nineties.  I will take care of all of you.  I will buy you houses and let you hang out all the time by my dollar sign shaped pool.  It will be like a mix between Adam Sandler movies and Hannah Montana.  I was thinking about it the other day when driving to work.  When I drive to work, I like to think about things that will never happen.  It starts when I am singing the song that is playing on the radio, and singing it ten times better than the person being paid to sing it (in my head).ed  I have full on fantasies about it like in Saved by the Bell when Zach Morris and his crazy gang of friends form that band, Zach Attack.   I go through the entire rise to fame and subsequent life of drug induced turmoil, and then finally realize that I was happy all along.  However,
  10. I swear to God that when I get rich and famous, I will not regret being rich and famous.  Money absolutely can buy my happiness.  I am a petty, petty man.
  11. I swear to God that I will put more thought into this blog in the future. 

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

Last night I spent two and a half hours at the local Target.  I was assigned a very specific job from my long haired General, Whitney:  When given the command, I was to pick up objects find the barcode, hold it in a stationary position, and then Whitney would get to use the cool scanner gun and magically make it appear in our Baby Registry. 

Initially, I jumped into this awesomeness with intensity and a genuine longing to be a partner to my wife who is carrying my baby…..  I was making crane sounds when I would pick up heavy objects, speak in a robot voice, “Your object is ready for scanning, scanning initiated, scanning complete, please choose another object for scanning.”  I picked up heavy objects just to turn my wife on.  I was like “Whitney does this stroller make me look sexy?”  She would always reply in the affirmative.  I pretended that I was changing a baby once in a beautifully executed pantomimed performance, which other shoppers appreciated.  I held baby hairbrushes in my hand and pretended I was a giant super villain here to destroy puny humans.  I held up baby boy shirts and asked Whitney if the shirt made me look fat or if my biceps looked huge.  I asked Whitney if Nipple Protectors would help keep me from chaffing in the gym during hard workouts and contemplated buying them and conducting research of my own.  I pretended I was lactating and needed to pump my breasts….okay, I didn’t do this.  It was so awesome…for five minutes. 

Whitney was a machine of efficiency, and then there was me.  After ten minutes, I had flashbacks to me as a 10 year old being dragged through the store by my mother, who tried on everything, and took her sweet time as my punishment for making fun of the kid who pulled his pants all the way down to his ankles when he used the urinal to pee at school.   (Now after being separated from this instance by many years, I would still make fun of a kid who pulled his pants all the way down to pee when using a urinal).  Anyway, I was a nagging little bitch about the entire process.  I think it started snowballing when I realized that my baby’s room and wardrobe is going to be a gigantic mixture of shades of pink.  Everything is pink.  Things that I didn’t even know existed, we put on the registry, and they were in some way, shape, or form—pink.  The only thing I couldn’t find, which I wanted more than anything, was a pair of baby diaper covers or shorts that said S E X Y across the ass.  I want to get my daughter set up for her teenage years as early as possible.  I am hoping for a professional dancer by 18.  I think if I can get her on stage early, she won’t have the nervous issues I had before I joined my amateur All Male Review dance squad. 

Whitney was trucking through articles of clothing and scanning with military precision.  I was so jealous that she got to use the scanner the entire time.  After awhile, I felt like she was having all of the fun and that I was really only there to look pretty.  She asked me things in an effort to include me in the process like, “should I get the double breast pump?”  I thought the machine was intriguing and its packaging had a picture of a near naked lady attached to the machine, so I said, “Yes, that is the one you need, the single pump won’t be sufficient.”  I will probably never throw the package away.

She asked me if I preferred a pink butterfly mobile over a red ladybug mobile.  I told her to go with the ladybug, so she grabbed the butterfly.  I told her my legs were tired and she reminded me that her legs were just below the unborn daughter she was carrying and that I should shut my mouth when I talk to her.  I was impressed by the look of dedication to mission accomplishment on my wife’s face.  She is a monster.  She cannot be stopped. 

We made up this cool game called, “Heath, Pick Out a Cool Pack and Play.”  The game is fun.  It sounds as if I get to pick out my favorite Pack and Play.  The rules are a bit different than I thought they would be.  After hearing them and playing for a second, I thought the game could be more aptly named, “Guess Which Pack and Play Whitney Wants on Her Baby Registry.”  

It was a good time.  After we were done, I thanked Whitney for the help getting the registry completed and that I was very grateful for her contribution.  Again, there is no one else I would rather walk through a store with even if we are shopping for all things pink. 

This is only the beginning.  I just wanted you know, because I have been holding it since nine o’clock last night.      

My life has turned into something that dreams are made of…at least the stuff my dreams are made of. I have this pregnant lady wandering around my house, showing me different odd things going on with her body, and making weird and irrational statements.

She has started this new thing that is most amusing. It begins with her sitting on the couch and reading herself to sleep. I, being an unbelievable man, let her nap and get her much needed rest. For weeks and weeks to this point when I ask her if she wants to go eat or do anything really active, she has responded with one of two things:

1. “I have been doing the equivalent of mountain climbing, what have you done today?” Or

2. “I made a placenta today, what have you been up to?”

However, now she is raring and ready to take on the world. New found energy, a well and sturdily built placenta, and Whitney is in beast mode.

So, what she does is something I refer to as Tornadoing. Tornadoing is where, for some reason or another, I have to wake her from sleep. When I wake her up, I am now forced to take two dramatic steps back and then duck and cover. She springs up, yells at the dogs, tells them they are all jerks, gives me the stink eye and then barges into the bedroom. All of us stay in the living room until the “all-clear” siren rings and then we go on about our business. I never bring up the Tornadoing because I have been told it is not good to remind her of the incident…

Added to this, my wife has developed a new and wittier sense of humor. I am not sure some of it is supposed to be funny, but this girl is good. Here are a couple of real life instances that went down just the other day.

Situation 1

Yesterday I woke up and as is routine, was out in the kitchen making my meals for the day and preparing to go to work. My wife comes out of the room and without as much as a “good morning most handsomest man in the world (her and my mother voted me into this category),” she states very matter of factly, “I am sure my baby bump grew and so did my left nipple.” She then proceeds to pull her left nipple out and show me all of the new and exciting developments in nipple land. I loved it. My life now resembles the Bunny Ranch, but instead of many women, there is just one hot, naked, pregnant lady. Luckily, she has developed multiple personalities, so it has the same feel as a brothel.

Situation B:

I arrived home from work yesterday nursing a sore shoulder from the gym. I was massaging it and brought up its tender state to my wife who was on the couch, no doubt, preparing to Tornado. Here is how the conversation went:

Heath: My shoulder is a little sore.

Whitney: Well, guess who has heartburn? That’s right, me, and I haven’t even eaten in the near future…

I told her the near future hasn’t happened yet, and her reply was, and I quote, “exactly.”

My head actually exploded.

Situation Tres:

Whitney found some cool 80’s glasses in her car. You remember the ones that have the blinds on them, so you look through slits into the outside world. While I was driving, she slipped them on and became very proud of her new style. Conversation goes:

Heath: Oh, look at you, you are so fun there with your glasses.

Whitneyin a cold and demeaning tone: No, I am the “fun one.” Which infers only one of us is any fun.

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

My wife is a genius and as such is afflicted with all kinds of genius problems.  Ordinary people like me don’t have the same burdens.  Sometimes when I have trouble relating to her, she explains it like this.  “Heath, don’t feel bad, I operate at a higher intellectual level and these things are going to happen….”  She has such a sweet way of always making me feel a little better.  The funniest way I have heard her put this was in response to her mother when asked to explain her personality being so well developed for a genius.  My wife to her mother: “Mom, I had a decision to make:  I was a genius, yes, but I also wanted to be like you, pretty and popular.”  I am certain her mother felt much better after being relegated to a hot body with lots of friends….

One of the afflictions she deals with is a serious case of Night Terrors, and at times in the past, the terrors have been pretty frequent and involved.  Other times the sleep issues are kind of funny and very fleeting.  These are the ones that I will center on.  Following these nightmares, my wife usually has zero recollection of the previous night’s mêlée, and these are usually the funniest for her when retold because they are the scariest for me.

To give you some context to the story:  As the man of the house, I take certain responsibilities solely as being mine.  These include, but are not limited to the following:  Dog Crap Removal; Trash Taker Outer; Lifter of Heavy Objects; Yelling at Dogs; Washer of Cars; Cleaner of Dog Vomit; Killer of Mice, which I have only undertaken on one occasion, also for which my wife takes credit (she will take offense to me insinuating I did it even though I hit the mouse with a broom stick severing its leg—her role was to put the mouse into a Tupperware container we probably stole (see The Italian Job) and throw it in the trash, which I took out (see previous responsibilities).  She did get the mouse out from underneath the washing machine, but how hard is that?); All Driving While Hauling Anything; and finally, Head of Security.

Head of Security is the role I hold most dear because it makes me feel like a powerful player in the Phillips Family.  I have designed routes for egression and very complex plans meant to render a night intruder of any sort ineffective.  I have a drawer by my nightstand full of tools to help me take care of an attacker.  Its contents include:  a baseball, two practice fighting knives, a remote control, some of the underwear I no longer wear because I chafe when I wear them, and finally a gun with associated rounds.  If an intruder enters my house, he will face the entire contents of this drawer.

I have walked Whit through all possible attacks centered on the most likely avenues of approach and we have come up with emergency action procedures.  She has been briefed and has approved all courses of action.  Unfortunately, I had not planned for the worst case scenario…..the attacker comes from within, in the form of your wife.

I am almost sure my wife doesn’t want to kill me, however there was an incident earlier in the week where she attempted to kill me with croissants.  The problem rests in the fact that Sleeping Whitney is a different game altogether.  Awake Whitney recognizes who I am and seems to find me appealing enough to keep around.  Sleeping Whitney wants nothing to do with me.  Sleeping Whitney is scary.

One such example occurred shortly after Whitney and I started living together.  I knew she was a nightwalker and that she rambled on in her sleep all sorts of non-sensical phrases, but rarely did it go beyond innocent fun.  Whitney and I had just purchased our first handgun and were excited to have it as a measure in our home defense repertoire.  We both go to sleep that night and for the first four hours everything was normal.  Around 2 am, I am rustled from sleep by thrashing and moving about coming from the closet area.  Whitney is throwing things around and in a full on motivated search.  I say, “Whitney, what are you doing?”  Her response still echoes in my mind.  In a stone cold and emotionless voice she says, “I am looking for my gun.”  I naturally reply, “For what?”  She then says, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”  I then realize that Sleeping Whitney was trying to find a gun to kill an intruder who was in the house and apparently fell asleep in bed with her…..In the morning we discussed her attempted murder; she giggled and feigned no recollection of the incident.  I knew then that when I went to sleep I was sleeping with the enemy….There is a running joke that Whitney will be the subject of a Lifetime Movie called, She Kills When She Sleeps…

Sometimes Sleeping Whitney only attempts to give me a heart attack.  I once woke up to her pounding on my sternum area, screaming bloody murder that somebody was standing in the corner getting ready to attack us.  This causes an array of emotions from a man but mostly, when a man is attacked, he generally turns into a space cadet and just goes berserker trying not to fall victim to another man.  So, in this case, I rise from my sleep throw my hands in the air and go berserker trying to avoid falling victim to another man.  By the time I have come to realize that the attacker was the elliptical machine and not actually an attacker, Sleeping Whitney is back asleep all peaceful like.  In the morning we discussed her attempted murder; she giggled and feigned no recollection of the incident.

The above happens somewhat often.  Sometimes the attackers are snakes all over the floor.  Sometimes the attacker is an image floating above her in the night.  Sometimes she is confused.  Once Sleeping Whitney rose up in the bed and successfully completed a perfect karate kick and subsequently started screaming at an invisible attacker.  I rose up and grabbed the gun and pointed it towards the door while jumping out of the bed to find a better defensive stance.  When I hit the floor, I confused Sleeping Whitney.  My sudden movment had made me morph into the intruder.  I am now trying to calm Sleeping Whitney who is running back and forth across the room doing some kind of linebacker drill combined with banshee screams, which are loud enough to pierce my eardrums.  I yelled as loud as I could, “WHITNEY, GO TO BED!”  Her response:  “Gaaaawddd, you don’t have to scream at me…..”  In the morning, when we discussed the incident, she was mad at me for yelling at her for no reason……

Which brings me to last night.  Last night started very similar to the karate / linebacker / banshee incident from yesteryear.  Because I am a thinking and adapting man, this time I grabbed her before she rose up and said in the most soothing voice possible, “Whitney, it’s me, and I love you.  You are safe.”  Sleeping Whitney looked me square in the eye and said, “Why should I trust you, I barely even know you?”  Then I realized that Sleeping Whitney must have been having a one night stand in her dream……I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for hours…..