One last tip: beware of the 98-year-old barber in Oceanside who has a large moose head in his shop. I suspect he is legally blind. I watched him shave off my husband’s widow’s peak. Jon ended up with a shaved patch on the front of his head, while the rest of the hair was an inch and a half long.
Maybe this was an attempt by my husband to return to his beloved Asian masseuse. It didn’t work.
BIRTH CONTROL
Let’s talk about other grooming and appearance challenges for military men. I got the shock of my life when my future husband came for a visit and got out a pair of reading glasses.
Urckle had nothing on these military-issued glasses! They were the ugliest, squarest, brownest glasses I have ever seen.
He explained they were his BCGs and had been issued to him. When I asked what “BCG” meant, he responded, “birth control glasses.”
Indeed, that is one way to keep our military personnel out of trouble during training.
Thank God he had not been wearing those dorky things when I first met him. If they would just issue those glasses to the entire Marine Corps on the night of the Ball, we might not have so many Ball Babies.
MOLEST-ACHE
Let’s talk about a bizarre desire that sweeps over our husbands when they deploy. I’m talking about the decision to grow a mustache. Or, as I like to call it, a “molestache.”
Navy men can wear mustaches. They are given a cultural dispensation to have fashionable facial hair. In fact, they are practically issued one with their uniform. And I think Navy guys look good with them.
Unfortunately, our Devil Dogs, Army soldiers, and Air Force men just can’t seem to look good with facial hair. On the rare occasion when they do, it looks offensive. Those who try will pay the price. They’ll be made fun of behind their backs, even by their own wives.
I use the term “molestache” because as the second day of the peach fuzz above the lip starts to darken, the men take on the look of someone who should be on a list of registered sex offenders.
Now there are some men who wouldn’t look right without a mustache: Burt Reynolds, Will Smith, Magnum P.I. But let’s face it, most Marines don’t look like Tom Selleck with a Hawaiian shirt, gold chain, and fully permed chest hair. Marines, soldiers, and airmen need to face the fact that they are not on the list of acceptable people who can sport a mustache.
When the men deploy, they figure this is their time to bask in their testosterone. Misguided, they think the best way to exert this power is to flaunt the potential of their “stache.”
When I received the photo of Jon in Iraq proudly sporting a molestache, I was appalled. All sexual desires for him vanished. It looked like the nastiest caterpillar crawling on his lip.
I had a flash back to junior high when a creepy guy in a Camaro followed me home from the bus stop. I rushed inside to check if Jon was on the registered sex offenders’ list.
Now, ladies, your Marine will tell you it is imperative he grow a mustache while deployed. Those headed for the Middle East will claim the locals have more respect for men with moustaches.
This is all a bunch of bologna. They are simply driven by their desire to have facial hair. So, let them.
For some reason this “molestache” gives them something to look forward to every day. I think they like to caress it and watch it grow. It’s like having a forbidden friend.
When they get home and realize there will be no kissing until it’s removed, they will make sure to shave it off before the reunion. You can also fight fire with fire. Tell your man that you will shave your legs once he shaves off his molestache.
Pets are an absolute necessity in a military family, especially to the ones left on the home front, but only if the family understands the responsibility of owning a pet.
I believe that because the military wife is the one in charge of the military home, she should pick the pet. I saw too many military families get in way over their head with these huge aggressive dogs that were supposed to protect the family while dad was deployed.
In reality, it is the wife who the dog listens to and who does most of the training. She should pick what type and size of dog she wants to handle. The family pet should be more of a companion than a protector.
When my poor husband married me, I had two cats and two dogs. However, this package did not mean two really cool, masculine dogs like bulldogs or even miniature pinschers. Nope, I had two six-pound, white teacup poodles. The female is CoCo (her friends call her MeMe). Her husband (yes, they are married and have had babies) is Monsieur, which is French for Mister.
When we made our initial move across country, my parents took the dogs. We were not sure what we would get for housing or if we would be able to have dogs. When we were settled in and Jon’s deployment date was set, I told him it was time to send for the dogs.
He fought me tooth and nail until I started crying. I told him that I would need a companion while he was gone. He finally agreed, but I think it was more out of guilt than anything else. My parents brought the dogs out a few months before he deployed. Those dogs, in fact, saved my sanity while Jon was gone.
Sadly, my poor husband would have the humiliating task of taking them potty before he left for work. Imagine this big handsome Marine walking these two six-pound Devil Dogs around our base. The looks he got from the other Marines were priceless!
I took every opportunity to remind him of the companionship they would provide me while he was gone.
Monsieur and Jon got off to a rough start when we were dating. One time Monsieur peed on Jon’s undershirt while he was visiting from Virginia.
Monsieur jeered at Jon. When he did, I could hear him telling Jon in a French accent, “Monsieur Gross, you are taller than me, no? But you see, proportionately my pee pee is bigger than yours. I have also fathered many children with my wife CoCo. What have you done with yours?”
I probably should have stepped in, but I felt like one of those women who brings a man home when her kids are still in the house. I believed I had to let them work it out.
The dogs required regular grooming, which usually resulted in a fluffy hairdo adorned with bows. I had extensively detailed instructions for the groomer.
CoCo got a “muffin"-like shape on the top of her head accompanied by “Dorothy Hamill” ears adorned with a bow. CoCo also wanted her toenails painted red. All this was essential for her feminine image.
Monsieur has one very specific requirement: he had to have a mustache. That was vital to his masculine image.
Many groomers tried giving him a different style over the years. For a while he had a fierce Foo Man Chu, but my favorite was a simple French look with a full mustache and small goatee. Yes, my dog could pull off a mustache, while my husband could not. I think this fact deepened the divide between Jon and Monsieur.
On one particular trip to the groomer, I dashed out without leaving my full explanation. When I remembered, I called the shop and described what was supposed to be done.
When I picked them up a few hours later, I was horrified at the results. They had gotten my dogs mixed up! I guess it was much too much to check their genitals. Anyway, Monsieur had painted nails and a shaved face, while CoCo had a huge handle bar mustache.
Once home, I tried my best to repair the damage. I shaved off poor Coco’s mustache, but her self esteem had already suffered.
Monsieur seemed to enjoy his painted nails, which disgusted Jon. The morning walks were now ever more unbearable as Monsieur happily lifted his painted toes to pee while Jon held the leash.
It goes without saying that I switched groomers. Some things are unforgivable.
While Jon (barely) tolerated my dogs, it took years for him to actually love them. Now Jon enjoys their company.
I think he was at first embarrassed that they were so unmasculine. He felt ridiculous having these fu fu dogs around.
Add to that the fact we had a very tight budget. Jon didn’t understand why I had to get them groomed, nor did he appreciate the money being spent on them. So I used the money from my part-time jobs and my savings to cover their care. Vet bills were something we tried to avoid.
We had a neighbor dog we dubbed “The Shark.” This thing was black, sleek, and an evil predator. Like a shark, he stalked his prey, which usually meant my little six-pound poodles.
“The Shark” barked at everything, lunging in an effort to attack if you got within fifty feet. Needless to say, I was scared of this dog. He only weighed about twenty pounds, but it was twenty pounds of pure terror.
If I was walking my poodles or if I even saw him when I went to the mailbox, I would run back to the house as fast as I could.
“The Shark” would usually threaten Monsieur with a barrage of barking and growling. In his nasty Brooklyn accent, “The Shark” would often make nasty comments about CoCo.
“Yo, Frenchy! I like your wife’s little bows. Why don’t you walk over here so I can sniff her butt? Yeah, you stay over there or I will rip you a new ass!”
All I can say is, thank God Monsieur does not understand English.
To make matters worse, “The Shark’s” real name was Molly. Yes, the irony was so thick it dripped.
One afternoon my dogs and I were playing in Kevin and Michelle’s backyard. When Kevin came home, he took the boys to play at the community playground behind our street.
As they were leaving, Monsieur squeezed through the gate following Jacob to the playground and ran directly toward the children.
As they turned to greet Monsieur, I saw “The Shark” just behind them. I screamed and started running for the playground with CoCo on my heels.
“The Shark” was running directly for Monsieur, who immediately changed direction and started running back to the safety of Kevin and Michelle’s backyard.
Unfortunately, the gate was now closed. I screamed. CoCo was barking. Monsieur was panicking because “The Shark” was inches away from his tender little behind.
I thought Monsieur was running straight for me. I even crouched down prepared to pick him up, but he ran right past me. He was heading for the now closed gate.
Kevin and I stood and watched as my tiny dog dove head first into the chainlink fence. He looked just like a baseball player sliding into home plate. I guess he was trying to fit through one of the tiny holes.
As Monsieur’s face made contact with the fence, “The Shark” bit his butt and CoCo bit “The Shark’s” butt.
The force of the impact sent all three dogs flying through the air.
It was literally the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. I knew Monsieur was OK because he immediately jumped into my arms.
A few days later, however, Monsieur began to act strange. He wouldn’t let me pick him up nor could he sit down. I examined his bottom and hind legs and found what appeared to be a blister the size of a silver dollar next to his butt hole.
I took him to the vet and learned the stress of the attack had caused Monsieur’s anal gland to rupture. He would require surgery and a drain, advised the vet. “The Shark” had torn Monsieur a new asshole.
I just couldn’t tell Jon that the surgery would cost us $700. I used the last of my savings to cover it.
Poor Monsieur had to wear a plastic collar around his neck. Not only that, he had a shaved butt and a drain hanging out of it for two weeks.
Imagine how Jon and Monsieur felt as they went on their morning walks. I don’t know what was worse for my family—Jon walking a poodle with a shaved butt and an anal drain, my now empty savings account, or Monsieur knowing his wife had beaten up his bully.
WHO’S YOUR DADDY?
Individually, our two cats weighed more than the dogs combined. However, they gave us equal parts of trouble.
Darius, a black male domestic short hair weighing in at fifteen pounds, had lived with me since high school. My brother had named him after Darius Rucker, lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish. His reasoning was the cat was black and I was attending college in the band member’s hometown.
While I was attending the University of South Carolina, I lived in a quadplex during my freshman year. One time Darius got out and I was forced to get my fat ass outside to find him.
Yes, I was fat. I had gained the freshman fifteen pounds. OK, not to brag, but I am an overachiever; I had really gained twenty-five.
Anyway, I am outside screaming, “Darius! Darius! Come here! Come here right now! Come here to your mom!” Finally, my black cat crawls out from under some bushes and leaps into my arms.
As I turn to go back inside, I see a man standing beside his two-seater BMW staring at me. At that moment, my knees went weak: it is THE Darius Rucker.
And he’s looking at me with this, “You are a freak, lady. I thought you were screaming at me, but now I see you are a stalker who named your black cat after me. Where the “F” is my pepper spray? Don’t come near me, you irrational obsessed fan.”
I later found out he was going to a party with the girls living downstairs. I was so humiliated I ran back upstairs and hid in my apartment the rest of the night.
I should have said something like, “Hey jerk, remember after that concert in Virginia when you took a bunch of groupies backstage? Does this cat’s face look familiar?”
CAT ON A HOT BASE HOUSING ROOF
Our other cat is Tipple, a name that means absolutely nothing. I have been asked if her name was a cross between a “tit” and a “nipple,” which I guess it technically is, but I picked the name because it just sounded funny and I liked the way it rolled off my tongue.
Now, let me say this up front. This cat is an asshole, but I love her in the same way a parent loves a child that regularly disappoints them.
The attitude of this cat flabbergasts me. It’s like she wakes up every morning and declares, “I choose hate. I do not choose love. I choose to hate everyone.” That’s Tipple’s attitude toward life and toward me.
While she has a rotten attitude, she is soft and beautiful on the outside. She is a Siamese mix with white hair, gray points on her ears, feet, face, and tail, as well as the most beautiful blue eyes. She acts like one of those women who knows she’s pretty, but acts mean because people want to be around her.