spouses

2 posts

Indifferent Military Wife Theater

I’m a military spouse. A really bad one, if all the “manuals” on this theoretical occupation are to be believed.

Sample quote:

“Some women think they’re cool by driving over the speed limit on base, dressing like prostitutes, and getting drunk at command functions…You are socializing with your husband’s bosses and colleagues, and you need to behave as such. You may be harming your service member’s career prospects- and therefore your income potential- by acting wildly. So grow up already!”

I don’t want to give you all too many good tips about being part of the “silent ranks” (seriously, that is what they call it) at once, so just digest that one for now.

In most ways, Airman Nerd’s job is like an accountant’s, in that it affects and interests me only tangentially. But in other ways, it is definitely a lifestyle we’re not used to. And here’s a little snippet of how things went when we got his first base assignment:

When he found out where we were going to live, our friends asked if we were going to live on base when we were at dinner.

“Oh, hell no!” I shrieked, liberally splashing wine on someone. “Does anyone think I’d get along with those bitches? They’d all be going, ‘Oh, that girl with the unbrushed hair and dirty yoga pants is screaming again. Look at those dogs, biting each others’ necks like vampires and digging their way to another base. This is the sixth time this week the Chinese food delivery guy has been to their house.'”

With that preconceived (and possibly judgmental) notion of military wives in my mind, Airman Nerd wisely decided I could pick where we lived. And, anyway, our very dangerous dogs would not be allowed in base housing. Tell that to the Chihuahua that bit me at work a few months ago.

So we rented a house. Actually, a cute little house, and the bonus of military life is that people assume you’re good for the rent money. We paid no security or pet deposit. This was hopeful on the part of our landlords, as the entire yard will need to be reseeded when we move out and the 25-year-old linoleum doesn’t stand up well to copious amounts of drool and water-bowl spillage. Sorry, Landlord Bruce!

I got the job I was hoping for, as we listed our base preferences in order of where I had the best chance of working in a progressive animal welfare organization. Too bad it was twenty-five miles from where we live, and we have one car.

Once, my husband got a ride home from work with one of his officers (same age, single). “You shouldn’t have to give her the car,” he told my spouse. “How much does she even make, anyway?”

My husband allegedly kept his mouth shut (even if he didn’t, he told me he did, and that’s the important half).

Continuing on, Staff Sargeant Sexist said, “I mean, she doesn’t have to work.” (Ohhh…hell…)

Airman Nerd extricated himself from this discussion and relayed it to me later.

Is rage-laughter a thing? If it is, that’s what I was doing. Rage-laughing. “HE DON’T KNOW ME! STAFF SARGEANT DOUCHEBAG, I SAY! WHAT WOULD I DO ALL DAY?”

I continued ranting at a capital-letter volume until Mr. Nerd pointed out that he wasn’t the one suggesting I stay home and take care of the house and…the dogs, I guess, since I’d rather own thousands of scorpions than even one child.

So we continued on, with his helpful boss suggesting things like, “You should get another car,” and “She should find a job that’s closer,” which we hadn’t thought of before, naturally, because Airman Nerd is an adult with a degree in his field and I’m a lady.

Still, we soldier on (get it?) with one car amongst two people who both have careers. We’re pioneers in that way; two kids just tryin’ to figure out how to have a dual-income-no-kids household.