Confessions of a Military Wife (8 page)

When my father developed prostate cancer I called to share the news with Beenie. She and my dad had shared many a Miller Lite.

I assured her my dad would be fine, but that he would have to have minor surgery to remove the cancer.

Beenie was naturally concerned for me. “Oh Mollie, do you think you should go get your prostate checked?” she innocently asked.

After we met that first day we chatted on the phone constantly. I was glad to finally have someone to talk to in between “Lifetime” movies on days Jon was at work.

Beenie became the gas to my fire. She seemed to be happy and operated on a plane of existence I have yet to discover. Best of all, she keeps her life uncomplicated.

It’s something I wish I could do. I am so high strung, while Beenie lets it all roll off. Nothing gets under her skin.

There was only one time when she popped. For some reason, Beenie’s husband could never do anything right. He’s one of the smartest guys I have ever met, but he had this lawyer attitude that he couldn’t leave at the office.

Here’s the thing: Lloyd absolutely worships Beenie. He goes nuts trying to get her attention—even competing with me for it. He would even get jealous if he called home and found she was talking on the phone with me.

It wasn’t a “beat your wife” type of jealousy, just a guy up against a challenge. The more Beenie would ignore Lloyd, the wilder he would get. And does Beenie know how to work him!

Anyway, in his efforts to get her attention, Lloyd would mess up—often. In fact, he seemed to like it when she was mad at him, as if he had more of a challenge to overcome. They would have these huge blow-ups and she would lock him out of the house. I would call two hours later only to hear they had just had wild make-up sex.

I secretly came to believe that Lloyd did his best to make her mad just to get her in bed.

A SENSITIVE SUBJECT: POGUE VS. GRUNT

Jon and Lloyd were great pals as well. Irish Catholic, charming, goofy, party animal, USMC lawyer—that was Lloyd.

Lloyd and Jon had been in TBS training together. Lloyd went on and on about how Jon had been the only one to beat him at puggle stick fighting. Jon didn’t really remember the incident, but Lloyd recalled the match in perfect detail.

He insisted on a rematch. He kept going on and on about losing to a “Grunt.” It was a “Grunt versus Pogues” issue. While I knew my husband was a Grunt (an infantryman or “ground pounder” Marine), I didn’t know about Pogues.

Evidently we were surrounded by Pogues that day because they all kept chiming in on the rivalry between Pogues and Grunts.

Jon later explained there is a long-standing rivalry in the Corps. Being a Pogue or a Grunt is based on your MOS (job).

According to Pogues, Grunts are stupid, barbaric ground-pounders who are too dumb to be Pogues.

According to Grunts, Pogues are intellectual, soft paper pushers and too weak to be Grunts.

The joke to me is all Marines have to be Grunts at one time, while nearly every Grunt becomes a Pogue at some point or other. Yet they have this need to tease each other constantly.

NEIGHBORS

Our first neighbors had finally moved out. They had been a nightmare. He was in the Navy, had cheated on his wife, and had given her every sexually transmitted disease known to man. And she had shared all of this with me on a daily basis, making us both miserable.

Each time I ran out the front door to jump on my husband and greet him with a kiss when he came home, she shot me an evil look. She constantly tried to scare me with on-base gossip about Jon's upcoming deployments and rumors about when or where he was going. She took every opportunity to frighten me.

Her husband deployed soon after that and she decided to move off base. I prayed to the Lord that He would bless our next neighbors. After all, we would be sharing a driveway and a bedroom wall.

By the time our new neighbors moved in, I had made friends and was no longer feeling depressed.

When a car pulled up, I peeked out the window and ran out the front door.

There stood Michelle—beautiful and blonde with her tiny tow-headed baby David on her hip, and four-year-old Jacob holding her hand.

She told me she and her husband Kevin were from Cherry Point, North Carolina. I was on Cloud Nine—another Southern girl!

Michelle looked like a combination of Dolly Parton and Anna Nicole Smith. She had the big blonde hair, wide smile, and large boobs. She also had a big Southern personality.

I can only imagine what the neighbors said about Michelle and me. The sight of two blonde-haired and big-boobed Southern girls chatting incessantly probably sent some people over the edge.

Michelle also had a funny way of talking—wide open about everything. She talked about all body functions and all things private. If she didn’t have anything nice to say, or if she wanted to say something mean, but couldn’t because the kids were within earshot, she would just say, in a high pitched voice, dragging the word out, “Weeeeeeeeelllll!”

This one word became our thing. We would use it when others were around and we wanted to talk smack about another neighbor.

“So and so stopped by. She is so lovely, but her husband, he sure is … different.”

She would reply, “Weeeeeeeeelllll!”

Or I’d say, “I saw Jacob playing with that brown-haired boy across the street. He certainly does have a rough way about him.”

To which Michelle would reply, “Weeeeeeelllll!”

We could say it all in just one word. In a truly Southern fashion we managed to be ugly without hurting anyone’s feelings.

I was elated to be sharing my driveway and bedroom wall with Michelle and her family. We became so tight that we were constantly in and out of each other’s houses. We were like peas and carrots.

MOLLY, YOU’RE SUCH A BITCH!

Ironically, our new neighbors had a dog named Molly.

Throughout my life, I had had to deal with dogs with the same name as mine. I have met people who pop right out with “I have a dog named Molly!” Like this is supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy?

Depending on my mood I might retort with “What a coincidence! I’m a bitch, too!”

Or this: “Great to hear it. Do you want to tell me your name or shall I sniff your ass to see if I recognize you?”

Having a neighbor named Mollie and a dog called Molly can be down right confusing for the children, especially when someone says, “Molly scooted her butt on the carpet again.”

The kids would fall down laughing when Kevin would rant, “Damn it! Molly pooped in the neighbor’s yard again!”

In an effort to prevent some embarrassing moments, they came up with a simple solution. They decided I would be known as “Miss Mollie,” a title of respect straight out of the South. The golden cocker spaniel, on the other hand, stayed simply “Molly.”

While the name change helped the kids, I still got looks from our other neighbors whenever Kevin would yell at the dog. “Damn it, Molly, quit humping!” Or, “Molly, stop licking your ass!”

DAVID THE MENACE

Michelle’s youngest son had a devilish streak. And he would get this twinkle in his eye just before he would strike.

At eighteen months, David would sit at the end of the driveway with a pacifier in his mouth and wait for his four-year-old brother. When Jacob whizzed by on a skateboard, David would push a skate into Jacob’s path, causing him to crash.

Jacob would cry and we would run to see what was wrong. There we would find baby David—quietly laughing.

David also loved boobs. He would look at me while Michelle was holding him, grab a handful of his mom’s boob and giggle. If I held him, he would rest his tiny hand on my breast and laugh.

If you caught him in the act he would shrug and lift his hands up.

David was our little “Dennis the Menace.” When he got that certain look in his eye we’d said, “Here comes Dirty Dave!” He was a stinker, and I wished he were mine.

Jacob could be incredibly brave and quite sensitive. Shortly after they moved in, I found Jacob crying in the garage. I approached and asked him if he was OK. He said he was, but became embarrassed that I had seen him crying.

I told his dad, who explained Jacob was crying because a boy had been mean to another boy on the playground. Jacob had been so upset he went off to cry in private. I was so moved that a four-year-old had the capacity to feel such empathy for another.

I was impressed at what Jacob could accomplish. He was a natural athlete. The fact that he could crash and burn on a regular basis and come out unscathed amazed me.

One day I saw him playing in the backyard when a large tumbleweed blew by, picked him up and the two went rolling away. They finally crashed into a trash can.

I envisioned Jacob becoming a stuntman. He could master all sports: skateboarding, roller skating, bicycling—anything. He simply had no fear.

What stole my heart, though, was that he would always ask if my daddy would let me play with him. I assumed this was because Marines look pretty much the same in uniform. In this child’s mind, guys in uniform equal daddies.

Still, I guess many of the kids on base thought I was a kid just like them. It wasn’t just because of my size (I was only five inches taller than Jacob). It was because I could match them tit for tat when it came to screaming, farting, and yes, fighting over toys.

Most days we spent in the driveway or backyard running amuck playing together on swings or going down the slides.

Jacob never really understood that Jon and I were married. If Jon came home from work and Jacob and I were playing, he would ask Jon to join him.

“Mollie made me dinner, Jacob,” he would reply. “I have to go in and eat.”

“Oh, your mommy wants you to come in for dinner?”

I was as proud as his parents when Jacob learned to ride a bike without training wheels. Michelle and Kevin asked Jon and me to come out and watch. There was Jacob on the tiniest bike I had even seen in my life.

He proudly announced he was going to demonstrate riding without training wheels. We all made a huge fuss. “Why, you are only four! If you do that, you must be so brave!”

To insure Jacob’s safety, Michelle held David in her arms. She wanted to avoid one of David’s sneak attacks.

Off Jacob went—soaring at top speeds down the driveway. We all cheered.

He yelled: “Look at me! Look, Miss Mollie, look at me!”

We all cheered some more as he peddled into the street. As we stood there bragging about his accomplishments, my analytical husband asked, “Isn’t there a car parked on the side of the road in the direction he was headed?”

We stopped talking just in time to hear a loud crash. A second later we heard Jacob’s wail, followed by David’s giggle.

Crash and burn. Jacob’s first bike ride without training wheels had been only a partial success.

Michelle and I took much joy in talking about things that made our Catholic husbands very nervous.

Because we shared a bedroom wall, much of our privacy was sacrificed. Since we were Southerners, we decided to nonchalantly disclose details of our sexuality instead of worrying about being embarrassed.

Michelle is what you could call hyper-sexual. Where some neighbors would call on their way to the commissary to see if you needed a gallon of milk, Michelle would call whenever she was doing a sex store run to see what I wanted.

This is just the person I wanted living next door to me if the power goes out. More importantly, I could count on her to have the right supplies when my husband was gone.

CHRISTA AND THE SCHWANN’S MAN

I met Christa at a scrapbooking party. I didn’t scrapbook. I just went to meet friends.

She was a Captain’s wife, younger than me, and had the cutest baby boy named Silas.

Christa towered over me with three inches of brown curls. Best of all, she cursed like a sailor. If only we had had her at the first Bunco evening to break the ice. I knew this type of higher ranking officer’s wife existed and thanked God I had found her.

She also lived in a bigger house than everyone, in a newer part of the Del Mar Housing. I asked her if the other Captains’ wives hated her because of it. Her response? “Fuck um!”

Like Beenie and a few of the other Captains’ wives I had met, I now saw that not all higher-ranking wives were jerks. Nor was I any longer intimidated by them.

Christa wanted to know if I had met the Schwann’s man yet. I had no idea what she was talking about. That’s when she sat me down for “the talk.”

According to Christa, you knew you had finally arrived at a level of wifedom when you started ordering dinners from the Schwann’s man. He delivered delicious gourmet ice cream and frozen dinners in his big yellow truck.

The convenience of pre-made meals was something the new generation of military wife celebrated, Christa told me. It was a way for us to express our independence from making everything from scratch.

Would my grandmother approve of the Schwann’s man’s unconventional practices?

Christa promised if I developed a relationship with this man, all my problems with meals and party food would disappear.

I begged her to enlighten me! I wanted to know “The Way”! She gave me my first Scwhann’s brochure and showed me the pages of bestsellers.

That Thursday I waited with anticipation as the yellow truck made its way around the neighborhood. Some of the neighbors’ faces appeared in their windows as they saw his truck pull into my “Butter Bar” driveway.

Yes, folks! The Schwann’s man is coming to my home. I’m breaking free of constant trips to the commissary!

Over the next four years, my Schwann’s man and I developed a very intense relationship centered on chicken Cordon bleu and orange push-ups.

Ours was a discreet relationship, though. Josh gave me what I needed (frozen dinners and ice cream) and I left him a check.

I knew the older generation of wives talked, but I didn’t expect them to understand. The relationship I had with Josh allowed me to become a better wife.

By the next Bunco party the “butter bar” wives had become tight. Our husbands had been gone for nearly a month, which gave us lots of time together.