Meth Heads, Military Wives, Fist Fights, and Being a Foodie: What Living in 29Palms Has Taught Me

In 7.5 days I’ll be packing up my meager belongings and making the trek back home – a place I never fully appreciated until I spent 5+ months in 29Palms (a town that most Californians don’t even know exists). I can say with 100% certainty that I won’t miss the surroundings (not even a teeny eensy weensy bit), but I will miss the people and certain aspects of a lifestyle I never thought I could become accustomed to. And on that note I thought I would sum up my experience with the 10 things I learned while I was here:

1. If a town is known for it’s meth heads, expect your neighbors to be the same.

Let me just begin by pointing out that a previous blog I wrote clearly stated my desire to not be stuck living among drug dealers and gang bangers (as I have been in the past). The universe must have somehow turned a deaf ear to this request because my neighbors? Yeah, they seem to be feeding the town’s meth habit right from the comfort of their own home. Let’s just say they are an interesting bunch without the street smarts of any successful drug dealer (thus their arrest yesterday). And they take showers with a hose and sponge in their driveway. Enough said.

2. Fist fighting doesn’t mean that a friendship is over.

While my boyfriend spent the last 4 years entrenched in the military way of life surrounded by guys, I was at home spending most of my time with my girlfriends. So when a night of drinking turned sour because two of his buddies started fist fighting over an eye gouging game that went a little too far, I thought that a rift would be formed right smack dab in the middle of our “group.” When I asked one of the guys if they would still be friends (with his eye bloodshot and quickly turning a shade of black), he answered, “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be? We’re best friends. It’s just like two boys in a sand box fighting over the same Tonka truck. No big deal.”

I’m still trying to decide if girls could ever adopt this thought process.

3. Living for the weekends is no way to live.

When people have asked me over the past few months how I like living out here, my answer is always the same: the weekends are a blast. But the rest of the week? I’d rather rip out my toenails one by one then spend another hour simply wasting time here. Ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration. The point, however, is that we get to leave on the weekends and venture out into civilization – exactly what makes living here bearable. Which also makes me realize that jumping between fleeting moments of bliss is simply no way to exist. Period.

4. Distance is all relative.

Just a quick snapshot: from the spot that I am currently sitting, Starbuck’s is a good 20 miles away, any quality restaurant is 60+ miles away, and a decent movie theater playing recent movies is around 65 miles away. Seriously. So now when I hear people complain about driving I’ll have a hard time resisting the urge to tell them to shove it. Which also brings me to my next point.

5. Heat is also all relative.

Now that the temperature is slowly dropping, I am beginning to realize how drastically our idea of “normal” can shift if need be. And of course, after sweating through 110+ degree temperatures with a swamp cooler that refused to work, 98 degrees seems like heaven. I don’t think I’ll ever say that Colorado summers are too hot again. Ever.

6. Good friends don’t count dollars and cents.

Before living the military lifestyle, I had never encountered a group that was so willing to give without keeping track of what they were owed in return. They care deeply about each other, but they care about each other’s families as well. That is what I’ll miss.

7. When all else fails, food can make any day exciting.

There is something about experiencing never ending boredom that makes meal time really fricken exciting. So those days when slaving away over my computer or watching an embarrassing amount of reality TV simply weren’t cutting it, having a really good meal could fill that void. Yes, I realize that’s what massively obese people say, but I’m being honest here. At least it’s not a drug addiction – although my neighbors could have helped me out with that.

8. Claiming your husbands accomplishments is not cool.

After spending a fair amount of time living in close proximity to a military base and a total of four years immersed in the politics of it all, I have met several types of military spouses. There is one in particular that I can’t stand – the one that will say matter of factly (and of course there are plenty of variations on this), “Yeah, we are supposed to be picking up rank soon,” or “I really can’t stand our chain of command right now.” Strange, but I don’t think that the military remembers employing you.

Yes, it’s a partnership. But I don’t think your marriage vows stated anything about losing your own identity and taking on that of your husband’s. Maybe that’s just me.

9. Not everyone thinks like me.

Perhaps this one sounds like something I should have learned around the age of 8, but let’s be honest- most of us operate on a daily basis spouting off our opinions like everyone feels exactly the same way. After being surrounded by people who grew up far differently than I did, I realize that not everyone agrees (or should agree) with me. And I’m pretty sure I’m ok with that.

10. Money should be spent (yes, I know this one’s a shocker).

From the time my dad walked me down to the bank and helped me open up my first savings account, I’ve been a money hoarder. There was a time when spending as little as $10 would create an ulcer in my stomach the size of Texas. After moving, however, I realized that we would have to spend money if we wanted to go anywhere or see anything worthwhile. So, out of necessity, I agreed.

I know that we wouldn’t have been able to have one tiny fraction of the amazing experiences we did if we didn’t spend some of our hard-earned dough. And that’s big for an anxiety-prone- money-hoarder like me.

Goodbye 29Palms. I’d like to say I’ll miss you, but then I’d be lying. And a quote from a few good guys I know, “It’s been real. It’s been fun. But it hasn’t been real fun.”

Dreams? Yeah, I’ll Save Those For Tomorrow.

Before leaving home to bake in the sweltering sandbox that I currently reside in, I had concocted a list of things I would delve into once I got here. You know- those things we believe deep down will make us happier, healthier, more whole versions of ourselves, but are better left for another time or place. Yes. I have lots of those.

I figured that being in a town so far removed from regular Starbuck’s drinking civilization would inspire me in some miraculous way to be…different. And at the end of those six (or five if I have anything to say about it) long months I would have become a yogi, accomplished magazine writer, meditation guru, master chef, brilliant photographer, organization expert, blogger extraordinaire, etc. etc. etc. Seriously – my goals were that lofty.

Three months into my time here and what have I got? Sores on my ass from spending six to eight loooooong hours a day typing diligently on my computer that I can only use on the couch because the wifi refuses to cooperate. And the closest I’ve gotten to being a yogi? Completing a 30 minute candlelit yoga practice from a DVD via the Xbox.

Oh, and did I mention I’ve become an expert complainer and pity party thrower?

So as the boyfriend and I attempted last night to make plans for a life ATM (after the military) I found myself returning to that place of “once I get there things will be better.” I’ll have a group of girlfriends again, a real live place outside of the house to do my writing, my family a quick drive away. Funny thing is, that’s what I was all gung-ho about leaving in the first place.

My twenties thus far seem to have been an exercise in finding a place to be. A place that warrants a sigh of relief, while simultaneously pushing me to be something greater, do something bigger, and step out of the me I thought I was. I’ve been convinced at certain times that it’ll come with settling down – picking paint colors and a bed set to match. Then, I’ll suddenly feel as if I could only feel it somewhere as far removed from my comfort zone (and country of origin) as possible. Now, neither seems to fit just right.

It’s not my environment. I’m convinced (at least in this moment) of that now. It’s a matter of starting today those things I’ve reserved for another place and time.

Anyone else have a storage closet full of things to tackle another day in another city?

I haven’t disappeared, I’ve just been baking in the heat.

Blogging, like most other areas of my life, used to be something I scheduled. (Because even inspiration can be placed on a timeline for someone as by the book as myself.) Then, when things started to get a little crazy, I stopped cold turkey. But what used to be an issue of priorities has now become another bout of perfectionism gone haywire.

Let me just begin by saying this- when I was younger and writing in a diary seemed like something every little girl should do, I used to tear out entries if I didn’t like how they sounded. Granted, I had a placed a massive lock on the outside to prevent anyone from reading my innermost thoughts, but the point was that I wasn’t satisfied with anything short of perfection. Thus, it was only a matter of time before I began judging the writing I was putting up for all of the online world to see (or at least the meager audience that I had acquired).

Inspiration, it turns out, is also a problem when leaving my house has ceased to be an everyday occurrence. No, it’s not depression, it’s an absolute hatred of the god awful heat. Heat meaning 100 degrees IN THE SHADE. Seriously. I’ve never before felt as if my skin was cooking two minutes after stepping outside.

I can blame my writing hiatus partly on the fact that I’m in the midst of a series of processes. Learning to live with my honey, for one, is a PROCESS (capitals seemed necessary for that one). How could it not be when I’m used to being comfortable and he’s used to a lifestyle of survival? My challenge this week: getting him to agree to a rendezvous at the farmers market this weekend. For some reason, he’s completely against fresh produce. Go figure.

Another process: accepting and recognizing the perfection in everyday life. After the homecoming was over, and I settled into a “routine,” I began to forget what both of our lives were like when he was away. I’m reminding myself to feel a little gratitude for the shopping trips, the movie dates, and even the arguments that we couldn’t have had if the deployment would have ended differently.

Most of all, I’m learning to redefine the individual me while still staying connected to this relationship I’ve waited so long to fully experience.

I’ve missed you blogger world. Here’s to checking in more regularly.

And Here Comes the Sun…

For the better part of the last three years I have waited for a significant change to happen in my otherwise middle of the road kind of existence. Perhaps the universe was backed up with requests and received all of mine at the SAME TIME. Nonetheless, the past three weeks has left my life looking like Heidi Montag post surgery. In a good way, of course.

After seven months of panic attacks and limited communication, my high school sweetheart came home from war. (Strange how retro that sounds now.) This was precluded by a week of hearing that the homecoming date was being pushed back yet again- another indication that organization is not one of the Marine Corps strong suits. However, every cloud has a silver lining and mine was wine guzzling and antique shopping with the other perturbed Marine wives/girlfriends. Without them I very well could have pulled all my hair out.

Three o’ clock in the morning on April 30th we were all dolled up and ready for those few seconds we had waited too long for. While I will undoubtedly experience other reunions in my life, I don’t know if I will ever again experience the massive amount of love and respect that this one garnered from everyone present. And for that I am truly grateful that I have loved someone who couldn’t be entirely mine for the past 3+ years of my life.

For those who left on October 4 and never came home and for those who sustained injuries that will forever change their way of life, my heart goes out to you. I know that the brotherhood of men that my love left with ensured that I attended his homecoming and not his funeral. I am forever indebted to all of you.

Because pictures (and videos) speak a thousand words, here is the video of the 3rd Battalion 4th Marines homecoming from Afghanistan. For anyone without an immediate connection to the military who doesn’t fully understand the sacrifice involved, this is what it’s all about.

I will now always have this as my reminder that all challenges come to an end and a little bit of faith can move mountains.

I’m Ready

I’ve never really been a procrastinator. Sure, I avoid certain conversations, errands, and menial tasks, but when it comes to the big stuff I never hold off the inevitable. Even in elementary school I would write book reports a month in advance and complete group projects on my own if everyone else seemed to be shuffling their feet. And now that my compensation comes in the form of money and not praise from my teachers, I don’t even recognize procrastination as a viable way of being.

I suppose I could read a million self-help books that would confirm that this behavior is positive, that I am being proactive in getting to where I want to go. But in doing things today so that I can enjoy tomorrow, that illusive day off just gets pushed farther into the future. If running a thousand miles an hour opens up even a small window of time for nothing I will find something to fill that hole.

Rationally I realize that I’m avoiding stepping on the brakes simply because I know that silence will follow. I have been avoiding standing still out of fear that I will have to listen to my fears. How ironic. And in the midst of it all, I’m angry that planning for the future has left me floating above the present moment with no real connection to either.

As uncomfortable as I am with the prospect of moving to a new town that can’t offer me the lifestyle that I’m used to, I’m also relieved by the fact that distractions will be few and far between. There is something refreshing about the idea of stripping down to the bare essentials and allowing life to be simple again.

I could say that I just want to be able to truly live, but in all honesty I’m not even sure what that means. After all, what does living really constitute? Breathing? I’ve got that covered.

No, I want to sit in the middle of life and experience everything exactly how it is- not something that needs to be changed, manipulated, or fixed. I want to see life in tiny moments instead of always taking in the bigger picture. I want to avoid planning and allow everything to unfold exactly how it was intended to. I want to let go of who I think I am and become who I never thought of becoming.

I am ready to just be.

Creature Comforts and Cable Negotiations

I think I’ve found the place. Well, maybe not the place as in “this is the place I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life living in.” No, more like this is the place that seems to require fewer hours to clean, and not quite as many bugs to herd out before becoming hospitable. Although the one area of contention that might just be the sole cause of a few breakdowns: no dishwasher. Wait…what century are we living in?

Yes, I know- not a big deal. But I have come to discover that I am one of those people who depends greatly on creature comforts. I gave up on that tiny glimmer of hope that we might actually have a washer and dryer, but a dishwasher just seems like a give in. Like running water. (Maybe I should check on that one too.) And then while I was breaking out in a cold sweat over hand washing dishes, my honey says to me, “We aren’t getting cable, we really won’t need it.”

Umm…hang on. I think that one just gave me a heart attack. Quickly, and a bit too defensively I quipped “you want me to live in the middle of the desert with no freakin’ cable?!” This was about the time when I started to run through the list of things that we might not agree on. Like how many covers to have on the bed or who will scrub the toilet. All of which is a little too much for someone who has pretty much lived sans roommates for the past 2+ years (I figure my parents don’t really count).

I won the cable battle after a very compelling argument and probably more whining then my honey really wanted to listen to. However, all of this has made me a little too aware of how much readjusting this move is going to require. Last time I trucked out to that corner of California I think I was a bit more moldable and pleasantly unaware of what I was in for. Luckily the gamble paid off and I loved it. Really loved it.

Once the dust settles (actually I don’t think it every settles there…) I know I will be able to find my niche again. Even if it is with basic cable and no dishwasher.

Murderers, Gang Bangers, Drug Dealers…and Foot Fungus

Tying up loose ends in Denver and opening up shop in California has turned into a daunting task. A few days ago I had somewhat officially picked THE place for me and my honey only to start back at square one yesterday. My choice, of course, had been based off of three craigslist pictures that showed that the kitchen had REAL TILE and the appliances actually looked sleek and CLEAN. Yup, I thought- that’s the place. Low standards? Well, last time I lived in good ol’ 29 Palms we lacked a dishwasher, a fully functioning stove, and had a crack under our door large enough to fit several different species of desert bug.

So after recruiting a friend to go look at the place (because yes, I’m still that rational let’s make REALLY sure kind of person), I was told it was small. Really small. Like you need a blow up mattress in the bedroom small. At that point I was willing to maybe forgo a few furniture items and get cozy with the idea of REALLY getting cozy with my honey- until I heard the last little bits of information. The owner lives on the property in her trailer. Ummm…ok. Oh and one of the neighbors had a sister living with him that ended up MURDERING HER BOYFRIEND- on the property. Joy. Even my low standards can’t jive with that drama.

Back to the drawing board. I’m not entirely sure where to go from here considering how slim the pickin’s are in that neck of the woods. I’ve convinced myself that we can make any shit hole feel like home considering this time we will be providing our own furniture and personality (note to self: never rent a furnished place in 29 Palms again. EVER. ). But I’d still like to be able to take off my shoes in my own home and not be afraid of getting some unrecognizable foot fungus. And of course I would love to not have to share a wall with anyone. Ever again actually.

My past experience with wall sharing actually ended when 5-10 members of the SWAT team arrested my next door neighbor in a massive city-wide gang bust. Did I mention he was a drug dealer? After nearly 6 months of living in an apartment in which the walls lacked ANY sort of insulation, 6 calls to the police, and 1 call to child protective services (I was determined damn it), I was ready to kick some ass myself. When I saw the scuffle unfold with my morning coffee, I laughed just a little. Yup, I thought, my intuition was spot on.

Well, unfortunately for me, the landlord wasn’t really convinced that gang banging and coke dealing was such a bad thing after all, so the rest of the obnoxiously LOUD clan was permitted to move back in. In one last-ditch attempt to get some measure of silence back I got ahold of the police report to hand in to the home owner’s association. There in writing was documentation of every call I had made- and next to it? A warning note in capital letters: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. RESIDENTS ARE CONSIDERED TO BE ARMED AND DANGEROUS. Holy shit. And these neighbors knew all along that it was little ole‘ me calling the cops on them. My rational mind told me it was time to cut my losses and get the hell out of there.

So as I keep on truckin‘ with this home search I’m trying to keep the faith. And of course steer clear of murderers, gang members, drug dealers, and of course foot fungus. Maybe I should speak to a realtor to see if they have any places that fit this very strict criteria.

One More Plea:

If you haven’t yet…PLEASE vote for my trip on http://www.trazzler.com  It’s getting down to the last week and I have PROMISED my honey that I would take him on this San Francisco trip when he gets back from Afghanistan next month.  I am VERY close to winning in the LGBT category.  All you have to do is go to the website, sign up (VERY IMPORTANT), find the San Francisco Writing Contest icon on the right hand side of the page, and click on the LGBT category.  Look for my entry: “Dining With Drag Queens in Denver, Colorado,” open it and click the “save” button underneath the picture.  That’s it!  If you have already voted- THANK YOU!

A Lesson In Gratitude (courtesy of a Starbuck’s barista)

After I spent a long weekend frantically searching for jobs and making a list of all the reasons why I wouldn’t have the means to do the things I want to do, a Starbuck’s barista comped my $3 drink (I suppose this is a bit extravagant for someone without a steady income, but even I have my vices), and gratitude became my goal of the day.  When I stop my insanely irrational thoughts from shouting obscenities at my usually rational mind I can see how I have been provided for in ways that far surpass another bank deposit or the cash needed to buy a new laptop. 

Over the weekend I was given a FREE photo shoot for my honey abroad through Operation Love Reunited.  This brilliant organization provides free photography sessions for families with a loved one serving overseas, and sends these pictures to them to serve as a reminder of what they have waiting for them back home.   After sobbing through their heart-wrenching online video I sent an email, not really expecting much in return and thinking that my non-married status would probably serve as some sort of red flag.  Instead I was contacted by the founder of the organization (Tonne Lawrence, a brilliant photographer and military wife) who offered to take my pictures the following day in her home.  And as we chatted over everything from which branch had the sexist uniforms (Marines, hands down) to why deployments just suck all around, I was reminded that the universe is filled with people who will go out of their way to make the world a little sweeter for those around them. 

Despite the pitfalls of military life and being attached to someone who must be more committed to the United States government then to your relationship, there is a community upholding these servicemen and women that is unlike anything I have ever experienced before.  I have been offered homes to stay in by girls that I have met only once or twice before and lent support by families that are going through the same separation pains as I am.  Last time I trekked out to the desert to say goodbye to my Afghanistan- bound honey, we all (platoon buddies and their wives/girlfriends) spent the last few days preparing together for what we were all about to go through.  We cooked dinners, made margaritas, and attempted to forget why we were together in the first place.  Being a 20 something with little money and friends that are equally as poor, I’m not used to anyone opening their home without requiring that those that enter pitch on a pizza or a keg- this experience was so far removed from what I had become accustomed to it was shocking.  Luckily, living this taxing sort of existence comes with a new family that genuinely cares.

I have always been blessed with friends that keep me stable and help to inspire me in everything that I do.  Most of them have seen me through every life stage since my awkward dark eyeliner and blue mascara phase and will continue to be there despite the physical distance between us.  Today I am deeply grateful for my seasoned make-shift family and for all those I have met through my honey’s service in the military.  And of course to the Starbuck’s barista that sparked my sense of gratitude today- you are pretty awesome too.  I am one lucky girl to have so many fantastically spectacular people in my life.

Civilian Commitment or Military Marriage?

We were high school sweethearts, attending school dances with horrifically hip outfits holding hands and smooching outside of the gym. While the under classmen were gossiping about how long we would last, I was planning our hypothetical wedding. So when my boyfriend of two years decided to join the Marines shortly after graduation with a fervor I would never understand, I committed myself to seeing us through. I just wasn’t ready to set those wedding plans in motion quite yet.

After three months of boot camp and scribbled out letters written by flashlight, he was dumped in the desert- to live…for the next four years. Already anticipating that he would be placed at a duty station neighboring California’s sunny beaches, I cried. The town, dubbed 29 Palms for the circle of 29 palm trees that reside somewhere in the town, is tucked away on a massive stretch of desert some fifty miles from the lush retirement communities in Palm Springs, California. But 29 Palms is as far removed from the posh faux green landscapes of its neighboring towns as Coloradans are from Russia- or Antarctica for that matter. Most of the population of the town is concentrated within the confines of the base itself, a sprawling gated enclave that is virtually self-sustained. This of course allows Marines to have as little contact with the slightly off kilter population of the town itself as possible. And if choices are what these lonely Marines are looking for…well they just won’t find those in this neck of the woods. Even if they wanted to support the pitfalls of corporate America by visiting a Walmart, they would have to drive to the next armpit desert town some twenty-five miles away.

I had moved from Denver to 29 Palms in August, breathing in the stale air that was no competition for the air conditioning that attempted to churn through my sauna of a car. My dad huffed along behind me, his foot heavy on the gas of the 91 Honda that was on its last leg. Pulling into the KFC along the “main street” of the town, my stomach caught in my throat with the force of an oncoming train. Truth be told, I had moved without ever setting eyes on the town, save for a movie I ordered on TV entitled 29 Palms- which I’m still convinced didn’t actually take place in the town. I was simply a committed girlfriend that was willing to put her city life on hold for a stint in a sweltering sandbox. It was love that made me do it.

So I tried, with all the conviction I could muster, to make our newly rented “furnished” (meaning stains included) one bedroom apartment a home. And while I scrubbed the food particles from the previous renters off of the kitchen table, I felt simply like I was playing house- busying myself with chores while waiting for my other half to waltz through the door in his undeniably sexy uniform. This, I would soon learn, was the occupation of a good portion of the female population of 29 Palms.

Complaining to my boyfriend that I couldn’t last in this lonely god-forsaken town much longer he did what any good (and slightly perturbed) boyfriend would do- tried to help me make friends. So the next night he planned a double date with a friend and his wife- a girl that had left beauty school at the ripe age of 19 to chain herself to a boy that she had known a mere three months before he signed his life away to the Marine Corps. We met at the Applebee’s thirty miles outside of town (yes, even restaurant chains like Applebee’s couldn’t see the purpose of infiltrating a town like 29 Palms). Awkwardly we attempted to forge conversations until we simply let our significant others take control by talking about their shitty chain of command while we nodded superficially. I silently rejoiced when we decided to take our double date back to their place where we could break up the monotony with some alcohol. Unfortunately for me, this just opened up the flood gates for the unhappy wife to tell me her woes. She was unemployed, as her husband liked it, and entertained only by the cable that he recently allowed her to hook up. They had one car that he refused to let her take while he was at work, thus she sweltered in the heat box that they called a house while attempting to teach her dog (her one true companion, it seemed) unimpressive tricks. I smiled politely at her list of complaints, feeling a pang of sadness for her that was quickly replaced by a disgust at her inability to stand up for herself. I wondered if she thought that it all was worth it for that shiny ring on her finger. Exchanging numbers at the end of the night, I hoped it was a mere formality and she had no intention of calling me- just as I had no intention of answering my phone.

Sensing that I wasn’t jumping for joy over his choice in my friends, my boyfriend attempted to redeem himself by telling me that there was going to be a picnic that I could go to for his platoon where maybe I could meet my own set of bosom buddies. Painting my nails and picking out my perfect picnic attire (I had little else to do considering that the cable company had yet to trek out to our neck of the woods) I anticipated all of the people I would meet. Then came the news that I in fact wouldn’t be welcome to attend since I was merely a girlfriend a not a full fledged wife. After all, leaving my life at the drop of a hat and relocating to what could be considered hell on earth was not a significant enough display of my commitment to my other half. Or of course enduring the year of separation before hand. This was when it quickly became apparent to me that while the rest of the country had made leaps and bounds in recognizing relationships outside of the conventional realm, the Marine Corps was clearly making judgments of its own and would love to see its’ men and women living their lives like a black and white TV show. Separation of religious ideals and government run organizations? I think not.

For the remainder of my glorious stay in the overlooked deserts of California, I was reminded over and over again how insignificant our relationship truly was in the eyes of the United States military. When weekends were cut short because another miserable Marine was driving drunk, defacing some hotel in a neighboring town, or punching someone’s face in, my boyfriend and all of his “single” comrades were forced to cut their vacation time short in order to repent for the sins of the one who broke the rules. All this went on, of course, while the married Marines were allowed to continue on as if nothing had happened. When the barracks rooms and other facilities needed cleaning, who added another two hours onto their work day in order to complete the task? Single Marines. Those who were lucky enough to be married needed time to spend with their loved ones after all.

However, getting an extra couple of hours reprieve from the duties of a Marine or ensuring that your weekend won’t be interrupted by another Marines stupidity are minor reasons to tie the knot. Don’t worry though, the Marine Corps has plenty more perks to offer only their most elite men and women- those with a ring on their finger and a chain on their ankle. Married Marines receive a housing stipend so that they can live in peace outside of the dorm-like accommodations of the barracks without feeling it in their wallets. “Single” Marines simply don’t rate for such luxury accommodations. When a Marine is sent overseas to fight any war that the current administrations deems necessary those who are married will receive the added benefit of “separation pay” to make up for the time spent away from loved ones. Single Marines will instead perform the same duties for less pay since they, once again, don’t have loved ones that they will be separated from.

Thus comes the concept of the “contract marriage.” In order to capitalize on their time spent in some of the most dangerous places in the world, Marines will enter into a temporary marriage to beef up their paychecks. Yes, even these “loveless” marriages take precedence over those that have endured a military career but haven’t been topped off with a ceremony and a certificate- even though they will undoubtedly end in a hasty (albeit carefully timed out) divorce. These “wives” will hear about anything that happens to their husbands while they are away far before I or any other girlfriend will hear the news- that is if we ever hear. We, after all, are the “groupies” not the “real thing.”

It’s simple, a virtually painless way of reaping some sort of reward for an often times unappreciated job. I would have even agreed to be an accomplice to this practice if I wasn’t so dead set on “doing it right” and “waiting until I’m ready.” So while friends committed themselves in a weekend to childhood friends that could use a portion of the deployment pay themselves, I just hoped I would somehow hear when a mission went wrong or- god forbid- if something really horrible happened.

Last year, after enduring seven months of a deployment that left me constantly on edge, my boyfriend and I had planned on celebrating his return at that years Marine Corps ball. After perusing dress websites and sucking myself into horribly wretched department store gowns, I was informed that the remaining tickets for the ball had been reserved for married Marines. Surprise, surprise- once again I had been reminded that our sacrifices were petty compared to those with a different title.

Although I slowly adapted to the Marine Corps life (bitching all the way of course), I still kept one foot rooted firmly in the civilian life I was used to. And that life reminded me that getting married before being able to order an alcoholic beverage was not normal nor was it a path that I wanted to skip down. So I smiled politely every time another person would ask, “Why don’t you guys just get married?” Well, for some reason I would rather not have a gun toting, war raging, entity decide when I will commit myself to someone for the rest of my life. Call me crazy.

Money Conscious? No, Just Cheap.

I have money issues- severe stomach churning, panic inducing money issues.  No, I am not drowning in debt from an expensive shoe fetish nor am I making frequent secret trips to Check in to Cash. I am a hoarder.  (A professed hoarder at that, so you know it must be bad.)  I am the type of person that will buy the generic store brand of everything even if it means that the cereal tastes like saw dust and the make-up remover wipes are so abrasive they leave tiny scabs on my eyelids.

Besides the fact that this erratic and fear induced behavior probably just goes along with my rigid perfection obsessed personality type, my dad counsels people on how to get out of debt.  From the time that I was a pre-teen making a few bucks here and there off of odd jobs like scrubbing the filth off of the tennis courts in my complex, I was taught to save and spend my money wisely.  I guess I never heard the part about spending. 

When I moved my life to California a few years ago to be closer to my military honey, I had daily breakdowns usually always concerning my savings account that was dwindling before my eyes (driving 50 miles each way to a part time job that only paid a mere $10 an hour didn’t lend itself well to my preferred lifestyle).  This was all happening at a time when I was trying to be all Zen-like by reading the Dali Lama’s book on true happiness and looking up quotes from other Zen people about how to calm the fuck down.  But when the Dali Lama couldn’t get through the universe tried instead.  Driving to work one day I was talking to my mom about how pissed off I was that money was not flowing freely to me (go figure) when I ran over a massive boulder in the road and got a flat tire.  On the on-ramp to a California highway.  In my seething “I hate the universe” mentality I had just destroyed a $150+ tire. 

After screaming at the top of my lungs, (to myself since my cell phone battery was on its last leg and was threatening to die) I was able to call my new boss and after a horribly childish sob fest on my part, she told me she would come to my rescue.  She proceeded to ensure that I could drive on my spare tire (that was changed by an angelic truck driver) to somewhere where I could purchase a new one.  And then she bought the tire for me.  To me, this was the universe saying (in a way that was a bit too dramatic for my liking) “See, we told you you would be taken care of.”

I would love to say that this experience made me stop checking the contents of my bank account every couple of days to make sure that some freak computer malfunction hadn’t wiped out my entire life savings, but that is not the case.  I am still a money hoarder (perhaps a support group search is in order?) that is looking for that perfect rainy day or fantastically exotic trip to splurge on.  Until then I’ll just have to breathe through it and remind myself that spending is nothing more then an exercise in faith- and stating that there is always more where that came from.  Yes, I’ll just have to start there…