Confessions of a Military Wife Read online

I thought we were at a hotel. When Jon opened the door, I was horrified to see a room with cement block walls, a crusty old recliner, and a lumpy bed that smelled of mildew.

  When I looked in the bathroom, I found a leaky shower. There was mold and water everywhere.

  A panic attack gripped me, but my husband didn’t react. It didn’t matter to him where we stayed. He had been sleeping outside for the past four months!

  But reality had hit me. “Is this how we will be living?” I screamed.

  He looked at me in complete fear; he had no words with which to reply. Once again he was sure I regretted my decision to marry him.

  I collapsed on the bed and started bawling. I had left my friends, my family, my acting and stand up comedy career as well as my pets and sweet tea—just to live with this man who was now a mute.

  Worst of all, he had brought me across the country to live in this hell hole cement room for the rest of my life!

  I cried myself to sleep. Jon was too scared to touch me or say a word.

  Needless to say, we did not christen the BOQ either.

  The next day Jon approached a friend on base and asked if we could stay with them until we found housing.

  I was about to experience my first dose of military hospitality. John and Jenn opened their doors to us and even welcomed our cats! They cooked us dinner and made us feel incredibly comfortable in their home.

  Best of all, they told us we could stay as long as we needed. I was blown away by their kindness.

  Once I saw how charming base housing could be I calmed down. Jon was no longer afraid of me.

  My husband’s friend also gave us pointers on dealing with the base housing people.

  Basically, we were told we had to play “nice nice.” You may go in and they’ll tell you there is a three-month wait. While this may be true on some bases, it was not so on Camp Pendleton at that time.

  Following our friend’s advice, we went down to the housing office and kissed butt.

  We were given keys to check out two houses on Camp Del Mar in Oceanside—right by the beach.

  Jon and I had been earnestly praying to the Lord that we would get base housing and, if God could be so kind, please let it be a house near the beach. Our prayers had been answered.

  The first key was to a cute and cozy townhouse. But the second key was for a home that technically was above our rank. It was a one level with two yards, a driveway, and a garage! God had showed His favor on us!

  The gentleman with the reputation of being difficult had allowed us to check out a home that was above our rank. Without hesitation, we decided on that one.

  Still, I wondered why this man had been so kind to us. Later on, it dawned on me what happened that changed his attitude.

  I have suffered from Irritable Bowel Syndrome my whole life. This condition keeps me from digesting pretty much everything. My belly often fills with gas and swells. Seriously, I look like I’m about six months pregnant.

  As a result, I avoid wearing tight fitting clothes. I often get lots of gas and sometimes have “emergencies” when eating out.

  Let’s put it this way. My husband doesn’t get upset when I come home without my panties on. He knows I’m not cheating on him. I’ve simply had another accident.

  Sometimes when there’s a line at a public bathroom, the women will let me cut in front. After this happened several different times, it occurred to me that these women thought I was pregnant!

  Flash back to the base housing office. Before we went in, we had had lunch at a Mexican restaurant. This type of food doesn’t suit my condition.

  While we were sitting in the base housing office I became very uncomfortable and bloated. I began rubbing my stomach and shifting around in my seat. I even had to excuse myself at least twice to use the bathroom.

  Jon and I are so used to my stomach problems that we didn’t think about the impression I was making.

  Once we were in the house with the extra bedrooms, we figured out that the man at the housing office was under the impression I was pregnant.

  We had a good laugh, but we also accepted the blessing of our first home.

  Chapter Three

  SETTLING IN: MY FIRST WEEKS

  I quickly realized base housing is not like living in a typical subdivision. Men run in formation every morning down the street. This is nice to watch, especially if they are wearing their green silkies (green shorts similar to the ones worn by exercise guru Richard Simmons).

  At any given time there may be a Marine in full camouflage and face paint hiding under a tree during a stake-out exercise. The first time I saw this it scared me so bad I almost peed in my pants!

  In addition to cars driving slowly down the street, there are helicopters constantly overhead and tanks or light armored vehicles rolling down the street.

  There’s also a lot of saluting. I wondered if I was supposed to salute back. But, what is a proper “dependent’s salute?” Boy Scouts have a two-finger salute. I figured I wasn’t as skilled as they were, so I gave one finger salutes. I used the pointer finger on my right hand for my salute whenever I drove onto base.

  I found this one finger salute convenient. You could switch fingers depending on who you were “saluting” or how you felt about them.

  I didn’t have much time to bask in being a military wife newlywed. Within days of arriving at Camp Pendleton, we had been assigned a house in Del Mar, but had a limited amount of time to unload the boxes and return the U-haul before we had to get on a plane for a visit with Jon’s family.

  Jon and I learned the hard way that I can’t lift heavy objects.

  While we were unpacking, I lifted this long Tupperware box and started to carry it to the edge of the truck. When I started to walk, the weight and length of the box pulled me forward. I couldn’t stop myself and was trying to regain my balance when I ran toward the open tailgate.

  Jon appeared in the front door of our new home just in time to watch me fly through the air. I looked like a child at a water park with my long mat in my hands diving into the waves.

  I flew ten feet through the air riding my Tupperware boogie board. I felt nothing when I landed because the box broke my fall.

  Jon stood in the door watching in horror.

  I stood up and started yelling, “Did you see that? That was awesome!”

  Jon was all serious, telling me that if that box had not been there to break my fall, I would have crushed my face on the driveway.

  I angrily responded that if I hadn’t had the box, I wouldn’t have fallen.

  Jon wasn’t yet used to my clumsiness and tendency for disasters. To this day he insists I wear a helmet when I’m going up and down the stairs. He has since realized that it’s much safer if I don’t help with any strenuous tasks. I just make them more difficult.

  Anyway, after the “tripping incident,” I was no longer allowed to carry any boxes, which really slowed down the unpacking process.

  I was worried because we had a plane to catch! We were going to Jon’s hometown for a wedding reception in our honor. Most of Jon’s family had not met me and his parents were eager to introduce us. It was a thoughtful gesture, but the timing only added to our stress.

  Four days later, we returned to Camp Pendleton and Jon put on his Alphas (I just love that little hat that looks like a hotdog!) and reported for duty.

  I look back at that move—unpacking and settling into a new home followed by the hometown visit—and realize we had not planned well.

  First, we had not realized it would take so long to get across country or to get base housing. We learned the hard way that PCS leave is time to get settled—not take vacations or visit family.

  We had let family pressure be our top priority when our new life should have been.

  Thank God, Jon’s Company Commander took pity on him and allowed him a few more days to get settled. We unpacked all my disgusting college furniture and random wedding gifts in an attempt to make the house livable.

  S
omewhere in the midst of settling in, a debilitating panic seized me. I was facing culture shock—both of California and military life—adjusting to Jon’s family while missing my own, and then facing long days alone with no one to talk to.

  Bizarre, unrealistic fears about military life and the base took hold of me.

  My husband had no idea what was going on. He was in full Marine mode, heading back to work.

  It didn’t help that I was afraid to speak up. I thought he should be able to read my thoughts and know I was upset. It took me a while to realize men do not communicate like women do.

  I look back at those first few months on base and realize many of my thoughts were completely irrational. If only I had had someone to explain things to me, maybe then I would not have blown everything out of proportion.

  FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE

  The military lifestyle has its own language. Everything is called something different from what I knew. Not only that, everything is described in acronyms.

  I don’t even know where they came up with some of these terms.

  Why would you call the potty a “head?” What about “ink stick” to “moonbeam” and “go fasters.”

  And for all this, “Don’t ask, don’t tell” business, whose bright idea was it to describe a bunch of men hiking in the woods as a “HUMP.”

  I couldn’t understand what my husband was talking about—SOP, BAH, or PCS? Why didn’t he just tell me what they meant. When he didn’t, I decided to make up my own meanings.

  Here are my translations:

  BAH: Broke Ass House payment/Husband

  SOP: Same Old Problem

  PCS: Pretty Crappy Situation

  MRE: Most Rejected Entree

  TAD: Tight Assed Decision

  I think this style of talk is OOC: Out of Control!

  I remember thinking those first few months on base: “What are you talking about? Could someone please tell me what time 1300 is?”

  SHAKE, RATTLE, AND ROLL

  All the noises and weapons on base started making me jumpy. Everyone was armed with a weapon. The LAVs and the “FROGS” (CH-46 helicopter) were really loud. There was always a random assault vehicle on the road.

  I couldn’t get used to it. I had been hearing about California earthquakes, and now had to put up with bomb tests and on-base explosions.

  We were in bed one night when I heard the loudest boom and the house started to shake.

  I jumped up screaming: “EARTHQUAKE! Grab the valuables and get into the basement. Get the cats, and put them in the tub!”

  My husband grabbed me and tried to calm me down.

  “Mollie, that’s not a bomb. There’s no earthquake. That’s our neighbors. You see, he’s leaving on deployment tomorrow and his wife is just saying goodbye.”

  How embarrassing! Thank you, base housing, for giving us neighbors who share a driveway AND a bedroom wall.

  THE COMMISSARY: AN INTRODUCTION

  I refused to drive anywhere on base. The strange vehicles, the Marines in formations, and the many rules on base frightened me. As a result, Jon was forced to drive me everywhere.

  I had been in a PX, but not the commissary. I was afraid to go inside. My grandmother had scared me with her tales of militant clerks.

  In fact, the entire base atmosphere had me in a fit of anxiety. I was afraid I would forget my ID and get tackled and cuffed by some hourly government worker.

  My husband had to beg me to get out of the car. Once inside, I wouldn’t push the shopping cart.

  What woman doesn’t want to push the cart? Pushing the cart is something women instinctively do. Just watch two women shopping together. They are constantly fighting over who gets to push. Even if it’s a mother and her six-year-old daughter shopping for two items, they will fight over the handlebars. The woman wants control of the cart.

  I worried about what the food would be like in the commissary. Was it “military issue?” Was everything in boxes? Was it government labeled? Was it given military names like “Don’t ask? Don’t tell Fruit Loops"?

  I didn’t know what to expect. I was in full panic mode.

  Then I had to start making decisions about what to buy.

  I had never shopped for us. While we were dating, we had either gone out to eat or my mom had cooked for us.

  The pressure to buy the right food became too much for me. Jon kept watching me like he expected me to know what I was doing.

  At that time I only knew how to cook two things: chicken enchiladas and tuna fish casserole.

  But I couldn’t even remember what ingredients I needed. I gave up. We bought a box of rice, beef bouillon, and ketchup.

  By this time I was becoming claustrophobic and wanted out of there.

  I found myself surrounded by really old veterans wearing hats that said, “Retired Marine—SEMPER FI.” These hats didn’t appear to fit on their heads, but instead seemed to hover over them.

  At one point, I mistakenly tried to take the last box of crackers that a veteran also wanted. He started yelling, “I ran away from home at seventeen, lied about my age, and joined the Corps! I fought in World War II, Korea, and NAM! I have no cartilage in my right knee! It’s bone-on-bone, but every morning I run six miles! I did not sacrifice my knee for this country to come here today and have you disrespect me at the commissary. Oooh-RAH!”

  I dropped the crackers and walked away.

  More bizarreness followed.

  Why did everyone have two carts? There were so many children—all under three years old and all screaming. Was there a special? Buy two three-year-olds and get a toddler free.

  Then there were all those uniforms. I was going cross-eyed. Why weren’t any of these Marines and Navy service people working?

  Really. I was losing it. By the time the checker asked for my ID, I was shaking.

  I was sure she was going to want a full body search to make sure I was legit.

  I looked around for Jon and spotted him standing at the magazine rack reading Marine Corps Times.

  I handed the clerk my ID, but she barely looked at it before she started scanning my items.

  THAT WAS IT? I was still suspicious.

  My Grandma’s stories were still playing over in my head. Somehow I had made it through my first trip to the commissary.

  MY DAYS

  Life for the first few weeks went like this. I stayed home all day unpacking, and my husband brought supplies home each night.

  He would then help me move around the big stuff. The house was finally coming together.

  During the day I would watch “Lifetime” movies or “Unsolved Mysteries” as I unpacked and cried.

  I told Jon I had no one to talk to all day. He was at work and so were all my friends on the East Coast. By the time I called anyone on the East Coast they were already in bed. I was feeling isolated and alone.

  My husband was afraid that I thought I had made a mistake.

  He encouraged me to explore the base. I refused. I was sure I’d be shot by one of the Marines, get lost, or get run over by a tank.

  Jon was patient at first, but became stern when he realized he would be in the field the following week.

  He told me I would have to go out by myself because he would not be around to help me.

  I became paralyzed by fear. At one point I was so panic-stricken that I wouldn’t even let Jon take an evening jog. I was sure he would fall into a ditch and no one would discover his body. Then I’d be stuck in the house for the rest of my life.

  My anxiety was at an all time high.

  My first trip past the driveway became a nightmare. I was headed for the commissary again, but all the roads began to look the same.

  I panicked and went down the wrong street finding myself on a dirt road, screaming as Hummers and LAVs surrounded my vehicle.

  I fully expected to be blown up because I was trespassing. This was it! Any minute now, I was a goner.

  Instead, the Marines took pity on me and got me turned aroun
d and off in the right direction.

  Maybe no one was going to kill me after all. Slowly my anxiety started to subside.

  After three weeks on base, I was finally able to drive myself out of the driveway.

  GRUNT WORK

  Was it just me or were all of you wives really confused when your husband called from work and said he would be home late because he and the guys were going on a five-mile HUMP?

  I now knew I had married a Grunt and that he was staying true to the promises he had made. He couldn’t get on my nerves because he was always gone.

  When he came home from the field he was totally disgusting and had to be hosed off. I would make him undress in the laundry room, leaving his boots and utilities (camouflage uniform) on the floor.

  After a shower he would fall asleep—only to wake up at 4:45 a.m. to go out and do it again the next day. There would be times he’d be gone for an entire week.

  I didn’t kids, but was constantly doing laundry.

  “Do bankers’ wives have to hose their husbands off when they get home from work?” I wondered. “Do other wives have to guess when or if their husbands are coming home?”

  I learned I couldn’t plan to have a warm dinner ready for Jon because I never knew when he would walk through the door. I started adding two hours to when I thought he’d be home. I just figured since he was used to eating all those MREs that my reheated dinners would be just fine.

  TAP OUT!

  Bombs and explosions aren’t the only strange noises you’ll hear on a base. Revelry woke me up every morning. Retreat was played when they lowered the flag at sundown. Taps was played at night.

  The bugle music is blasted on loud speakers throughout the base letting everyone know the American flag is being lowered or raised.

  If you are outside during these times, you are required to stop what you are doing and face the flag in respect.

  I learned the hard way not to be driving while they are lowering or raising the flag, because you’re not allowed to drive.

  My husband and I were coming home around five one evening. Jon had treated me to ice cream at the Cold Stone Creamery—a delicious treat on a hot day.

  However, it’s not as special when you’re lactose intolerant. If I look at dairy products, I crap my pants unless I take medicine. On this occasion, I had forgotten to bring my pills.