Confessions of a Military Wife (7 page)

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.

She gave me strength when I didn’t have any.

Kat, on the other hand, is taller than Natalie and has the greenest eyes I had ever seen. She and I could talk so much our tongues had to stop before our brains would.

We are both very outspoken, but in completely different ways. I’m more prone to yelling out something vulgar, while she is likely to yell at me for saying it.

She would claim that her delicate ears could not handle hearing such words. However, a glass of wine later and she could match me tit for tat with “F” bombs.

I was, on the other hand, a lightweight when it came to drinking. One drink and it was lights out for me. I was a social drinker and smoker.

Kat is what I would call an “I’ll have one of yours” drinker and smoker.

I sensed she was struggling with her Catholic guilt and trying to find herself.

I tend to attract people who are afraid to express themselves. They can sin vicariously through me. In fact, I tease my husband, who is Catholic, about my Methodist beliefs.

We don’t believe in purgatory, so I tell him that he better die first because he will need a head start since he’ll be in purgatory for years before I die.

I, on the other hand, will go straight to heaven.

You could say that Kat and I are opinionated, but that would be an understatement. Natalie would sit back and shake her head whenever the two of us got going on political, moral, or Biblical topics. We thought we knew everything.

Kat had gone straight from her parent’s Catholic upbringing to a Jesuit college, and then into marriage.

I had attended Christian schools for twelve years and knew a little bit about that type of education as well as complete immersion into a religion.

Although Kat had fewer “real life” experiences than Natalie or me, she often gave me the best advice.

I could really get worked up over issues, but Kat would calmly and rationally see the best way to handle a situation.

The three of us connected completely after that first Bunco game. We balanced each other out. I had finally made connections and found good friends.

Mary had been right after all. Bunco did open up doors to find good friends.

BEENIE WEENIE

I was still looking for my best friend—that one special girlfriend. The one that I could say anything to and wouldn’t be judged by her. I found her in Beenie.

Jon tried to introduce me to as many wives as possible. Luckily, he got a call from some of his TBS buddies who invited us to Del Mar beach. It was there I met Beenie.

She looks like Betty Paige with black hair, bangs, and long legs. She giggled non-stop and always has a smile on her face. She also smoked and had a cooler filled with Miller Lite.

I was drawn to her laid back spirit. She was confident and didn’t appear to care what others thought of her.

Sitting next to her that day on the beach, I realized we had so much in common. We both had poodles and had lived for years in the Carolinas. (Beenie was not raised in the South, so she was not truly “Southern.” There is an expression for people who live in the South who aren’t born there: “Just because the cat has kittens in the oven doesn’t make them biscuits.”)

She had been a schoolteacher and was an amazing artist. Like me, she had married her Marine within months of meeting him. Like us, they had eloped much to the dismay of some of their family and friends.

She said she met Lloyd at a party in Wilmington, North Carolina. He was so charming, fun, sexy, and wild that she just had to marry him. She said she wanted a husband who could party with her. And it worked for them. They loved to party and had friends over all the time.

Beenie’s energy was just what I needed at that point. She wasn’t bothered by my loud mouth attitude. If anything, she spurred it on by laughing at my outrageous behavior.

When I started doing stand up comedy, I would run jokes by Beenie and she would laugh and laugh. I’d say, “did you get that one?” And she would say, between giggles and tears, “I think so!”

When you do stand up you are supposed to imagine you’re speaking directly to someone. My someone is always Beenie. She’s my Ed McMahon without the cheesy sweepstakes.

Beenie also does the same thing my dad does. She pronounces McDonald’s as Mac Donald. Or Kimora Lee Simmons as Kamero. She also tends to drop the ‘s’ at the end of a word and adds an “s” to words that don’t have one. Sometimes people didn’t understand what she said, so I’d have to translate. After a while, I started to talk like Beenie, which tripped everyone out.

It was also great to meet someone who had a lot of things fly right over her head. Neither of us “got” half of what our husbands said. We weren’t exactly simple-minded. We just didn’t catch onto some things quickly.