In this installment of the Air Force Husband’s Handbook (now to be known as AFHH because the military LOVES acronyms) we bring you the woeful, though not entirely fictitious tale of a lone Martian that, contrary to good judgment, thought it would be a good idea to attack Venus. Obviously judging by that intro, you could surmise that it was a failed undertaking as the Martian was beat back by the Venusians into a hasty retreat.
Don’t Mess With Venus.
Okay… so maybe attack is too strong a word for the Martian’s actions and “beat back” mischaracterizes the behavior of the Venusians. Actually, the Martian really only had good intentions to begin with. He didn’t really want to attack Venus. All he wanted to do is to take his cute little daughter to the playground on base. How was he to know that the playground was the territory of the Venusians and their brood?
So, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I am that Martian and the “Venusians” are actually other military spouses.
That are fulltime homemakers.
And aren’t male.
We had just gotten done with our follow-up doctor’s appointment from last weeks “incident” (which went really well by the way) and were able to confirm no broken bones and prognosis for full recovery. Despite the screaming of baby obscenities at the x-ray machine, I felt that I should reward my daughter for being such a trooper through all this father inflicted grief. I had taken some time off of work for the appointment and pretty much had the rest of a nice and sunny day to spend time with her. First it was off to the BX for some ice cream and then to the playground afterwards.
We made our way over to Baskin Robbins in the food court, made our selection, and sat down to enjoy our cup of Mango Mania ice cream together (is mania a flavor?). It was at this point that I felt what seemed like some sharp stares on my back that caused me to look around. I scanned back towards the direction I felt the stares from and found myself looking at an older couple. The man was obviously retired military but had an oddly dumbfounded look on his face. Noticing the expression on his face I reached behind me to make sure that my third arm was still tucked behind my head. Confirming, it was hidden from view, I tried to figure out what he was looking at (I’m joking). It’s like he’s never seen a guy with his daughter, having ice cream together in the middle of the day (on a work day!), with no mom to be seen, and a big red back-pack stuffed with diapers, wipes, and Ms. Pinky the doll. Then I noticed his wife. She wasn’t dumb founded. Oh no. She was in fact giving me the “look.” It’s kind of hard to describe but it was like a look of disapproval and confusion all rolled up into one. Whatever I was, I was different and she didn’t like it. The Modern Man. Humph! What I didn’t realize was that I had just made first contact with the advanced guard of the Venusians and that this was just a taste of things to come. Oh well. Whatever. I’m having ice-cream in the middle of the day with my daughter and not at work. Yay!
It was still nice and sunny outside and after we finished our ice cream, it was time to let my daughter to run around and play a bit, so we made our way to the playground on base. You would have thought that I would have learned by now that this playground is not any normal playground. What, with the freaky, freezing pavlovian kids and all. Nope. Didn’t learn a thing. I’m stubborn like that. So we get to the playground and my daughter is making all kinds excited squeals and noises that only dogs should be able to hear. She’s definitely looking forward to this. So I set her down to run off to play with the other kids.
I’d never actually been to the playground before during the work week and in the middle of the day to boot. It’s really different. Instead of screaming, rabid kids and their families playing there you have screaming, rabid kids and their Venusians…I mean mothers, playing there. They were there with their kids, alternately wiping noses, filling their broods open orifices with snacks, yelling “No!" between “Stop thats!” and gabbing away at each other.
They kind of looked alike too with their nifty sneakers, baggy sweatshirts, SUV like strollers, and an overall soccer mom-ish feel to them. They were all just having a grand time. A grand time that is, until they saw me. Apparently my backpack of kiddie supplies was not enough camouflage for me to completely fit in. I even had snacks and sippy cups like they did!
Suddenly the chatter dropped to a murmur, kids were held close, some panicked and ran away hysterically. Okay, I exaggerated a little there but the overall feeling was that they didn’t quite know what to make of me. What is this? A man? Here? In our world? You’d think I’d stumbled on some secret organizations meeting or something. Or had I? Hmmm… I was, at this point, waiting for the torches and pitchforks to materialize from their overstuffed diaper bags. In reality some were able to offer a half hearted smile and greeting here or there but for the most part it seemed that they resorted to using their native Venusian language whenever I was nearby.
Telepathy.
It reminded me of a similar episode when we first moved to this base. For some reason I had gotten the bright idea that I should attend the “Spouse’s Orientation” so I could learn about the base and what it offers. We already know what my track record with “bright ideas” is. Despite that, I even called ahead to the program director to specifically tell her that, yes, I am a spouse and yes, I am a male. Would it be appropriate for me to attend? “Oh, yes, yes. Of course! We’ve had a male spouse come through our program before!” Notice the singular “a male spouse” there. Hearing that reassurance, I figured that surely the military was a progressive entity now and recognized the existence of us male spouses and our needs. So against my better judgment I decided to sign-up to participate. That was a mistake. Not only that but now I’ve given the program director the ability to say “Oh, yes we’ve had male spouses come before,” to the next sucker of a male spouse that dares consider attending. Sorry dude. My bad.
So I show up to this thing and the “place setting” at my table has lots of gifts for us spouses. Potpourri, soaps, pretty, flowery tins, etc. You know, all the stuff a man could ever want. This was an ominous beginning. Then there were the other spouses. I looked up and around and, yup, all women, and yup they all looked like I had just read their diaries and published their deepest secret on the internet. Lots of looking away, lots of awkward fidgety-ness. Oh no! A man is here! What is he doing here? Doesn’t he know this is for spouses only? Uhmm… so I’m a spouse too? I think? I have a feeling that much telepathy was transmitted that day. On top of that there was the “Protocol Officer” as one of the speakers who was there to teach us about the ins and outs of formal military dining. He had lots of helpful hints about the types of dresses to wear, where to buy the dresses, which fork to use and when, that you should stand on your husbands left and not right so he could salute a superior, and even had us practice shaking hands. How to shake hands? Seriously?? At this point I was wishing the fork diagram on my “place setting” were real so I could poke my eyes out. And the Protocol Officer? Yeah, he pretty much refused to acknowledge my existence the entire time I was there. I tried to get his attention though. Looked him in the eye (he looked away), sat up taller. “Was he going to talk about suits?” I wondered. Nope. I think I made him feel “uncomfortable.” Welcome to the club, bud. Though, if he had made us practice curtseying I think I would have punched him in the face.
So what’s the point of writing all this? I dunno. I guess it’s just to rant a little. Sometimes I feel like the military and the military culture looks at me and other male spouses and believes we’re these mythical unicorns living over the rainbow frolicking with leprechauns. But then, when confronted by us in reality, our third arm sprouts up from behind our heads somewhere and they have no idea what to do with us. I guess that’s the main thing. They have no idea what to do with us. This has been made especially clear to me during my wife’s deployment. I keep getting these e-mails about all these programs and support activities for spouses of the deployed but guess what? They’re all during the work day or involve some artsy, crafty stuff. You know, stuff that any guy would enjoy. Oooh…I need to make sure I save that coupon I saw for Michaels! Sure, there may be some stuff that’s supposed to be gender neutral, but based on my experiences so far of who goes to these things, no thanks.
But, back to playground. Fortunately, my daughter had a great time and was spared from the feelings of being “different.” All the Venu…er mom’s loved her. It’s probably because she’s awfully cute (and no, I’m not even going to qualify that with a “to me,” because she is. So there.) and because they probably all knew that one day she would also grow up to be a Venusian as well. NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
Tip of the Day: The military likes to use all sorts of code, acronyms and jargon to communicate. For all you male spouses out there, it’s key to remember that in military talk “Spouse” really means “Wife”. So “Spouse’s Clubs” are really “Wives' Clubs” and anything advertised for military spouses really means wives. If you remember that, then there will be no surprises.
“I will call those who were not My people, ‘My people,’ and her who was not beloved, ‘beloved.’ And it shall be that in the place where it was said to them ‘You are not My people,’ there they shall be called Sons of the Living God.” -Romans 9:25-26
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