Confessions of a Military Wife (4 page)

She went on to explain that the Herman Munster-style shoe she wore (scoliosis had left one leg shorter) had created a “lead foot.” Instead of hitting the brakes, the “lead foot” had hit the gas pedal and she had gone “through the Dollar General.” I believe she put the car in park in aisle five.

On the drive to Quantico, Grandma warned me about keeping my ID card with me at all times. She went on to tell me about the time she had gone to the commissary (grocery store on a military base) to buy a week’s worth of groceries for seven children. When she got to the checkout stand, she realized she didn’t have the military ID.

The militant clerk refused to ring her up, so she had to leave without the groceries.

She also gave me a complete rundown on military health care. Grandma had had seven children—six girls and one boy.

She told me that when my Uncle George was born after a slew of girls, my granddad suggested naming him “Caboose.” He is actually not the baby; he is the fourth of seven!

Since Grandma was pregnant throughout her years as a military wife, she knew the health care system well. She explained that calling military medicine TRICARE is a joke. Obviously they don’t try and they really don’t care!

One time when they were stationed in England (and she wasn’t pregnant) she developed a terrible ear infection. She decided she needed to go to the hospital, so she asked a neighbor to watch her five children.

When she checked in, she told the receptionist that she needed to see the doctor.

“I am sorry, ma’am, but the doctor only sees pregnant women on Wednesdays.”

Grandma calmly replied, “If that’s the case, I will call my husband and take care of that at lunch, but I would prefer to skip it and just get my ear checked out.”

The doctor happened to overhear her reply and agreed to see her.

I know my marriage to Jon brought back so many memories for her. My grandfather had passed away less than eight months before our wedding. The similarities between my grandfather and Jon were more than temperament and military career. My grandfather was a man who also walked softly, but carried a big stick.

We treasured our talks with Grandma, who became my rock when Jon was deployed. During World War II, she had gone for two years without seeing my grandfather, surviving only on limited letters. I knew she understood what I was going through and I was thankful to be able to talk to her.

MADE FOR EACH OTHER

Jon and I are complete opposites, physically and emotionally.

He’s six feet tall, has dark hair, a great tan, and dark hazel eyes. He’s quiet, calm, patient, content, intelligent, and polite, but absent-minded when it comes to anything that is not Marine-related. He’s a great researcher with the ability to retain vast amounts of information. I also admire that he never says a bad thing about anyone or anything.

In contrast, I’m short—at just five feet—have blonde hair and hazel eyes. I am loud, hyper, energetic, extremely organized, controlling, bossy, opinionated, and tend to whine. I often pop off—saying outrageous things no matter where I am or who I am around.

Jon is more comfortable communicating one on one, while I do better in a group. I’m street smart, while Jon is book smart. He’s under control, while I’m out of control.

We make a great team!

We balance each other out.

Chapter Two

THE DITY MOVE FROM HELL

My husband said we’d do a DITY (Do It Yourself) move to save money, which meant we would pack and move ourselves across the U.S.

What my new husband didn’t tell me was the military could pack every single piece of my belongings and ship them across country in a TMO move. We could even have had our cars shipped. I could have traveled across the country on a plane, but I was never told about this option.

Instead, my husband insisted on using a U-haul truck to move. The first truck he brought home on moving day was the tiniest thing I had ever seen.

I calmly told him our belongings would not fit. He brushed me off and walked inside to begin loading.

We carried the couch out and put it inside the truck, but the end hung out over tailgate.

I was baffled. We still had to get two more couches, a bed, multiple dressers, a kitchen table, and all the books and clothes into a U-haul. It was clear to me this truck wasn’t large enough. He stared at the truck for a while, and then said, “Well, I guess I may need to get one size bigger.”

What I didn’t realize was my husband could not admit I was right. Seriously, this would continue until we were in our 30s. With time and maturity, my husband would finally break this nasty habit.

For the first six years of our marriage I would tell my husband something, but he would go to at least one other source to hear exactly what I said. It really hurt my feelings.

Now, I understand my husband went from his parents’ home to a military college to the Marine Corps. Someone else had always called the shots. Obviously, he was uncomfortable. It was the first time in his life he had to be in charge. And now he had to learn how to be a partner.

I, on the other hand, had lived on my own since I was eighteen. I had paid my bills and taken care of myself for six years.

I think it was a tough pill for Jon to swallow. He’s a warrior and a big, bad ass Marine. And here I was expecting him to take care of me. He was out of his element.

It quickly became apparent that I would be taking care of him. So I had to tread lightly to avoid bruising his ego. I very delicately pointed out that we needed a much larger U-haul. Still, my husband was sure he knew what he was doing and went off to get the next size up.

He showed up an hour later with a trailer only a few feet longer than the last one. I was at a loss for words. Instead of getting mad, I reminded myself that my husband is the smartest person I ever met, but that he had never moved a house full of furniture.

I decided it was time to speak up. I did so kindly, gently, pointing out that before we broke our backs trying to haul more furniture that wouldn’t fit, I needed to go with him to get another trailer.

I was not sassy or rude, but I stood my ground. He was not receptive at first, insisting he had the right size. I gently pointed out that when I had moved the previous summer, it had taken many trips in a large truck.

He agreed and we went together to get one of the biggest trailers they had. After two days of loading, we had managed to fit all our stuff in a truck. It was a tight squeeze.

During the process Jon realized we made a good team and that I would be able to handle life as a military wife. Taking charge on this first move would not be the first time I would have to step up to the plate when it came to the home front.

Finally we had the truck packed and his SUV on a tow bar behind it. I followed in my tiny SUV with TWO cats—at thirty-five miles per hour.

It took ten days and was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. In fact, we had our first fight on this DITY move.

Believe it or not, I had not cursed him out because I was picking my battles carefully. However, after driving at that speed for eight hours a day with one cat sitting on the dashboard and meowing every three seconds and the other cat between my neck and the head rest, I was ready to fight.

TO PEE OR NOT TO PEE

We had been driving for days. My butt was permanently numb. One day we drove a long stretch and I had to go to the restroom. I called to Jon on the walkie talkie. “We need to stop. I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Ok, we’ll stop soon,” he promised.

Ten exits went past. I was following behind him so I had to wait for him to exit.

I called him back. “Sweetheart, I need to use the restroom.”

“Ok, we’ll stop in a few exits.”

Ten more exits go by and I began to get angry. Didn’t this man get it? I had to go pee!

Finally, I called back and patiently, sweetly, and gently said, “Sweetheart, I really need to stop and use the restroom.”

He apologized and assured me we would stop at exit 64. I thanked him. I was wrong to be upset. My husband was a sweet, caring man. He had his reasons for not stopping. He truly was thinking of my needs.

I started checking to see how close exit 64 was. That’s when I saw we were passing exit 30.

Let’s just say there was no confrontation. There were no more requests to stop. I simply called him and said that if he wanted to continue this trip with me, he could meet me at the next exit. I would be stopping at exit 31 to use the bathroom. I hit the gas, sped up, and passed his ass.

DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE I AM
ONE OF YOUR MARINES!

He was waiting for me when I emerged from the restroom. He hung his head down avoiding eye contact. That’s when I cursed him out—a Southern expression for letting someone know what’s up.

Anyway, I let him know I was his wife, not one of his Marines. I told him he could not talk to me like I am one of his men, or even treat me like one of them.

Unlike his Marines, I continued, I could not pee in an empty Mountain Dew bottle kept under the car seat!

He admitted that when I passed him on the highway he envisioned me getting back on the opposite highway and heading back home. He thought I was leaving him.

We still had some challenges ahead of us, but after that we communicated better. And my husband was getting better at stopping frequently to let me go to the bathroom or get a snack.

We even stopped in Graceland to look for the King. I fell asleep at the wheel in Arkansas and nearly ran off the road. One cat escaped in Arizona while we were trying to take its picture next to a cactus. OK, not a bright idea.

We both went the wrong way on a one-way street in Texas. (Why are there so many Dairy Queens in Texas?) This is all I ate for three days straight. Yes, it took three days to get through the Lone Star State.

The highlight of the trip was when we stayed at a “by-the-hour” hotel in New Mexico.

Jon had this goal of driving exactly 500 miles a day. I agree that it is good to have daily goals. However, I think if you’re driving and there is a huge city with plenty of hotels and restaurants just 475 miles out, maybe you should stop there instead of making your daily goal.

My husband didn’t agree. So there we were at ten at night in God knows where New Mexico with no hotels or restaurants in sight. He refused to turn around and go back to the big city. We had to push on to the 500-mile mark.

Forty miles and an hour later we found a lonely hotel that looked like it belonged in a ghost town.

The clerk was surprised we wanted the room for the entire night. He continued to look at us suspiciously like he thought Jon had kidnapped me and was stashing me there before making a dash for the border. His face said, “Amber Alert.”

Our room was equally frightening. I was afraid I’d catch some rare disease (like scurvy) just by sitting on the bed. There was a lipstick kiss and a “Thanks for everything” message on the mirror. There were even used condoms under the bed. I was afraid to take a shower.

Since we thought there were hidden cameras in the room, we slept with our clothes on.

Let’s just say, we didn’t christen New Mexico.

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

When we finally crossed into California, I was becoming nervous about my new life. Since I had always lived in the South, it was quite a shock to see the scenery change from rolling hills and trees to tumbleweeds and cactus.

When I saw my first cactus, I was awestruck by its size. Now I was gazing at my first palm tree!

I have joked about how different Southerners can be from state to state. My personal mantra is “I am from Virginia. We are not slow enough to be Southern or rude enough to be Yankee. We are like the porridge that Goldilocks chose ‘cuz we’re just right!” Virginians are just country snobs.

We wait till you leave the room to talk trash about you because it would be rude to do so in front of your face. This is not two-faced behavior; it is being polite.

All good Southern girls are taught to flirt with everyone no matter their sex or age. Southerners are critical of Yankees—even if we’re friends.

History and character are a common link that all East Coasters share. It’s our common thread. Both Yankees and Southerners agree that something odd happens to a person’s personality if they are raised west of the Mississippi River. These people came from pioneers who were completely happy living on their own with nobody around for miles.

As my husband, who is from the Northwest puts it, “my people were too weak to go West.”

Why would we have moved, I counter. We were happy with the way it was. We didn’t need to live alone.

We both agree that people’s personalities are influenced by where they live. This perspective, I found, was not going to help me adapt to being a military wife and living next to people from around the world. Over the years I was exposed to other cultures and lifestyles. I learned that we all have differences, but we are all individuals first. As I was exposed to more people, I stopped being so close-minded.

I didn’t know what to think about Californians. I had heard too many rumors about their wacky ways and their strange hobbies—surfing and roller-blading throughout the year.

And then there were their food hang-ups like the South Dog Beach diet or whatever the latest craze was. I knew little about their personalities except they were liberal and extremely body conscious.

In fact, the only Californian I had ever met was a vegan, who was quite militant about her decision not to eat animal products.

At the South Carolina State fair, she encountered a dairy farmer who was demonstrating the contraptions he used to get milk from the cows. There were suction cups that he hooked up to the teats and giant pumps that gyrated when he flipped a switch.

I was digging the whole thing until the vegan started screaming, “Oh, my God, this is an atrocity! Animal abuse at its worst! This would never happen in California! That’s why I am vegan! I don’t want any of that in my body.”