Confessions of a Military Wife Page 5

  We were only five minutes from base, so I didn’t think that my IBS would be an issue. I thought we could get home before the emergency struck. Then the chills started, followed by a hot flash and the anus spasms.

  I urgently needed to get to the bathroom!

  I was still a newlywed and certainly wasn’t to the point where I felt comfortable yelling, “I’m going to shit my pants any second!”

  But the sweating had started, which was followed by the tears. “I’m not feeling well, and need to get home,” I told him.

  “Ok, but I have to obey the speed limit because of all the kids in the neighborhood,” he replied.

  I was pleading with him to hurry up when he came to a complete stop.

  I screamed at him, “Why are we stopping?”

  He rolled down the window. “Retreat.”

  I could see the flag lowering in the distance, the beautiful orange sun setting behind it.

  In the opposite direction I could see the roof line of our home—so close, yet so far away.

  As Retreat played, I surrendered. I pooped my pants. I took one for the flag.

  Now that’s patriotism.

  YES, SIR!!!

  Rank was something else that really blew my mind. There are two categories of Marines: officers and enlisted.

  Officers go to college first and then get their training.

  Enlisted men usually do the exact opposite.

  But there are also Warrant Officers, Staff NCOs, and Gunnies. The base where we lived also had Navy personnel.

  Not only that, housing and clubs are divided by rank.

  My husband told me certain people received salutes and were addressed as “Sir,” while others were not entitled to that courtesy.

  In the South, everyone is addressed as “Sir” or “Ma’am” even if they are your age or younger.

  I found myself wondering why a 37-year-old man was calling my husband “sir"?

  I also wondered why the guards would salute me when I drove onto base. Jon explained they were saluting the sticker on my car. Saluting a sticker? Now I was thoroughly confused.

  Thank God the wife of my husband’s CO, Trina, called me once a week to invite me to a LINKS class.

  I’m glad I finally let her talk me into attending.

  That LINKS (Lifestyle Insights Networking Knowledge Skills) class helped me understand the military lifestyle. I seriously think it should be a prerequisite for anyone marrying into the military.

  These ladies taught me the differences in rank and the reasons for separating the ranks.

  They explained what the various acronyms meant and why as well as the history of some of the silly words.

  They even helped me figure out what time it was.

  MEETING NEW FRIENDS

  I was finally getting the hang of base housing–military lifestyle. But, I still hadn’t made any friends yet.

  I had met a few random women at the “Hail and Farewell” gatherings that my husband had to attend, but that was about it.

  And I was suspicious of these women because they would come up to me and ask strange things like, “Who is your husband with?”

  I was ready to fight! What were they insinuating? My husband was with me!

  I kept clear of most of the women at these formal functions.

  At one function I was approached by an older wife who handed me a book and said “Here, read this.”

  It was “Roses and Thorns,” a guide to proper behavior for military wives. I flipped it open and looked at the copyright page: 1940.

  “This will teach you to be a proper dependent,” she continued.

  I stared at her open-mouthed and wondered, “Are you nuts?”

  Proper dependent!? With my husband gone all the time and me having to do everything by myself, I am anything but “dependent!” I am my husband’s “Independent!” I knew right then that it was urgent that I make real friends.

  MY MARINE MOM

  I had been living on base for about a month when I saw my first familiar face outside the commissary. It belonged to Mary, the Colonel’s wife I had met on a trip to Charleston a few months earlier.

  Mary had a permanent smile on her face the entire four years we lived at Camp Pendleton. She was petite, had the cutest little dark brown bobbed haircut, and was covered with gold jewelry. She was a classy lady and always made me feel welcome.

  Mary also liked everything to be perfect—even if it was not. She believed that if something was not OK, you should just pretend it was. Eventually you would get over it.

  Over the next four years, she would become my military mom.

  That day as we chatted she asked me how I was getting along. We realized this would not be a quick conversation, so she asked me to come over later.

  She had not yet been assigned her base housing, so she invited me to meet her at the BOQ where they were staying.

  Much to my horror, I discovered she was staying in the exact room that Jon and I had when I had my breakdown!

  Unlike me, this woman, who had made a lifelong career as a military wife, settled into her temporary digs with no complaints, embracing her environment and adapting to all changes.

  As a matter of fact, she flourished! She acted as if we were not surrounded by cement walls that smelled of stale mildew.

  Watching her, I became ashamed of the way I had acted within these four walls just a month earlier. I knew then that I would learn quite a bit from this seasoned wife. Perhaps the biggest lesson was simply to make the best of every situation.

  Mary asked if I had met any friends, joined any of the various clubs, or signed up with any volunteer organizations. I had to admit I had not.

  She assured me that in time I would make lifelong friends. In fact, she said, “all it will take is one Bunco party.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. According to Mary, Marine wives went crazy over the game. I figured if this lady had survived twenty years as a military spouse, then I could make it to the next Bunco game.

  AUTUMN

  As luck would have it, I met Autumn a couple weeks later.

  Autumn is also Virginia-born and bred. We soon discovered we could talk and hang out for hours and never get on each other’s nerves. We joked that it was because we were both Aries.

  Autumn is petite like me, with shoulder-length, highlighted auburn hair and braces.

  Her husband is a First Lieutenant with a “Horseshoe haircut” who had been deployed practically from their wedding day.

  She speculated she had spent a grand total of three months with him during their first year of marriage. That thought freaked me out, but her attitude reassured and inspired me.

  Her home was beautifully decorated and she began to give me suggestions on what to cook. Autumn was like a gorgeous 24-year-old Betty Crocker.

  She also encouraged me to become a volunteer or to find a hobby. In fact, she was working on her Masters’ Degree so she could become a teacher.

  She had also just started running marathons.

  And here I was, unable to get my fat ass off the couch or stop crying, in the presence of a woman on fire!

  She had completely embraced the lifestyle, which helped me change my perspective.

  Autumn showed me that as a military wife you can have hobbies and aspirations even when the military is calling all the shots for your family.

  I decided I wanted to be like her—happy, thriving, and accepting.

  The week after we met, Autumn invited me to a neighborhood Bunco game being hosted by one of the Captains’ wives in Del Mar Housing.

  A few days before the party, I received a call from the hostess, who told me I was in charge of table snacks.

  In the Bunco etiquette book, each woman must bring an appetizer, table snack, or dessert, while the host provides prizes for the winners and losers.

  I worried about bringing the right snack. After all, this would be my first social get together without my husband.

  I needed to
make a good impression. I didn’t want to blow it by bringing something too “low brow.”

  I thought about my Mother’s Bridge games when she would bring out her fine china and serve classy snacks. I decided to call her for advice. She suggested Goldfish, a casual, yet classy snack. Suitable for a lunch box as well as a dining room table.

  “Goldfish,” she assured me, “don’t have the ‘low brow’ reputation of a potato chip.”

  THE BUNCO PARTY

  That first evening was stiff and pretentious.

  I recognized a few of the women I had met around the neighborhood. Many of the new wives, however, were nervous and unsure how to act. At first we stood around the kitchen snacking on Brie and sipping red wine.

  Still, I wondered about the children hanging around. Wasn’t this a wives’ function? Why were kids here?

  The only conversations going on were between the Captains’ wives. They were talking about their husbands—what they did and who they knew.

  It didn’t seem right. After all, this was supposed to be a “welcome to the neighborhood” evening where we could get to know everyone in the area.

  What did our husbands have to do with our likes, hobbies, and jobs? Didn’t anyone care where we were from?

  These “veteran” wives laughed loudly and spoke haughtily of their husband’s faults and inadequacies in and around the home, and then bragged about their achievements at work.

  None of the them made any effort to engage us in conversation.

  Worst of all, they seemed to gather around one particular woman: Maggie. She seemed to be instigating their aggressive, bullying behavior. It felt like they were trying to intimidate the new wives.

  I sat back and observed. The only person I knew was Autumn, who was busy in the kitchen.

  I began to believe they didn’t care about us. It seemed they had forgotten where they had come from. They had taken on the identities of their husbands. They wore their husband’s rank, and not in a loyal, loving, proud way that the Silent Ranks do, but as a way of entitlement.

  I found it quite sad. They were all trying so hard to fit a certain mold, to keep to a standard that only they were holding themselves to.

  So, here I was trying to contain myself, (which means not saying the “F” word or talking about gas or bowel issues), as all these higher ranking wives spoke of military life in a manner meant to intimidate.

  They basked in the glow of offering the truths of base housing life. “You know they can listen in to all our phone conversations,” explained one. “Be careful what you talk about.”

  I wondered what General wanted to hear about my period or any other dumb ass chatty topic women gabbed on and on about over the phone?

  Besides, I reasoned, I had no one to call on the phone. Seriously, I may have been green, but I hadn’t been born yesterday.

  And then Maggie got our attention. “They will kick you off base if you don’t mow your yard. There are strict rules about yard care—no dead plants. We have standards in officers’ housing!”

  She went on and on about strict rules of base housing, proper dress code for officers’ wives, yard care standards, hardships of deployments, babies being born while husbands were gone. Then there were the frightening stories about the naval hospital.

  The Captains’ wives seemed to relish each cringe on our faces, each furrowed brow. I really think they enjoyed scaring us.

  Some of the wives began breaking into a sweat, double-checking their outfits in the mirror and running through lists in their minds, asking themselves, “Did I make it? Am I up to par?”

  I thought it was ridiculous, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

  That’s when Maggie’s three-year-old daughter took a fork and started scrapping it down the side of the hostess’ heirloom china cabinet.

  Where was this type of behavior listed in the military wives’ code of do’s and don’ts?

  No one said a thing.

  Maggie had now started on her husband’s USMC accomplishments—oblivious to her child’s behavior.

  Her daughter continued to carve and scratch away at the hutch.

  The host came out of the kitchen and watched in horror as this child scraped away. I swear I saw a tear trickle down her cheek. And yet she didn’t say a word.

  None of the other wives said a word to Maggie or the child. Finally, one of the 2nd Lieutenants’ wives, Natalie, calmly and assertively told the child to give her the fork and go back to the table.

  Maggie didn’t flinch!

  The host, however, breathed a sigh of relief.

  I could tell that her mother’s preoccupation had not gone unnoticed. This child was used to doing outrageous things to get her mother’s attention.

  I invited the little girl to sit on my lap. She climbed up, grateful for the attention. I began to braid her hair while Natalie asked her to draw a picture.

  The new wives began to make eye contact—silently confirming this select group of higher-ranking wives must be nuts.

  I decided this group could not be representative of the whole.

  Finally, the game started. We began to have fun once we were all playing and not talking.

  Maggie was at my table and attempted small talk. Most of the girls were shy, so she directed her attention to me. She started by asking me where we lived.

  “On Dolphin Drive,” I replied.

  She assumed I meant one of the townhouses, and said as much.

  “No,” I continued, “We were given one of the one-level homes farther down the street.”

  The entire room went silent. A gasp was heard from another table.

  When we were given the larger one-level home, Jon knew the other women would have a problem with it. Housing is divided by rank, which in turn reflects status.

  We had been placed in a home that belonged to someone with a higher ranking. We weren’t supposed to be there.

  In the handful of one-level homes in our neighborhood were Navy Captains, Marine Captains, Majors, many Warrant Officers, and one Marine Colonel.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “How did you possibly manage getting one of those homes!” she demanded.

  I searched the faces of the other new wives. They just stared back openmouthed. They had no idea what was going on.

  “Your husband is only a Second Lieutenant,” she continued. “How did you get a house with a garage, an extra bathroom, and backyard! You don’t even have any children! Did you lie to get that house?”

  I could feel my face burning. I wasn’t about to tell them about the “gas baby” I was carrying when we were at the housing office. Somehow I didn’t think they would find any humor in that.

  I had no idea how to respond. I looked around the crowd. All of the higher ranking wives were glaring at me, their eyes filled with indignation and jealousy over the extra half-bathroom.

  The new wives remained silent. They knew we were outnumbered.

  I was cornered. I had been called a liar!

  Autumn saved the day. She jumped up and screamed, “BUNCO.” It broke the tension. She won the cash prize for the most wins that night. I claimed the prize for the most losses.

  The leader of the Captains’ wives was thrilled to hand me the loser’s prize—a large pink flamingo. I was told it had to be displayed in the front yard until next month’s game.

  Maggie made sure to follow it up with a quick jab about ruining the look of my giant front yard.

  I actually thought the flamingo would look perfect next to my resin statue of a dog peeing on a hydrant.

  By the end of the evening I was glad to head home. I hadn’t felt so bullied since the seventh grade.

  We found out later that some of these higher-ranking wives (egged on, I’m sure, by Maggie) had dubbed us “butter bar” wives. This nickname is based on our husbands’ rank and the gold bar symbolizing it on their uniforms.

  To some of these women the evening had not been a nice neighborhood get together, but an effort to
make sure we knew our place.

  I wished they had simply peed on us.

  This was not the fun gathering Mary had encouraged me to attend. Still, I refused to give up hope. For some strange reason, I looked forward to next month’s game.

  BETTER FRIENDS IN ONE MONTH OR LESS

  The evening had left me drained, but determined. I now knew there were women to avoid, but some good ones to get to know. It pulled me out of my funk and got me proactive.

  I had made two friends that evening—Natalie and Kathleen (who we called “Kat”). Since our husbands were in the same battalion, we began to plan get-togethers on the nights the boys were in the field.

  We became known as “The Three Amigos.” We had such great fun together, getting to know each other and sharing all the new experiences of living on base. At last, I was no longer alone.

  My new friends had very different personalities.

  Natalie is so laid back; I love her relaxed, chilled-out temperament. She is tall with the most beautiful long brown curly hair. She loves to just hang out, drink a beer, and laugh.

  Natalie walks softly, but carries a big stick. She does not chatter on like Kat or me, so when she speaks, you listen. And when Natalie speaks, it is with carefully chosen and wise words.

  She would, in the years to come, be my voice of reason and the only friend willing to set me straight when I was out of line. She would also set others straight when they messed with me.

  One time she went to bat for me before I learned to stick up for myself. I had purchased a ball gown, but had gained weight as it got closer to the ball. I took it to the cleaners to have it altered, but when I picked it up the dress didn’t fit.

  I could barely zip it up and when I did, I couldn’t breathe.

  The seamstress refused to fix it. In broken English, she insisted, “It looks good! Sexy time!”

  Still young, I hadn’t learned how to be assertive, so I left without getting the dress fixed.

  When I got home, I started crying to Natalie. I was upset I had wasted money getting the dress fixed and now I was going to have to buy another one.

  Natalie went nuts. She got me into the car and drove us back to the dry cleaners. Within a few minutes Natalie had gotten a full refund and had made the seamstress alter the dress again.