Jones To The Grindstone

A toupee has nothing to do with this post, but toupees, in general, amuse me.

Until recently, I had not touched audio software — unless you count the early days of those clunky tape recorders and cassette tapes. I made lots of radio song mixes with that thing. OH, and my friends and I would record ourselves talking and think we were hilarious upon playback. Never mind all the recordings of me trying to sing “Amazing Grace” and failing to a miserable degree.

Onwards– For my multimedia course, we were assigned to make a 1-2 minute story. It’s a brief mix of me, my son and my daughter talking about living and going to school on an Air Force base. I edited out long pauses, mixed tracks over each other, and added some “echo” effects. It’s not brilliant, but I did a good job of keeping the pace rolling along. A one to two minute sound byte sounds like nothing, but it was a load of work.

…VO4.omf_mixdown_01

“People who wear uniforms to work have more issues than a newsstand,” is a joke I’ve heard. As far as generally lumping together the men and women of the military and studying their character traits – such as warmongering and blindly following their superiors’ commands — there may be basis for the lighthearted wisecrack.

What isn’t a joke is that being in the U.S. military is an all encompassing lifestyle, not just a job, for the member and his or her family. To add to an already war stressed armed services, on Dec. 18, 2010, the military just got served a big platter of change to its unique culture – the repeal of the 1993 policy of no openly gay troops, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).

While the typical “man on the street,” including me, may be apathetic about whether or not the military has apparent homosexuals in uniform, the troops and their families will experience upheaval. This is an untimely burden to those serving.

This military culture shock could have waited. It’s not about keeping someone’s sexual orientation behind closed doors; it’s about the amount of new paperwork and man hours that will be put into this endeavor while the military is currently scraping to keep all its bases covered.

People who promote the repeal make a big point of emphasizing the civil rights of every citizen to defend his country, no matter his sexual orientation. Yes, sexual orientation should not be a reason to ban a man from government work. When put in those simple terms, it does sound stupid to keep a homosexual out of uniform.

However, the service people who are wiping their faces clean of Iraqi sand or those shivering in the mountains of Afghanistan – did anyone ask them what they want? The military has their talking heads and appointed leaders to speak for the masses, but how do those in the field feel?

A high-ranking, male service member, 41, deployed in Baghdad, who wishes to remain anonymous, emailed this to me,

“While I do not disagree with the idea of open gays serving in the
military, I do not agree with the timing of this policy change. As changes are made across the services to include open gays, I believe we will lose focus of
our current Iraq and Afghanistan missions and others issues at hand that are of great concern worldwide ….”
With nearly 20 years of being in the armed services, the quoted deployed member is familiar with what a policy change entails: massive bureaucracy called to action. The Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD) has already been mobilized.

“Successful implementation will depend upon strong leadership, a clear message, and proactive education throughout the force,” said the Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates, in an official statement after the historic vote.

What Gates said, in laymen’s terms, means for “sensitivity workshops” to be organized, new manuals to be written, and an expected code of conduct to be developed for those who choose to be openly gay while serving in the military.

There are many major and minor points that will be haggled over. In fact, the OSD recently released comments about how to address the bathrooms and shelters for the welcoming of openly gay troops, “There will be no housing or special bathroom facilities for gays, except in special cases ….” The fact that the OSD brought up this segregation issue suggests that someone important asked about it.

Also, something that places the U.S. military apart from other American professions is the “Military Code of Ethics.” In summary, it purports there is supposed to be no change in conduct while on the post or out in the local community: This allows for the government to dictate what behavior is acceptable and what isn’t.

Furthermore, due to the hair splitting to be expected on what kind of homosexual soldier’s behavior is OK in public, the OSD will likely have to define “how gay” one can be while at work and off post. There may even be instruction on all the differing degrees of “gay behavior.”

For example, there probably will be no enormous limits on the gay or lesbian who blends in with America’s suburban stereotype of monogamy and a stable home life, but it is plausible that the flamboyant cross-dressing homosexual may still have to keep that in the closet. So, perhaps no pictures will be allowed on the work desks which display an alternative lifestyle.

Another sticky wicket which may be addressed is whether or not those gays who are legally married will be able to extend military health care privileges to their spouses. Single-sex marriages are legal only in a handful of states. If permitted in the gay-friendly states, will the health benefits be void in the non-gay-friendly states?
The military does not make light of its responsibility to inform the troops and their leadership about what action to take in almost any situation. There will likely even be points of contact and experts assigned to the transition. All of the decisions associated with the repeal of DADT, reams of paperwork and digital transmissions to be produced, and numerous meetings implementing it will exhaust a great deal of manpower. This could’ve been postponed until the warfronts were better contained and the troops were less taxed.

*** or for some, “Why didn’t they do this sooner, like before the wars?” –depending on your point of view.

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, a U.S. military member would drive up to an Air Force base’s entry point and a uniformed, strapping, young troop would check identification and allow admittance, sealed with a respectful exchange of salutes. There was an undeniable recognition, a sense of camaraderie, that both members belonged in the same weave and shared a way of life.

However, this antiquated scene is being eroded. Now, it is more likely that a private security company’s employee, sporting an official logo patch on his deltoid, will wave the troops through. These guards frequently range from middle-aged to senior citizens and have noticeable “love handles.” And, finally, there will be no saluting.

In almost all aspects of the U.S. military, there is an ongoing drive to save money. To help achieve this, the government economizes the military through hiring less costly contracted labor to replace the uniformed members or instead leaves gaping vacancies. This crosses many career fields.

Take for example the Air Force’s chaplaincy headcount. It is low in numbers, but the members are still expected to perform a high volume of funerals, counseling, religious ceremonies, sacraments, etc. Despite this, to support the cutbacks, the Air Force community is giving their religious leaders the bum’s rush out of the ranks. Especially in times of war, this is a careless move — the troops deserve and need experienced military clergy.

There are those who think there is no problem in replacing the chaplaincy with hired help. The Air Force Times’ staff reporter, Scott Fontaine, wrote on Nov. 30, 2010, in his article, “Air Force looks to make cuts in chaplain force,” that not everyone finds the active duty chaplaincy as useful.

For instance, he quoted a retired master sergeant, Tom Keel, who worked as a chapel manager in his 24 years of service, as finding the bulk of the chaplains to be “’lazy, narrow-minded, and egotistical.’” In addition, Fontaine quoted examples of airmen not having their calls returned.

Furthermore, Keel explained that the Air Force has managed to make it with having “rent-a-cops” at the entry points and the military will similarly adjust to the ousting of the chaplaincy.

The bases’ entrance gate guards are under contract because most of the Air Force’s security forces are constantly in war zones while the leftover cops are on the base to cover other law enforcement issues. The active duty security forces are required to be physically fit and they don’t post old people at the gates.

I have a question. Is the hired cop, “Rip Van Winkle,” who is charged with guarding the base against terrorists, really prepared to sprint in hot pursuit and put a cap in someone?

All of the denominations’ leaders, like Protestant and Islamic, are being racked and stretched on duty, but the Roman Catholic priest supply is particularly bare boned.

“Today, the Air Force has 91 priests … [but] the service needs another 120 on active duty,” reported Fontaine in another Air Force Times article, “Contractors, civilians fill chaplain vacancies,” on Nov. 21, 2010. The other denominations’ chaplains are being involuntarily separated from the military while the Catholic priests can only exit through early retirement approval.

A unique issue to contracted clergy versus active duty clergy is that only the uniformed personnel can be deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Troops often approach their religious counselors for hope and something to believe in before going off to a war zone. They are afraid of what might happen to them “over there.” An active duty clergyperson who has been in combat areas and dealt with the ugly realities of war will have a clearer understanding of the larger picture and can more appropriately handle military-specific crises.

“The need for priests in the war zones is even more acute. Most priests spend much of their deployment scrambling to reach as many bases as possible,” Fontaine reported on Nov. 21, 2010, “At some remote outposts, a priest might be able to only visit once per month – provided the weather cooperates and there is transportation available.”

Imagine a Catholic soldier in a war zone, lying in her hospital bed in the critical care unit after an explosion. What if there was no priest to administer her Last Rites? She should be able have a priest with her, an active duty priest who knows the pain and struggles of being in the military. It is important to have a spiritual leader available that truly knows and understands how the airman got to where she is now.

And she may have a family back at home – is there a military priest there to comfort them?

The “rent-a-cops” at the gates have not mishandled any globally known security breaches yet, but it’s not the optimal situation. Having hired or no military chaplains or priests available is similar.

Military members and their families often deal with adversity and manage it. An obvious idea is for the service people to go off the base for their religious needs. Regardless, being an active duty military person is not just a job, it is a lifestyle. Having the personal touches taken away, like a uniformed man of the cloth, erodes the morale and strength of the Air Force.

By Karen Jones

Raw and exposed for inspection.

There’s a hustle and bustle, a rattle and hum, in the raw meat department. Shoppers are milling through all of those shiny, plastic sheeting-wrapped packages of muscle. Raw and exposed for inspection.  These packages are hand selected and there is a sense of ownership once they are placed in the shopping cart. Like cavemen after a kill—don’t mess with someone’s bloody meat.

Arriving on the scene is Colonel So-and-So’s wife who has rolled in like the Queen of Sheba. Her husband runs one of the larger squadrons on the base. She believes this title gives her license to do as she pleases in the commissary (military grocery store). He rules the squadron, she feeds the ruler: therefore she can have the best meat selection available to the troops. 

She went to another’s cart and swiped meat. Mrs. Colonel So-and-So liked the look of it and took what she felt was better suited for the commander. She had confidence that it was her prerogative. And no one stopped her either.

On military installations there is a perceived sense of hierarchy of who gets what. How can there not be some kind of pyramid in the military’s social world, too? The installations are run by a non-trifling, enforced, chain of command. The uniformed services take this directive as seriously as a heart attack. Their working environment’s world order can and does easily transfer over to the everyday exchanges.

***

The example of the meat-thieving commander’s wife’s piss poor behavior has a flip-side as well.

We were last stationed at a smallish base in a smallish town. Pretty much what would be described as a “military town.” See, I, too, was a commander’s wife and knew the other “like spouses,” but I functioned under the radar. When I would go off-base and be involved in community activities, I was privy to and would often hear tales of commander’s spouses’ alleged grandiose misbehaviors.

And our commissary, too, was a hub of perceived social hierarchy and often the stark setting for such ghastly moments. For instance, supposedly a group commander’s wife was rumored to be just as much of a hard-ass and unpleasant of a character as her husband. She was described as a “total bitch” and that she would often cut in front of others waiting to check out – simply because her time was more precious as a commander’s spouse. This was preposterous. I knew the accused and she was a shy homebody who homeschooled her kids and held great respect for others. I asked one of these pot-stirrers if they actually knew Total Bitch. She confessed to just passing the story around and not actually knowing Bitch.

A military base is a microcosm of society. If the person in charge gets the best seat at a formal dinner, should he get the best food? Or if the commader is a jerk, then is his entire family a band of jerks? Perception overshadowing reality is a facet of the military.

After thirty minutes of evaluating my five-year-old son behind closed doors, the psychologist rendered an assessment. She said, “Cullen* is negative, controlling, and stubborn, but he does not need to see a psychiatrist at this point.”

Cullen was showing signs of intense loneliness and severe depression. After he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to be dead, I became concerned. In fact, it had gotten so bad that he had even developed a plan on how to kill himself—with his daddy’s rifle. I was relieved to hear that he didn’t need to go see a shrink, but I was mortified to realize that I could attribute all those unpleasant adjectives to my bloodline.

Great. I had procreated (and passed down my familial bad traits) only to bring a child into this world who wanted out already, at age five. My Kindergartener had a death wish and I didn’t want anybody to know it.

Growing up in the South, I was raised to think any inkling of mental problems was a sign of weakness. This weakness should be hidden from the world and kept inside the family. No one else needs to know about such things.

To make this secrecy plot more challenging, we lived in military base housing where privacy is a rare commodity. The reality was that my husband, the active duty member, lived and worked with the same people—almost like a commune. It was nearly impossible for any sensitive information to remain within the confines of his workplace or our home.

My seven-year old daughter, Eve, required a sitter while I took my son to his psychologist’s appointment. Her father couldn’t take time off from work to take care of this. I asked my closest friend in the housing area to take care of my daughter while I took Cullen to his (as I labeled it) generic “doctor’s appointment.” Having to ask someone to watch Eve was creating an opening for some prying questions about my plans.  I was nervous.

Not only was Mary my closest friend in the neighborhood, but she was also my friend closest to the school bus stop. The plan was to have the kids get off the bus, have Eve slip into Mary’s home, and simultaneously have Cullen glide into the car.

Cullen didn’t want to go talk to the psychologist. He thought the idea sounded awful. But, I pictured simplicity at its finest moment—that despite his expected hesitancy, he would easily cooperate like we were only going to a regular doctor’s appointment. No one would be the wiser.

The school bus was supposed to arrive in minutes and I had already parked my car right in front of Mary’s home. I didn’t want to look like an ingrate, so I went up to her stoop to chit-chat and thank her for watching my daughter.

While I was talking with Mary, another neighborhood mom came up and started conversing with us. Then another one did, too. Everybody wanted to know why I had shifted from my usual pattern of being at home. Why was I standing on Mary’s front porch? I explained it was Cullen’s regular check-up and that Mary would be babysitting Eve. That seemed to satisfy the peanut gallery.

I turned to look over at the sound of the bus’s brakes. For some reason, that afternoon there was practically a mob of community moms standing around the bus stop. The twenty or so kids filed off the bus and mine saw me at Mary’s home.

Eve skipped over, happy to play with the other kids in Mary’s front yard. Cullen saw  the moms, including his own, socializing on the porch and knew it was time to go to his specialty appointment.

Cullen froze in Mary’s yard and looked at me like he wasn’t going to take another step towards the dreaded psychologist’s appointment. He made an anxious face, threw down his backpack, and started loudly crying. He blaringly yelled, “But I don’t wanna go to the PSYCHOLOGIST’S!”

I closed my eyes for an extended pause. Once I popped them open again, I could see that every person’s head there had swiveled in my direction. Silence had blanketed the neighborhood bus stop. All eyes and ears were on the Jones family.

Turning to look at Mary, I uttered that we would be going now and I would be back in a little over an hour. I told Cullen to pull himself together, gather his belongings, and to get in the car.

To hold true to another Southern code, I remained stoic and went on my way. I’m sure tongues were wagging as we pulled off to take care of our business. There was nothing I could do about it now. Even with all of my efforts to make it a sly dance and a smooth move, the jig was up.

*All first names have been changed.

**This occured years ago.

***I was having a bad hair day when that picture was taken.

I saw a snippet from a documentary discussing whether or not bloggers are journalists. I don’t really care about that, but it provoked me otherwise. The talking head said, “I can write whatever I want and no one stops me,” or something to that effect. That man arrogantly rejects the services of an editor, or being appropriately submissive. My countrymen often suffer from this.

This dates back, at least, to refusing to follow the Crown’s rule. I live in Boston, home of the first battle of the American Revolution. I see the graves of the fallen Revolutionary patriots and wonder what they would think about Great Britain being our biggest and closest ally, but I digress. We are a country of scrappers; it is part of our DNA. We like to deny someone telling us what to do and sometimes (if not more than less these days) lack the diplomacy of pulling that off with aplomb.

I went to Texas A&M for my bachelor’s degree, where there is a full-time ROTC program. I observed their lifestyle and used to think it was absurd way of life for co-eds unless they wanted a military career or simply to be in the band. However, as a full-fledged adult I can now see the benefits of their program. There is something about their training that all Americans could benefit from: appropriate submissiveness, or obeying others while putting aside selfish reflexes.

For example, those lower in the chain of command, like the freshman, must follow the upper-classmen’s orders simply because they, by age and experience, are their superiors. It has nothing to do with being smarter or who is more right. You can have a boss that is no where as smart as you and completely wrong, but they are still running the show. This is a lesson in humility.

Recently when going through passport control when entering the U.K., there was a big sign directing passport holders which line to stand in.

World? I thought I was the center! ;^D”]

Rest of [the

Who created "napkin art" anyway?

As I walked up the carpeted flight of stairs and choked the white enameled handrails, I wondered what in the hell I was putting myself through. Once I was at the top of the stairs, I fiddled with my rings, turning them round and round.

There I was at the officer’s club, searching for my place card on the name tag tree. My slightly clammy hand pinched the folded card which read, “Mrs. Karen Jones,” off the tree. On the back, it stated, “You are seated at Table 5,”—perfect military protocol form.

I wanted to turn right back around, run down the stairs, bolt out of the doors, and sprint back to my hotel room. But I was following orders, as usual, and my body went straight to Table 5, like it was on auto-pilot.

It was my time to shine or be dull. I had been in class for two days already. The course’s purpose was to teach me how to be a proper and successful squadron commander’s wife. This particular event was the pinnacle of my studies on protocol, only one of the many facets covered during the course.

Remembering what I was told in the class, I turned on my brightest smile. The instructions had said, “First and foremost, smile a lot and be your own warm, friendly, helpful, and compassionate self. Be the best supporter of your spouse’s squadron and everyone in it.”

Do I look warm and friendly enough? Lord, I hope so.

There I was at Table 5 representing not only myself, but my husband, and the future of his squadron that he was going to command. Oh, the pressure!

Looking at Table 5, it was beautifully clothed and skirted—just like me. It had all the accouterments signaling a formal luncheon: multiple forks, a napkin forming an artistic “poof,” numerous plates, a large collection of fresh flowers in the middle, and some intimidating women occupying chairs.

This was a luncheon designed to practice creating conversations out of thin air. I needed to perform well, not be inappropriate, and remember to be reverent toward the “senior spouses.” In other words, not piss them off or have them wrinkle their noses at me, like they caught a whiff of a bad odor.

Do I detect a party foul?

As one of the major command centers for the Air Force, the base’s population consisted of loads of the top brass and their spouses. Some of the spouses were at my practice luncheon to help with my exercise in manners. At Table 5, I had a Brigadier General’s wife.

I watched her every move; for that was my plan to pass the muster. I figured that what she did, which fork she used, and how she passed the bread bowl were the most correct. Surely, she had been doing this antiquated song and dance enough times to be the master.

After it was over, my face was fatigued from the excessive smiling. I suppose this practice in the finer things was the spouse’s version of simulating a battle scene, but with fluffier surroundings.

I spy the exit! Time to go!

(Hopefully, this has only been a bad dream...)

After thirty minutes of evaluating my five-year-old son behind closed doors, the psychologist rendered an assessment. She said, “Cullen* is negative, controlling, and stubborn, but he does not need to see a psychiatrist at this point.”

Cullen was showing signs of intense loneliness and severe depression. After he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to be dead, I became concerned. In fact, it had gotten so bad that he had even developed a plan on how to kill himself—with his daddy’s rifle. I was relieved to hear that he didn’t need to go see a shrink, but I was mortified to realize that I could attribute all those unpleasant adjectives to my bloodline.

Great. I had procreated (and passed down my familial bad traits) only to bring a child into this world who wanted out already, at age five. My Kindergartener had a death wish and I didn’t want anybody to know it.

Growing up in the South, I was raised to think any inkling of mental problems was a sign of weakness. This weakness should be hidden from the world and kept inside the family. No one else needs to know about such things.

To make this secrecy plot more challenging, we lived in military base housing where privacy is a rare commodity. The reality was that my husband, the active duty member, lived and worked with the same people—almost like a commune. It was nearly impossible for any sensitive information to remain within the confines of his workplace or our home.

My seven-year old daughter, Eve, required a sitter while I took my son to his psychologist’s appointment. Her father couldn’t take time off from work to take care of this. I asked my closest friend in the housing area to take care of my daughter while I took Cullen to his (as I labeled it) generic “doctor’s appointment.” Having to ask someone to watch Eve was creating an opening for some prying questions about my plans.  I was nervous.

Not only was Mary my closest friend in the neighborhood, but she was also my friend closest to the school bus stop. The plan was to have the kids get off the bus, have Eve slip into Mary’s home, and simultaneously have Cullen glide into the car.

Cullen didn’t want to go talk to the psychologist. He thought the idea sounded awful. But, I pictured simplicity at its finest moment—that despite his expected hesitancy, he would easily cooperate like we were only going to a regular doctor’s appointment. No one would be the wiser.

The school bus was supposed to arrive in minutes and I had already parked my car right in front of Mary’s home. I didn’t want to look like an ingrate, so I went up to her stoop to chit-chat and thank her for watching my daughter.

While I was talking with Mary, another neighborhood mom came up and started conversing with us. Then another one did, too. Everybody wanted to know why I had shifted from my usual pattern of being at home. Why was I standing on Mary’s front porch? I explained it was Cullen’s regular check-up and that Mary would be babysitting Eve. That seemed to satisfy the peanut gallery.

I turned to look over at the sound of the bus’s brakes. For some reason, that afternoon there was practically a mob of community moms standing around the bus stop. The twenty or so kids filed off the bus and mine saw me at Mary’s home.

Eve skipped over, happy to play with the other kids in Mary’s front yard. Cullen saw  the moms, including his own, socializing on the porch and knew it was time to go to his specialty appointment.

Cullen froze in Mary’s yard and looked at me like he wasn’t going to take another step towards the dreaded psychologist’s appointment. He made an anxious face, threw down his backpack, and started loudly crying. He blaringly yelled, “But I don’t wanna go to the PSYCHOLOGIST’S!”

I closed my eyes for an extended pause. Once I popped them open again, I could see that every person’s head there had swiveled in my direction. Silence had blanketed the neighborhood bus stop. All eyes and ears were on the Jones family.

Turning to look at Mary, I uttered that we would be going now and I would be back in a little over an hour. I told Cullen to pull himself and his belongings together and to get in the car.

To hold true to another Southern code, I remained stoic and went on my way. I’m sure tongues were wagging as we pulled off to take care of our business. There was nothing I could do about it now. Even with all of my efforts to make it a sly dance and a smooth move, the jig was up.

*All first names have been changed.

**This occured years ago.

***I was having a bad hair day when that picture was taken.

Welcome to my world!

Living where loud explosions pepper my day is routine. In Warner Robins, Ga., sonic booms are the norm. According to Dictionary.com, sonic booms are “explosive sounds caused by the shock wave preceding an aircraft traveling at or above the speed of sound.” Even after living here for a while, they still scare the crap out of me and make my dogs bark and scatter in confusion. Still, this base isn’t the loudest or weirdest I’ve lived around. It gets much scarier.

I lived on a “fighter base” for two years. It hosted many fighter squadrons there. The jets flying in and out of the base created a lot of noise. While living there, my communication patterns changed. When talking with someone on the phone or outside, having extended, numerous pauses mid-conversation was normal. The loud swoop of a jet flying overhead made hearing each other impossible! Needless to say, using dramatic pauses as a story’s suspense-building tool didn’t work on that base.

Also, it wasn’t unusual for me to hear Islamic chants coming from the speakers for a few days out of the month. The first time I heard the chants; I was like, “What in God’s name…?” It was in God’s name, or Allah’s. At first I thought maybe it was a new, government-sponsored cultural awareness program.  Come to find out that the base had a training camp set up for troops who were about to deploy to the desert, like Iraq. The camp exposed the troops to what the daily routine is like in “The Sandbox”—a term of endearment.

Another fun experience on the fighter base was when the leadership would hold an “exercise” where warlike conditions were simulated. There was a confined area, a “tent city,” and many different scenes were played out—almost like a pick-a-script that is tossed at a theatrical troupe for extemporaneous practice. *Personally, I think it would be fun to play the enemy in this arena. Imagine running into your boss’s office, pulling off a successful coup, and announcing, “Sir, I killed you.” Not good in “real life,” but a bit of a giggle in a fake one.

However, while the military members were playing GI Joe; the outsiders were stuck listening to all sorts of threatening sounds, like blasts and gunfire. I had become numb to the symphony of cacophony. But it made for a funny situation when my mother, a city slicker, came to visit during one of these exercises. Because it had become commonplace to me, I had forgotten to forewarn my mother of the phony pandemonium to come.

The exercise runs all day and night, just like a battle scene would. It had been a particularly noisy night on the base, but I knew it was nothing to worry about. That night, hearing explosions was like counting sheep. But as soon as the sun came up, my mom burst out of the guest room and with big, anxious eyes exclaimed, “Karen, I think I heard bombs going off last night!”

Utterly deadpan I said, “Welcome to my world, Mom.”

By: Karen Jones

Wearing your husband's rank, gets the panties in a wad.

Once the husband hits a high rank and supervisory status, the wife is expected to take on a new identity. The perfect military wife will make it look effortless and not complain in public.

* * *

It was once described to me as, “having his rank embroidered on her panties”—when the leadership’s wife is accused of wearing her husband’s rank. In the military, an established and respected chain of command results in a well-run squadron. At the top, there is the boss with his spouse. From there, the job trickles from his shoulder boards all the way down to getting her panties in a wad.

I like to call it the “two-fer” deal. For example, once a woman’s husband becomes a squadron commander, she should plan on being the “woman behind the man”–to dutifully support him and his squadron. The military member’s career absorbs the whole While the man is running the business of the squadron, the wife is running the social end of things. By default, she is in charge of heading the spouses’ monthly coffees, perhaps publishing a newsletter, and even rustling up a fundraiser. Heck, she may need to hostess the children’s Christmas party, too. Don’t forget that she should attend the base’s official spouses’ club activities; warm a seat at those functions. Never mind that the official base club needs her to take a seat on the board.

In fact, she may have to organize a theme party for one of the year’s official spousal club meetings. While she is selling chili dogs to help pay for the children’s Christmas party, she needs to remember to call the spouses of the deployed and check on their wellbeing. Oh, and tell her to not forget to take care of whatever she used to do before her husband was named the commander.

The buy-one-get-one (BOGO), the two-fer, is assumed. He receives the paycheck and she tries to seamlessly double her family’s supportive efforts at the workplace.

A commander spouse friend of mine once said, “The only way to get out of all that is to get a job, get sick, or have a baby.”

Those are the top three salable excuses. However, they are only excused temporarily until it can all get juggled. And she will get it handled. She has to.

Military spouses need each other. Someone has to be the leader. The easy out is to hang it on the commander’s wife. Sometimes a woman may take on her title like a bad pageant queen: show-off, go out of bounds, and boss people around. But, those are the jerks and the exceptions. Behind a strong military husband, is an even stronger military wife.