Confessions of a Military Wife

by Mollie Gross

  When she started whining that she wouldn’t be able to sleep alone in the house, fire began to shoot from my eyes.

  Then she said she was going to take their child and go to her mother’s for the weekend because she just knew she couldn’t take care of the child by herself.

  Smoke curled out of my nose while I bit my tongue.

  I thought of Michelle with two boys managing for seven months without the help of her husband or her mother.

  Really, I felt like barfing. I couldn’t understand why she thought I was the best person to call for sympathy. Sure, I understood, but I was the wrong person at the wrong time. This was hard to figure out?

  It took everything I had to keep from screaming at her. I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes as I sat and listened to her.

  I’m sure other military wives have gotten similar calls from civilian women unable to cope. These are women who could never cut it as a member of the Silent Ranks. I’m just glad they married bankers and executives and have left the real men to the real women.

  I also remember the judgment I endured when family and civilians would call and be surprised I was in a terrific mood. By their standards I should not have been. They thought I should be down in the dumps because of what they were seeing on the news.

  But I would not and could not watch the news, particularly because the reporter embedded with my husband’s battalion was always on when I turned on the TV. I had to put a limit on my TV time to keep my sanity.

  SCREEN YOUR CALLS

  To all wives experiencing a deployment, may I suggest screening your calls? Or better yet, set up your answering machine to screen out unwanted conversations with civilians and family.

  Consider using this recording:

  You have reached the ‘BLANK’ residence. If you are my in-laws wanting to know why you have not received a letter from your son, press one. If you are a member of the extended family calling to ask about something you saw on the news wondering if your son, brother, grandson, or nephew is safe, press two. If you are a friend calling to complain because your spouse is out of town on business and you knew I would understand, press three. I will return your calls in seven months. All military personnel, stay on the line. I will be with you in a moment.

  If you become uncomfortable talking with friends or family, avoid answering the phone. Instead, send weekly updates via e-mail. It was my mom’s idea to stop answering the phone. She was right. There were times when I was not in the mood to talk. I didn’t want to appear rude, so I would e-mail them later.

  Nor are you obligated to share intimate details of your emails, letters, or phone calls from your spouse with anyone. However, you can share a bit of information with family members. Often the battalion or company will provide updates from the Company Commander. You can pass these along as well to your extended family.

  Just remember the rule: “Loose lips sink ships.”

  What I appreciated the most during those months were the cards and messages that friends and family sent letting me know they were praying for Jon and I.

  Those made my day.

  DATE NIGHT

  There is something to be said for the tight bond that develops between military wives, especially during a deployment. These friendships become something more than the typical relationship.

  In fact, many times wives become surrogate “spouses” for one another. This comes from sharing and relying so much on one another in the absence of our real spouses.

  I recall only feeling comfortable talking to a handful of people because I was tired of explaining my moods or giving updates on how I was doing. But other military wives got it. Instead of your spouse, your neighbors and on-base friends become the ones you begin to share those little details with.

  We could take comfort from one another. We didn’t have to explain why we were having a bad day—or even a good day. It was a comforting community.

  I saw Michelle and the boys almost every day. It was normal for Christa to drop by with Silas. Often, I would see wives out at the playground and just stop by and shoot the bull.

  Liz, Natalie, and I got together at least twice a week. Those times were really important. It was our time to update each other on what our spouses were doing. Sometimes, one husband would tell his wife something about the other guys, which she would pass along.

  On those gatherings, we would have dinner together, go out, or just sit around watching movies.

  We took care of each other by checking in daily and hanging out weekly. We never cried in front of one another, but kept up a brave front. If one of us was having a bad day, it was understood if we bowed out of a visit or activity.

  It wasn’t until our boys were back home that we finally let our feelings out and cried together. We never burdened each other with our fears during the deployments.

  I owe these ladies the world. While our husbands were fighting the war together, we kept the home front together—standing side-by-side.

  In keeping with being each other’s “spouses,” we often planned “date nights.” At least once a week we would go to someone’s house to share a meal and watch a favorite show or movie.

  These evenings were a great chance to get out of the house and have a good home cooked dinner. Eating alone can be so depressing.

  We’d joke that “my wife cooked for me” or “my wife did the dishes.”

  Autumn and I enjoyed a “date night” at least once a month. We usually went for sushi, but sometimes Autumn would find a two-for-one coupon for Black Angus Steakhouse. We would gorge ourselves, then count the days till the next coupon was valid and head out and do it again.

  One date night we arrived at the restaurant a couple of minutes before opening. We were waiting out front with two other families who also had coupons.

  When opening time came and went, I became impatient. We were famished! I pulled out my cell phone and called.

  A voice answered with some mumbled greeting that was, let’s just say, less than enthusiastic. This sent me over the edge.

  “Yes, I’m standing outside your location here in Oceanside. It says you open at five and it is now ten after the hour. You have several people out here wanting to dine!”

  No response.

  By now I’m starting to yell.

  “I just want to know, do you ever plan on opening your Black Anus?”

  Hearing my mispronunciation, these other families turn and look at me. Did I mention that some of them were African American?

  Autumn started laughing, but I was felt pretty small right about then.

  On the other end of the phone I heard, “No, ma’am, this is the Black ANGUS. The manager should be out there shortly.”

  The mispronunciation did not influence our appetites that evening. It did, however, earn me quite a few dirty looks from the staff.

  SPA DAY

  I lived for spa days. They were the most calming, relaxing moments I could have. After long periods of time of not being touched, those spa days became a medicinal necessity.

  Not far from the base, there was an amazing casino with a full-service spa in the town of Pala. Beenie, Autumn, and I frequented it at that point in deployment when we couldn’t stand it any longer.

  There are a couple of ground rules at the full service spa everyone should know. Beenie and I learned them the hard way during our first spa visit in Vegas.

  We did a couple’s massage, which just means we were in the same room for our treatments. The massages were bliss. One of us became so relaxed that a little something snuck out, if you know what I mean.

  All I’m saying is we blamed it on the massage therapist’s shoe squeaking on the floor. Still, there were lingering suspicions as well as the stench.

  The massage is enhanced if the locker rooms are equipped with these amazing saunas and showers. Here’s the thing. It’s a community locker room, so people are walking around naked.

  Beenie and I were freaking out. We dashed back and forth from hot tub to showers to
saunas. Each time we’d modestly cover up with our robes. Then some wide-open woman would walk out in front of us and do something over the top like bend over.

  That’s when we decided we’d wear swimsuits at the spa.

  On one of our first all-girl spa days, Beenie was seven months pregnant and feeling really self-conscious about it.

  We were undressing in the locker room, but Beenie began fretting that she didn’t want Autumn or me to see her naked. I had to break the ice. I dropped my robe and started doing topless jumping jacks. My boobs were spinning in opposite directions and then smacking together, spinning and twirling. I yelled out—in time with the jumps and slaps, “You’re getting sleepy … Very … sleepy.” The girls started laughing.

  Then just as my bosoms were starting their next rotation, one of the spa attendants came around the corner! Now it was my turn to feel uncomfortable!

  But Beenie was feeling more comfortable with her body, particularly after seeing mine at its most ridiculous.

  Finally we were ushered off to our massages. We planned to meet up afterward to put on our bathing suits before going to the whirlpool sauna.

  The other two girls were finished before me and already had their swimsuits on, so I suggested they go on ahead.

  When I finished changing, I went barreling around the corner and found them lounging on chairs.

  I stopped in my tracks. “What’s up?” I asked. “Why aren’t you two getting your feet wet?”

  As I followed their stares, I saw a completely nude woman lounging on the steps of the spa. She looked like she was posing for a Hustler magazine centerfold—except she was no model.

  She was obviously European with a full bush and armpit hair. She was leaning back on one arm and had the other on her forehead wiping sweat off her brow. Her foot dangled in the pool and her vagina was staring straight at me.

  I tried not to make eye contact. I had learned in high school Latin that if you looked Medusa directly in the eyes, you would turn to stone.

  I was not mature enough to handle it. After getting an eye full, I turned and marched right out of there.

  Forget about making eye contact with my girlfriends. None of us had the self-control for that.

  When that woman left the community sauna, I swear the water was at least a foot shallower. It had been soaked up by all that hair.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of getting in the sauna after her. What if something from one of her orifices was lingering in the water? I know chlorine kills germs, but still, there was a lot of hair on that woman. I had to ask myself, what was she trying to cover up?

  I decided to use the showers that day instead.

  THE DEPLOYMENT DIET PLAN

  Something snaps after you’ve been making meals for two and then have to cook for one. You stop putting the effort into preparing meals or even eating right.

  I think this is why a lot of widows and elderly people develop such poor eating habits. Whenever I see an old man eating alone at a restaurant, I end up crying in the bathroom. Nothing is sadder.

  My nutrition suffered during Jon’s deployment. I have never been a fan of TV dinners, so I would create these bizarre food combos that I would eat every day for two weeks straight before moving on to something else.

  Here are a few scrumptious meals I would throw together. Watch out, Rachel Ray! Arguably these combinations are better than an MRE:

  Week 1-2: Mac and cheese with sliced tomatoes;

  Week 2-3: Tuna fish on an everything bagel;

  Week 4-5: Grilled cheese, pickle, Campbell’s beef barley soup;

  Week 6-7: Cottage cheese and fettuccini noodles with sauce;

  Week 8-9: Fried okra, fried egg rolls, and strawberries (in season);

  Week 10-11: Flank steak, cooked by itself on the George Forman;

  Week 12-13: Hot dogs cut up with ketchup and mac and cheese;

  Week 14-15: Tuna fish and a side of green beans with Crazy Salt.

  Acceptable snack foods were a peanut butter apple, chocolate Teddy Grahams, vanilla yogurt, Kettle Corn (sweetened popcorn) and, my personal favorite, raw cookie dough straight out of the tube.

  Remember, you can also depend on the Schwann’s man for ice cream, or any party appetizer cravings. You can even substitute the above items for a well-balanced Schwann’s meal. Call for a catalog.

  BODY TROUBLE

  It’s during this time in the deployment cycle that you start noticing changes in your body.

  Most of us get fat or skinny depending on how we deal with stress. If that is your case, you know what to do about it: either eat more, or eat less.

  My problem is I tend not to eat, which makes crazy things happen to my brain when it doesn’t get enough nutrition. I actually blacked out once while driving on I-5. It was at that point I understood that I needed to eat more than once a day.

  For those of you seeking comfort in food, think how much you are going to hate yourself when your man emails you with the reunion date and you’re up ten or twenty pounds.

  Be smart. Instead of eating the entire box of cookies, stop at three. You’ve got to maintain discipline. In addition to not eating well, I developed some unusual body issues that threw my girlfriends for a loop. I am sharing this in the hope that I am not alone.

  The first odd thing that occurred was the appearance of a single dark hair on my boob. It made me feel like a werewolf. I asked my friends if this was happening to them, or if it was normal.

  Where had this odd chest hair come from? Was it because I was becoming so independent? Was I starting to produce an overabundance of testosterone?

  I even began to think it was because I was no longer sexually active and my body was rejecting its femininity. After all, my legs were getting hairier.

  Finally a vote was taken two months later, and the girls told me to just pluck it.

  I did and it never came back. But I did later miss it!

  At the time of Jon’s second deployment, the war had become a political football. I thought I would be funny and grow my bush out to support President Bush.

  I really was not invested in this politically. I was just being lazy and a little crass. My bush developed a mind of its own, however. It became so huge I lost everything in it—keys, hairbrushes, flip-flops.

  One day when Michelle could not find Jacob, I really had to think about the last time that I had seen him. I worried that he could have gotten tangled up in there. Everything else had.

  At our June Bunco night, somehow the conversation came around to my massive bush. The girls started laughing. I don’t think they believed me.

  I showed Natalie.

  She screamed.

  She thought I had been exaggerating, as usual. She told me it was an absolute fire hazard as well as completely disgusting, and ordered me to shave and trim it back.

  In fact, she suggested I celebrate my independence by letting it go on Independence Day.

  I said goodbye to my bush during a private ceremony on July 4.

  THE SWARM

  The attack by a swarm of mosquitoes was one of the most bizarre incidents of that summer.

  Natalie and I had spent the day at the beach. When I got home, I hung my bathing suit on a rack on the patio. I was wearing a nightgown—one of my handmade muumuus—when I went to check on my swimsuit. As I walked up to the rack, hundreds of mosquitoes suddenly surrounded me. I screamed, swatting here and there in an effort to disperse the buzzing angry cloud of biting insects before running inside.

  You know how some people are always getting bitten or attacked by bugs while other people are not? Well, I’m the one who attracts the bugs.

  Later that night, I woke up in pain. I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw bites all over my face and chest. Upon further inspection, I discovered I had bites all over my body.

  I counted more than sixty bites on my stomach, five on my “pee pee,” four in each armpit, and too many to count on my back. I felt like something out of a freak show.

&n
bsp; I cried as I poured myself an oatmeal bath. I became nauseated, itchy, and in pain. (Just writing about it makes me start to itch all over.) I covered myself in calamine lotion and put on mittens to keep myself from scratching.

  I ended up bombing the patio as well as every room in the house. I was sure those mosquitoes were plotting a return to finish me off.

  Imagine pretending you don’t have mosquito bites on your pee pee while you’re shopping at the commissary. You just can’t pull off that type of discrete scratch and get away with it.

  SEXUALLY DEPRIVED FOR YOUR FREEDOM

  Instead of a yellow ribbon, can I get some kind of sign to tie around my tree that proclaims “Sexually Deprived for Your Freedom"?

  What about wives who silently suffer for months, or a year at a time, while missing the physical act of love?

  My neighbor Michelle suggested “self-love.”

  Some wives couldn’t talk about it as boldly, but many did have a novel with Fabio on the cover as their choice reading material during those long months.

  There was one particular group of ladies who suffered more than the rest: the “preggers.” They were so horny with hormones racing, and no man was around to quench their desires.

  Something had to be done to help these courageous mothers.

  THE DILDO FAIRY

  I heard from close friends that there is a stage in pregnancy when a woman can’t get enough of their man’s sweet lovin'.

  And after learning this, I was shocked to find out that many women actually timed their pregnancy around deployments. Many wives wanted to be pregnant the entire time their husbands were gone so when their husbands got home they would be there for the birth.

  I thought this reasoning was nuts for a variety of reasons.

  First of all, I would want my man around to bring me all my cravings at all hours of the night. And what about those aches and pains? Who is going to rub your feet when your man is deployed?

  And don’t even get me started on the hemorrhoids. Who wants to go through that alone?

  But many brave members of the silent ranks do plan to be pregnant during their husband’s deployment. When he comes home, they’re about ready to burst. I wanted to ask them if, when they planned this out, whether they had taken into consideration that horny trimester?