Confessions of a Military Wife (36 page)

Our reunion Bunco was a blast. All of us carried on and on—giggling about the sex we had been having and how our husbands could not remember where anything in the house went. We talked about the cruises and trips we had gone on. It was like old times, but so much happier because the stress was mostly gone.

After a few rounds of Bunco and a couple of drinks, we started wondering what the guys were doing at their poker night. “I wonder if they carry on like we do,” someone said, “talking about us and sex?”

Everyone got quiet. Then I had one crippling thought—“Moo Moo.” I had to stop this poker party! I piped up, “Let’s spy on them! Let’s crash the party!”

Off we went—all twelve of us—down the dark streets of Del Mar trying to be inconspicuous. Karen lost a shoe. Someone else stopped to pee in the bushes.

As we approached the house, we could see the men inside drinking beers and playing cards. “It’s a trick!” I whispered. “There is no way they are this boring! They must know we’re out here!”

We decided to send in a few recon snipers to get a better look. Amazingly, I was chosen to approach the house. We got right under the windows and listened in. They were actually playing cards and betting. No one was talking about boobs, sex, or nagging wives. We sat there for ten minutes. I think Lloyd was even petting the poodle sitting on his lap.

That was it?!

I popped my head up so they could see me and yelled, “You guys are so lame! What are you doing?”

They all looked at me in shock. Jon answered: “We’re doing what you told us to do. We’re playing poker.”

At that point, the ladies decided to go get wine coolers, cigarettes, and rap music so we could crash the boy’s card game. Their party was just too pathetic.

If only those men had known what went on at a Del Mar Bunco Party. Either they would have been proud of their wild wives, or they would have had the entire game shut down.

COOK OFFS

After that night, we decided it was time we started having normal neighborhood parties again.

Lloyd and Beenie’s home became the designated place for a barbecue or a neighborhood picnic.

Lloyd is very competitive. The cook-offs started after I made chicken enchiladas for Beenie one night during deployment. Lloyd, as usual, got jealous when Beenie said they were the best she ever had. He challenged me to a cook-off when he returned from Iraq.

At the scheduled cook-off, we had three different types of chicken enchiladas. Many threats and fighting words were exchanged. And yet, I don’t remember who won the challenge that day. I do know Beenie still insisted mine were better than Lloyd’s. That drove him nuts.

He wants all of Beenie’s affection, approval, and attention. He’s like a kid yelling at his mom, “Watch me! Aren’t I the best?”

It was cute, and it was a sign that we were getting back to normal.

I learned the hard way that there are some things you can do with your wives that you can’t do with your husband.

I booked a spa day for Jon and me at a San Diego casino. I thought we both deserved a little relaxation and pampering, but it didn’t turn out as well as I had hoped.

It all started when Jon found out a man would be giving him a massage. He said he didn’t want to have a man touching him “like that.” I didn’t want him to be tense the entire time, so I requested a female masseuse for him. Then he got upset about the female “touching him like that.” He said I was the only one who could touch him.

I thought about asking him about his theory on massage therapists touching everyone “inappropriately,” but figured I’d better leave it alone. Wherever he had gotten the negative impression of massages, I didn’t want to know.

Instead, I assured him it would be OK since we’d be in the room together.

The couple’s massage session included a private whirlpool tub spa and six-jet shower afterward. Jon was freaking out the entire time that someone might see his penis. I was surprised, since this is a man who had taken showers out in the open in front of about 2,000 Marines and Iraqis during the war.

I later realized his irrational fear stemmed from an incident when we were first married.

Before we left South Carolina, Jon and I had a gathering to say goodbye to our friends. My parents came in from Virginia and Jon’s dad flew in from Idaho to celebrate with us.

We had a great party. I got a little ripped. My dad kept telling me all night to “cool it and eat more meat.”

My parents stayed at my apartment that night. They were sleeping on the fold-out couch in the living room while Jon and I were in the bedroom.

Later that night after we had had sex, Jon got up to use the bathroom. When he came back to bed, he said my dad had walked in on him while he was peeing.

Yikes! Why would my dad barge in on him? Jon explained that he had not turned the light on, so when my dad opened the door and turned on the light, he got an eyeful of his very nude son-in-law!

I wanted to die of embarrassment. My parents knew Jon and I were sexually active (we were newlyweds, after all), but my dad seeing my Jon naked was so over the top.

Jon was setting a pattern that would follow him through the next few years. I assured him that the massage therapist would not see his pee pee, and that he would always be covered.

The massages went off without a hitch. Neither of us got so relaxed that we tooted. Nor were our genitals exposed.

When the massage was done, the therapist told us the room was ours for the next hour and to enjoy the complimentary champagne and strawberries.

Jon and I headed to the next room to enjoy the whirlpool. We laughed about how silly Jon had been with his fears about being exposed in front of a stranger. He even admitted that his massage therapist had acted very professionally.

We stripped down and settled into the huge tub. Jon offered to go into the next room to get the strawberries.

He returned white as a ghost.

“What happened,” I asked.

Jon explained. While he was collecting the strawberries and champagne, the door opened and the female therapist walked in.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I knocked, but you must not have heard me. I just left something in here.”

With the strawberries and champagne in his hands, all Jon could do was stand there unable to cover his pee pee.

I told Jon he got his wish. He had used the negative law of attraction and been granted his wish of being seen naked. He was upset and no longer able to relax.

In the end, I decided Spa Days are just for girls.

Then again, what if she had walked in him while he was doing naked jumping jacks?

Chapter Eight

ON THE L.A.M. (LIFE AFTER THE MILITARY)

Ultimately, we made the tough decision to leave the military.

My husband told me I had supported him in his lifelong dream to be a Marine and to serve his country. Now it was my turn to pursue my dreams, and he was willing to support me.

It was a true sacrifice for Jon, and one that was very tough for me to accept. Leaving life in the military behind us was like leaving our family.

In truth, everyone was being reassigned. Although Camp Pendleton would no longer be the same, it would always be my home.

But Jon knew what was best for us. I had been doing stand-up comedy off and on, but had not been taking classes, writing, or regularly performing. He knew that in order for me to be happy we needed a home base so I could pursue my dreams more easily and more diligently.

We were still young and unsure what we wanted to be when we grew up. It was time to explore other options. We moved up to Los Angeles to what I would call a “transitional neighborhood,” meaning it was ten minutes from the sunny California coast and ten seconds from the ghetto. It was what we could afford.

I tried to settle into my new house and neighborhood, but I was afraid of no longer living on base. I remembered how worried I had first been when we first moved on base, surrounded by tanks, helicopters, men with guns, and a big fence. Now I felt naked and insecure without them.

I have to admit that living in Los Angeles was a lot like living on base—lots of random gunfire, sirens, and men carrying weapons. While those sounds once made me feel safe, now I was truly scared. I was even afraid to walk my dogs at night. I asked my husband to teach me some self-defense moves. I wanted to know what to do if someone tried to rape me while I was out with Monsieur and CoCo.

He told me to just start nagging. In no time at all, he continued, my attacker would get frustrated and leave me alone. I guess the sound of a woman nagging is a universal sexual turn-off.

I quickly learned that our neighborhood had an appreciation for the arts. Our local neighborhood “Crips” representative welcomed us by letting us know we were part of his territory. He left his spray-painted message on the side of our house.

One night as my husband and I were driving home through our neighborhood, we saw the cutest little fur ball scurrying across the street. Was it abandoned? Injured? Hungry? There was no oncoming traffic so I begged my husband to stop the car so I could run out and get it.

Jon knows my love for animals, so he slowed down. I jumped out of the car and started running after my new pet. My heart quickened with anticipation of an animal rescue! That is just what I needed to get my mind off how miserable I was feeling in this new city. I was sure if I put my energy and effort into an animal, my depression would quickly fade.

I bent down to touch my tiny rescue and flinched as it lay lifeless on the road. I picked it up (it was so light!) and held it close to my chest to give it warmth. I was so frightened—it was not moving! And it felt, well, empty. When I looked more carefully I realized I was holding somebody’s weave.

After that I decided I needed a new strategy and attitude. A new neighborhood, like a new base, is what you make of it. I was focusing on the negative.

My husband and I set out to look for local attractions and restaurants to visit. We picked two a week and started looking forward to getting to know our surroundings. We also developed a passion for riding bikes along the beach and going to the theater. Before long we had more things to do than we had time for.

By the way, I kept my pet weave. I just couldn’t bear the thought of her living the rest of her life on the streets. She is really an ideal pet. She doesn’t eat much and only needs a good brushing once a week. We have not named her yet, but if you have any suggestions email me. She hasn’t answered to any names we have tried so far.

She sleeps in the bed with us at nights. However, she’s put outside when it comes to private time between my husband and I. My husband doesn’t like the look she gives us when we are being “intimate.”

Making real friends, however, was another matter. Our Los Angeles neighbors were not like our friends on base at Pendleton. They weren’t interested in poker nights or cook-offs. And none of them had ever heard of Bunco.

I tried inviting my massage therapist to go with me for a pedicure, or to take a trip to Target. She stared at me like I was a mass murderer.

I made a few friends in my acting classes. For the most part, though, Los Angeles folks stick to themselves. If anyone lived more than five miles away you had to make an appointment to get together. Appointments to see friends? Unbelievable! I clearly was not on base anymore!

Not only that, we quickly learned that traveling five miles in Los Angeles takes at least forty minutes. It seemed that no matter where we wanted to go, we had to set aside an hour to get there.

In other parts of the country, if you want to do something rain is the determining factor. In L.A., it’s traffic and gas. No one wants to drive anywhere since the traffic is always horrible.

I tried to think positive. I was finally living in a place where it is acceptable to have fake hair, a fake tan, and fake nails, but I couldn’t afford the gas to travel to get any of it done!

And everyone in Los Angeles has these weird food hang-ups. They’re either on the dog beach diet or the south beach club diet or something. They would have freaked if they knew what I had been eating the past few years—Kettle Corn, cans of tuna fish, and raw cookie dough.

We decided to try a dinner party with a few friends we had met, but it turned out to be a disaster. They responded with little notes saying, “We no longer eat carbs.” Or, “Just so you know, we do not eat meat anymore. Hope that won’t be a problem.”

My favorite was, “We are gluten free now. It keeps our autism levels low.” (Yes, I am serious!)

I had no idea what to serve any of these people, so I bought some cabbage and bean soup.

It’s funny, but they were all freaked out about eating dinner at our home.

“Why?” asked Jon.

“Well,” one of them admitted, “You’re a Marine family, and we thought you might serve something … barbaric.”

Jon was speechless. I wasn’t sure what that meant. So I asked. “What do you mean?”

“We thought you might serve Iraqi meat.”

Did she mean meat from Iraq, or dead Iraqis? Either way, I was pissed. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “We save the good shit for family.”

We never saw them again.

We eventually connected with friends we met through work and classes, but I really missed the community we had while living on base. In the Corps we had shared a common bond. And yet, with all the diversity in L.A. there is no common bond.

Thank goodness that Jon and I are each other’s best friend.

I stayed in touch with my military girlfriends, who are now spread all over the world.

Erin was on the East coast and we continued to talk regularly. When she and her husband got stationed in my parent’s hometown, I was delighted to be able to fly home and visit them quite frequently.

Erin and Mike had their first “B-billet baby” after his two deployments.