A Birthday Confession


Ok, it’s not my birthday yet, but I figure as I get closer to my birthday, I’ll be busy opening all the expensive presents everyone got me and attending one surprise party after another.

When my husband was about to graduate from Basic Training, he was very upset to have to tell me in a letter that he was informed there was no PDA allowed in uniform because it’s “a disgrace to the uniform”.  He wouldn’t be allowed to kiss me, hold my hand, hug me, etc.  This was beyond ridiculous as every happy military homecoming I’ve ever seen involves lots of all of the above and this was the moment I started to despise my experience as a military wife.  The way I felt was, “Excuse me.  I never signed anything saying I wouldn’t kiss my husband.”

We had been married for two months when he joined and because he had to wear his uniform all the time, we weren’t going to be allowed to kiss?  Graduation week was coming up and the Air Force laid out what was allowed throughout the week when family was visiting.  Graduation week started on a Monday and then the graduation itself was on Valentine’s Day.

It’s a free country, therefore I went there with a friend a day early and attended church with my husband.  It was hilarious because they are all issued the same glasses and have the same everything, so I stood on the church steps watching for my husband, smiling at every guy with glasses in the distance.  Finally one of them smiled back.

His friend suggested we quickly go around the corner to kiss, which we did.  I was then delighted to learn no one had any say over anything in the chapel, so we held hands all we wanted during the service.  That’s right.  We disgraced the uniform in church!

After the graduation ceremony, we were told we could either attend the Spurs game or the guys could go back to the dorms and do nothing.

It was Valentine’s Day and we weren’t allowed to kiss or hold hands!  Because we wanted to be together, we went to the game, but we spent most of the time trying to find a place to make-out.  Darn elevator attendant!  It’s not PDA if you’re in private, right?

Saturday was their day pass and they were told with a wink that they weren’t allowed to go to hotels.  Of course, we went to a hotel where we held hands and read scriptures.  We said goodbye about 5pm and then it was time to head to the base for his tech school.  He would then go through “phases” and it would be weeks before he was allowed to dress in civilian clothes or leave the base.

My birthday came and he wasn’t allowed to leave base or take off his uniform.  I was also not allowed to take off his uniform.  Hahahahaha.  There was NOTHING to do.  Really.  There was a food court.  I remember one of his friends suggesting we climb in through a dorm window where I wasn’t allowed.

We just sat in the food court listening to one annoying song after another and all I could hear was the booming bass.  Every song sounded the same.  I finally decided I was going to put $10 in the jukebox and buy an entire U2 album as a birthday gift to myself.  It was the best part of my day and as I watched one person after another purchase a song, they looked around in confusion when their song never came on.  I stared straight ahead, opting not to claim responsibility for all of the U2 music.   I think I even managed not to smile mischievously.

I am a selfish person who let people waste their money and didn’t even have the courtesy to tell them, “Your song won’t come on for an hour.”

I’m pretty sure I ordered War.  I might be wrong.  All I know is that I was saved from an hour of musical Hell.

Also, I love this song.  And Red Rocks looks cool.


It Talks Weird to Its Husband

Now that I’ve written two posts in a row about perverts, now for something amusing.(Although my husband said, “You still managed to make that funny!”)

This is rather demented though.

It was one of my goals in life not to be one of those naggy wives who henpecks her husband to death about a bunch of trivial matters.  Before I complain about anything, I ask myself, “Is this really worth mentioning?  Does it matter?”  I figure if I’m going to make a request, make it over something important.  I also don’t want to be a control freak, but sometimes trivial matters start to get to me.

Before I tell this story, I need to mention the background.  Back when we had regular TV with a working antenna (the digital convertor box never worked), we were flipping through channels when we came upon an awful scene where a woman is being held in a pit.  It was Silence of the Lambs.  We watched it long enough to figure out her captor’s plan, which was to do unspeakable things with her skin.  I could not get over this weirdo’s voice.  Whenever there’s a weird voice, I just can’t resist impersonating it.  Trying not to acknowledge that she’s a person with feelings, he calls down to her, “It puts the lotion on the skin.”  Something like that.  One of the most bizarre scenes ever.

Fast forward five years or so.  You know how every surface in your house can become a storage area for random stuff?  Our table was covered in stuff.  The dresser I beautified with a decorative basket and some candles?  It was soon overflowing with stuff.  The kitchen counter – stuff.  Our entertainment center – stuff!  Stuff, stuff, stuff!

I felt like I was entitled to at least one sacred space:  The fireplace mantle.  I wanted to have one spot to look at where I could think, “Isn’t that so pretty?”  Picture frames.  Candles.  A beautiful painting above it.

Then my husband started a nightly ritual of putting on lotion while we watched TV after his shower, as recommended by dermatologists.  Every morning the bottle of lotion was on our fireplace mantle, which was the surface closest to him.  I would say nothing, opting to return it to the bathroom closet.  “It doesn’t matter.” I told myself.  “There are worse things.”

One day I had friends coming to visit.  I did some crisis cleaning and as we were chatting, I think my eyes bugged out when I saw once again, the lotion was on the mantle!  “They must be wondering what kind of weirdo stores their lotion on the fireplace mantle!” I thought irrationally.  I couldn’t ignore it.  I hastily grabbed it and put it back again.

Later that night, we were watching TV.  He was applying lotion.  How could I bring up the issue without making a big deal about it?  He could say, “Oh yeah!  Well you leave the kitchen cupboards open!”  Actually, he does say this.  He says I’m trying to kill him.  Being short, they pose no risk to me, but he hits his head on them.  It’s a fair complaint.

Anyway, I suddenly found myself doing the creepy voice.  “It puts the lotion on the skin.  And when it’s done, it doesn’t put it on the fireplace mantle.”  He laughed his butt off.  Yay!  It wasn’t a big deal and the point was taken.

The next night, he told me in the same voice, “It puts the lotion on top of the piano.”  “NO IT DOESN’T!” I yelled creepily.

Maybe we should teach a seminar on conflict resolution in marriage?  :p  “Step 3:  Try suggesting things using the voice of a serial killer.”

Seriously though, I think 90% of marital arguments are probably stupid and based on something that was said or misunderstood while one or both parties was stressed or hungry.

I’m going to bed now.  Maybe it will rub my back?