Confessions of a Military Wife (9 page)

Now half of the neighborhood children would be jumping on my trampoline while eating ice cream. We would go to the beach, take walks together, or just hang out at Natalie’s or Autumn’s.

At the first Bunco party, I had agreed to host the next one. Maggie had insisted that my house was the biggest, an ideal place for the next game.

Since it was going to be on “butter bar” territory, we decided to call the shots.

First of all, rather than serving Brie and the usual appetizers, desserts, and table snacks, we decided we would spice things up.

I called my “Butter bar girls” and started making plans. The invitations went out with specific instructions: No kids or military talk allowed. Please bring your favorite dance music CD.

We also had new food assignments: who would bring the beer, the margaritas, and the wine coolers. We decided who would bring the different flavors of cigarettes: lights, flavored, and ultra-lights.

Table snacks changed from raisins, Goldfish, and carrots, to Combos, hot fries, and M&Ms.

Finally, instead of having a purple dog bone for the winner of the most Buncos, Michelle provided a “Bunco boner.” It was a pink, sticky penis made of a material that could stick to the wall and crawl down it like a Slinky.

Instead of being outnumbered by higher-ranking wives, I thought the evening should be full of enlisted and officer wives. We had a fun girl’s night planned!

About an hour into the evening, we realized most of the Captains’ wives had not shown up. As more guests arrived, they brought regrets. So and so couldn’t make it because she couldn’t find a sitter. So and so couldn’t come because her child was sick.

We began to realize we were in trouble. You need twelve people to play Bunco. And if you can’t attend a Bunco night, it’s your responsibility to notify the host or find someone to fill your spot.

Christa looked at me between drags on her cigarette and said, “I know Maggie’s not coming. She told me last week.”

The one wife who had insisted that I host a party because I had a large house was not even coming. Glad she told me to my face.

Worse still, she was supposed to bring the Bunco kit. When I pointed out that Maggie was supposed to bring the kit, Christa stared blankly at me. Maggie had told her she did not have the kit.

This is insane, I thought. I bet her perfectness couldn’t stand the thought of being in the home she thought she deserved.

I figured the fact we had changed the rules of etiquette had also gotten under their skin. They wanted to let us know they were above our beer-drinking, cigarette-smoking, junk food-eating party.

After my anger wore off, I became hurt and sad. I was obvious to me that she had called the handful of her cronies and told them to boycott my party.

It was not enough that they ignored the invitation, but they also tried to ruin our fun.

What was ironic is those wives had decided not to attend because they thought our behavior was inappropriate. And yet, they were the ones being rude. They were the ones acting like snobs.

But without the game kit, how were we going to play Bunco? I couldn’t think of what to do.

Christa saved the day. “Let’s play something else! This is really just supposed to be a time that we all get away and be girls. It’s not about the Bunco. It’s about hanging out, without kids or husbands!”

The women looked up at me and smiled. My anxiety melted away.

Another wife chimed in, “Let’s just stay out here on the patio and talk. Screw Bunco!”

So we sat on the patio, laughed, drank, ate junk food, smoked, farted, teased, and bonded. A few wives who heard the commotion from down the street joined us.

It was the best night of my life.

Thereafter, my house became known as the party house for the new clique in town. Of course, none of the uptight wives were included.

It became a mix of wives of Captains, Lieutenants, enlisted men, officers, and even Marine and Navy wives living on and off base.

At least once a week you could find a group of women on the back patio hanging out. We kept the extra fridge there stocked with popsicles and wine coolers. And there were plenty of comfortable couches.

Later that week, Christa helped me make a new Bunco kit, complete with the “Bunco boner.” The butter bar wives now had their own Bunco kit.

One Captain’s wife named Melanie hand-painted Bunco Christmas ornaments for all of us one year. I think of our close knit group every year when I hang it on our Christmas tree.

Even the guys tried to crash our parties.

One night we sent the guys off to play poker while we played Bunco. But Beenie’s husband and one of his JAG friends tried to crash our party while pretending to look for more beer.

Splat! One of them ended up with the sticky Bunco boner crawling down his cheek. “No boys allowed!” we screamed.

But they still didn’t want to leave. They said our party was more fun than their poker game!

I found out later that one guy declared, “those girls are worse than a bunch of guys at a bachelor party.”

I take that as a compliment. Butter Bar Bunco evenings acquired the reputation of being wild and fun. Bunco had done for us exactly what Mary had promised. And we had become the greatest of friends.

PARTY AT THE GROSS HOUSE

Jon and I didn’t plan to have children until the deployments were done.

Still, we had become attached to the neighbors’ kids and wanted everyone to feel welcome at our home. So … we bought a huge trampoline at Wal-Mart. (Just in case you think I am totally nuts, I was a gymnast for twelve years so I knew
a little
about what I was doing.)

My husband got a little too excited and started jumping on the trampoline before I had finished putting the safety padding on.

“Jon, wait. It’s not ready!”

He refused to heed my warnings. A minute later he was cutting a flip when he ripped his ankle open on an exposed spring. After we stopped the bleeding, Jon quietly helped me finish attaching the liner.

It was at that point I realized I didn’t need a child; I had married one.

You get used to having kids in your home when you live on base. I can’t tell you how many times we came home from church to find a random child sitting on the sofa eating our food.

“Hi there,” I would say.

“Can your son play with me?”

“We don’t have any children.”

The child would think about it, shrug, and reply, “Well, can I play your XBox?”

Only when the child found out that we did not have an Xbox or a Wii would he venture home.

If you don’t want kids in your house, don’t bother putting a “No Trespassing” sign in your yard. Just put out a sign that says, “We have no Wii.”

Like a magnet, our trampoline drew kids in from every corner of the neighborhood. When kids spotted our heads bobbing up and down over the privacy fence, accompanied by screams and giggles, they figured out what was going on and asked to come over and jump. On any given afternoon there would be four or five kids eating Schwann’s ice cream and jumping up and down on the trampoline. Their mothers and I would sit on the back patio chatting and sipping Cokes.

I was grateful for the company of these amazing women and their kids, especially when Jon was in the field.

THE GO CART

Jon was off to Combined Arms Exercise, a month of desert training at 29 Palms, California. I was sulking.

I had finally settled in. My home was my own and I had friends. I no longer freaked out about CH 46 helos flying overhead or tanks driving past my car. I no longer flinched when I had to show my ID, or felt odd when the sticker on my car was saluted.

I had come to grips with the fact that I was no longer a career woman. I had accepted my role as a housewife. I had worked since I was fifteen, but now I had to be a supportive spouse.

Not all jobs come with a salary. You can’t put a price tag on the important roles you play in life. I had started to learn new recipes and was cooking a few new things. I was enjoying myself, but I was still struggling with not working as I thought and felt I should be. I had a lot to learn about partnership in a marriage.

The pouting started when Jon left for training. I had been daddy’s girl and was used to being spoiled. I had not seen my Marine often when we dated, but when I did, I had all his attention.

Now that we were married, it was different. We lived together, but the Corps called all the shots. The Marine Corps provided our home and the commissary kept us filled with affordable food. Health insurance was free. Still, I had no income.

Financially it was difficult to go from two salaries to one. I had never been a designer girl, but I did like to have fun and was used to buying something when I wanted, or going out to eat. Now we had no money for extras.

I struggled with the possibility of getting a job. Some of my girlfriends did work. When their husbands were gone for three days, they were grateful for their jobs. When he was home for a week straight, they were miserable because they had to leave him to go to work.

I was not ready to make that commitment. I wanted every minute with Jon.

I could no longer afford acrylic nails, so Jon treated me to a pedicure. While there, I met a lady who had her own business and needed an assistant. She offered very flexible hours and wanted to pay me in cash.

I was so excited! I now had a job and I felt great! I would be working, but would still be able to support my husband.

On the drive home I saw a motorized go cart at a tire shop. A flashback of high school days whirled through my head and happiness flooded over me as I remembered the go cart I had had and all the joy it had brought me.

My mother had won a green 3.5HP Indy model go cart with a fiberglass shell at a convenience center convention. I spent many afternoons with my girlfriend Shannon riding the high-powered machine. It was a blast.

We had driven it all over my parent’s property, thrill riding for hours up and down the driveway and through the woods.

Now, here in front of me, was another go cart and it was for sale! And this go cart looked just like the one I had had in high school.

It was love at first sight and it was only $1,300. I bought it on the spot, reasoning that I had a job.

When the Indy cart was delivered the next day, the children on base looked at me like I was their hero! They wanted to take turns sitting in “Miss Mollie’s real race car.”

When Michelle saw it, she just said, “Weeeeeellll!”

The other mothers just stared at me.

Beenie, always my partner in crime, thought it was awesome. She couldn’t wait for her next visit so she could take it for a spin.

Autumn just laughed when she saw it.

The husbands gazed at it—talking like it was a hemi, considering its specs and its engine.

One even tried to buy it. “NO WAY!” I replied. I would never part with my happiness. (I was such a dumb ass.)

Natalie proved to be the only voice of reason. She yelled at me when she found out. “What are you doing? Are you nuts? What are you going to do with that thing? Get a paper route? How much was it? Do you think you are going to hide this from Jon? Are you insane? Do you really have a job? How did you pay for this? Have you even told Jon what you have done? What does a grown adult do with a go cart?”

At least Natalie loved me enough to tell me the truth.

As she spoke I realized what a horrible mistake I had made. I hadn’t even discussed the huge purchase with my husband. And it was not even for something that was practical, like a $1,300 grill or new tires for the car.

I became defensive. I wasn’t ready to admit my error, but I knew I was being selfish and unfair to Jon.

I had complained about Jon not knowing about bank accounts, how to do laundry, or how to eat well-balanced meals. I even whined about the fact he didn’t pick up after himself.

But it was nothing compared to what I had just done. I was the one who was being irresponsible and disrespectful.

We were partners and still working out our roles. I was responsible for our meals and the house, but I continued to bitch that he should know about that stuff.

Instead of yelling at me not to overspend, he had thoughtfully treated me to a pedicure. I, in turn, had purchased a $1,300 go cart.

When he called that night, I asked him if he wanted the good news or the bad news. This always freaked him out because he thought that I was pregnant.

“The good news.”

“I have a job!” Once I explained all the details and the flexible hours Jon was stoked. He didn’t care if I worked or not, if I made five dollars or five hundred. He just knew I wanted to keep busy when he was in the field.

“What’s the bad news?”

I told him about the go cart. He went silent.

“I have a job now,” I continued, “so I can pay for it myself.”

“But you haven’t made any money yet, Mollie, so really you haven’t paid for it.”

Jon was so patient. I didn’t deserve his kindness. How many times had I started raving over something before he even got the whole story out? Now my husband was “disappointed” in me, which was tough to hear.

He never yelled; he never really got angry. He had so much guilt about being gone all the time that he felt he had no grounds to be upset about my purchase.

However, his guilt didn’t justify my bad behavior. I had lost perspective. I needed to spend more time finding positive ways to develop my friendships and be productive with activities instead of whining about his absence.

If I could not go without his attention for a few weeks, how would I make it through an entire deployment? It was time to show Jon I could be trusted not to make bad decisions in his absence.

It wasn’t long before I lost interest in the go cart. I was so embarrassed and ashamed of my impulsive purchase.

Finally, Jon told me to snap out of it. We invited the husbands over for a big go cart race. We timed each other, did donuts, and had a lot of fun.

My husband forgave me and made me forgive myself.

Now and again, we would pull the go cart out of the garage and wreak havoc throughout the neighborhood. Kids would pour out of their houses and follow me back home to get some Schwann’s ice cream and a jump on the trampoline.