A Navy Wife

It’s Saturday night. I’m noshing on blue cheese stuffed olives, well into my first glass of Chilean red, and on a break from knitting Something Red (but mine is something palest green with a dark brown Guinness glass button).

I feel like I’m always wanting: wanting shoes or a haircut, maybe new towels or frames for art. But really all I want is a little attention. That’s what it comes down to. I want someone to notice me in the jaunty flats or for a dinner guest to light up at a glance toward my pop art or landscapes.

Today I went out for Sushi with the wife of a man I work with. She’s lovely: exotically attractive, engaging, and at ease with all types of conversation. We chatted for about two hours or maybe a little more and I came away satisfied.

Tonight I want for nothing.

Rules of Engagement

I have a few life rules:

Never refuse a breath mint when offered.

Never drink and phone (especially an ex).

Always love generously.


And now I think I'm going to have to add one more:

Never assume you know the identity of someone who posted a comment on your blog.

A Letter to Reply

After some thought, and the first few sips of a something and tonic, this is how I feel about your criticism: Everything you wrote is true. My job is respectable and I do have a tremendous life for which I need to be grateful, everyday. I was not forced to join and beyond that I am an adult capable of rational thought. This was my choice and one that I was excited to make. I would go on to say that I understand the value of my work and that I am happy and proud to make this contribution to my country. I am a patriot and believe unwaveringly in the ideas, philosophies, and minds that were strong enough to create the United States of America.

However….when I made the choice to join I had no concept of what I was giving up. I lived with art and didn’t understand how necessary it was to me because I didn’t know a world without it. During no part of my life had I been without creativity and wit and invention being thrust upon me. I literally woke up one morning to dented steel furniture, white high-gloss walls, drop ceilings, and florescent lights. The architecture was a mirror of the mindset. In the Navy creative problem solving is a valued attribute but creativity as a stand-alone is not. When I interject my own brand of creativity into my work environment, for the most part, it is viewed with suspicion and mistrust. But creative is who I am and so I feel everyday like I’m quietly scolded for my make-up. Creativity is how I grow as a person and this is the first time in my life I’ve felt stagnant. I’d like to remind you that you’re proud of the faux finish you painted on your walls not only because it is attractive but also because you were part of their creation. Involvement in that process made your life richer. You know of what I write.

It’s true that if I keep my eye on the big picture that the picture only gets bigger and bigger. Believe me when I write that I understand how unimportant I am. I believe, with everything that I have, that by the nature of being human we are all equal. The extension of that belief is that my problems, no matter how pressing or insignificant, hold no higher value than any others. Furthermore, I do know how little I have to complain about. It’s just that sometimes I become tired of keeping quiet and so I started writing on this page so I would have a place to put my rants.

I haven’t written this letter in argument. I know that you are right. I’ve written it with the hopes that if you understand you won’t be disappointed in me and that maybe you will get to know me a little better.

With thought and affection as I take a deep breath,

Jessica

Can't Get Out of What I'm Into

I have this idea that I want to say something about being locked in a shell. I want to make reference to life in Chicago, pepper it with some Liz Phair stories (like how I waited on her for lunch a couple times a month, rocked out to her with my roommate, and had to listen to my then-boyfriend at EMI complain about how she didn't want to tour and how she was pissing everyone at the record label off) and then move on to subtly explain about the paradigm shift that's been required for me to make peace with my new life in the Navy. And I want to thoughtfully explore how that shift, that is necessary for my survival, has divorced me from the rocking woman I was. I want it to be OK for me to be angry. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, "EVERY DAY I MAKE DO. EVERY DAY I PLEAD WITH MYSELF TO FOCUS ON THE SILVER LINING. EVERY DAY I SPEND MY TIME MAKING LIFE A LITTLE BETTER FOR THE PEOPLE I WORK WITH AND NOW I WANT YOU ALL TO LOOK AT ME AND UNDERSTAND THAT I HATE IT". Maybe it's all about my dad and I'm too short sighted to figure that out so I'm picking on the easy target. But I'm lonely. The last four months have been some of the loneliest I can remember. And I'm sad. I'm not excited for anything that's coming in the next two years.

A Little In Love

I think I’ve fallen a little in love with the girl who sits in front of me in my Squad Leader class. She’s everything I want in a battalion friend: composed, intelligent and competent. She doesn’t have a need to command attention but when the spotlight falls on her she performs with aplomb. She has a very pretty face, tanned skin, and medium brown hair with golden highlights that is pulled back into the most perfect bun. I want to know her. Not in the Biblical sense or anything but I’d like to try a conversation or two. I first noticed her last week in BCSII where she sat a few rows foreword of me. Now she sits directly in front of me. We spoke a little yesterday but she was turned awkwardly and I couldn’t read the nametape on her blouse. Maybe I’ll casually mention knitting. Maybe she knits and I can invite her to the Thursday group. Or maybe I’ll just wait and get to know her a little better next week over hand grenades and claymore mines at the squad leaders’ FEX.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Myth Busters the Sequel

My knight came after all. It seems that OSHA has no problems with contacts in a chemical environment and that several studies report that contacts lens wearers who are exposed to CS gas keep their eyes open more easily and recover more quickly. CS gas isn't water soluble so it doesn't get trapped in the lens. This all makes sense to me because when I chop onions with my contacts in I don't have any problems but without them I'm a blubbering fool. I also win all staring contests when I have them in (don't tell my kid brother). I'm going to wear them to FEX.

Field EXercise

Reality hit this morning: I leave for squad leaders' FEX a week from Friday, and then I leave for regular FEX a few weeks after that.

I had a lot of shopping to do.

Last FEX was a little bit miserable because I made the mistake of packing only the gear I was issued (I was new to the battalion and didn't know any better). To avoid a repeat experience I just spent most of my lunch break at the Ranger Joe's website shopping. I picked out a new comfy suspension system for my Kevlar helmet and a kick-ass flashlight that's just the right size and has all the color films I need. I also bought a bunch of consumables: weatherproof notebooks, waterproof seal for my tent, green duct tape, 550 cord, and camo paints in a tube that a corpsman friend of mine swears wash off better than anything else. The best news is that I did my shopping in time so that regular ground shipping will get my stuff here before I leave.

It should have made me happy but instead I was a little bummed. I want to spend my money on yarn and guitar lessons and sushi, not on this.

A Long Time Gone

Four years ago today was my first day of boot camp. Shortly after I got off the bus and made my tearful one-minute call home someone in a uniform asked me if I played a musical instrument. I thought awhile before answering. I did play an instrument and after a stint in a Chicago music school I could play it well but I was stuck on the idea that boot camp was supposed to be new and foreign in an exciting way. My independence made me resistant but it only took about 8 seconds before I caved and confessed and ended up in the band division. Division 921. It was a tremendous comfort. The smell of valve oil and the sound of instrument cases opening and shutting were so familiar. We were nerds, all of us. I was with my people.

I have a dear friend who I affectionately call My Sailing Connection. We went to A-School together and spent every lunch eating luscious sandwiches made by a very fat man and energetically bickering over politics. He once asked me about my enlistment, "If you could, would you unsign your name?" I told him that I didn't know.

Today is Sunday and I'm stuck at work without the smell of valve oil or anything that reminds me of my life before I joined. I have some friends at work, but they're not the witty and imaginative artists and performers that I left behind. Although, to be fair, I have met some along the way. The truth is that those women fed my soul and that I miss Chicago so much I just started to cry as I was thinking about it. I know I'm not going back. What I have been granted in exchange is an education I never would have had, an empathy for people of most all backgrounds (I still can't come to terms with some of the freaks), free money to continue my formal education, access to low-interest home loans, stronger leadership skills, and a fondness of country music.

I still don't know if I would unsign my name.