Military wife

Stuff that people married to someone in the forces, be it navy, army or RAF have to deal with.

Olive Oyl: Super Mum. Another dream bites the dust.

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 1 Comment

I am proud to announce that mini Popeye, (or as it’s a girl, should that be mini olive?, we’ll call her Sweet Pea) arrived five weeks ago. Which is why there has been such a gap in posts. It’s amazing how sleep deprivation, leaking body parts and feelings of abandonment can cramp your writing flow.

So yes my years of wild partying have been temporarily suspended, instead of Chanel I now smell mostly of non bio detergent and stale milk. A main component of my daily beauty routine involves rubbing sections of my body at a time frantically with johnsons baby wipes whilst singing bootylicious at the top of my lungs (she will not settle to nursery rhymes or other age appropriate music. Instead she drifts off to Duffy, destinys child, Beyoncé, Aretha franklin and/or Tori Amos, God help us we have spawned a diva).

And of course, I am alone raising our first born child, as Popeye has gone back on deployment. I am living each day in survival mode, drifting from one adrenaline filled crying session to the next (and that can be me or the baby, FYI).

My deployment countdown is no longer in weeks and days, or even months, but in hours. As in, I survived the first 24 hours without Popeye, then 36, 48 etc. the phrase “living on a wish and a prayer” has never been more fervently understood than by moi, right now.

 I have developed major anger issues towards civvy wives and mums. I know it’s completely unjustified, and unhinged, and unfair. But I don’t care. I am having to be a single mum without the government benefits. I am having to be a single mum whilst also being a phone ninja (not that he’s been able to call anyway!) and whilst still being expected to send lengthy interesting emails. Plus pictures. Plus boxes with pictures printed off. Plus still send sexy flirty messages. Something’s gotta give.

As any new mum will tell you, It takes hours to get out of the house. A busy day involves walking the dog and/or shaving my armpits. Sweet Pea is like this brilliant, awful, fantastic grenade that has exploded into my life and has made everything, everything change.

Not for Popeye though, oh no. Everything on board is the same, except he’s got new pictures up by his pit. At least this is what I tell myself as I wipe up the latest pile of human bodily fluids. And the stupid thing is that I knew this was how it would be. We talked it through extensively. But back in the good old days where I could take a crap at leisure and eat with two hands. And eat my food hot. And not cut up into chunks prior to me sitting down. And slowly. *sigh…..*

sorry, I’ve had two hours sleep and my minds wandering. Yes, back in B.B (before baby) I thought what I was doing was noble. The self sacrificing navy wife. The constant, smiling heart-of-the-house earth mama. The sun to the solar system that is our family. How satisfying! How fulfilling! How wonderous!

How fucking ridiculous! The reality of my life is screaming blue murder in your face and pooing across your floor.

  
Yet for Popeye, the mental picture of me, tenderly changing a nappy whilst lovingly gazing at Sweet Pea, possibly surrounded by a halo of white light, is still intact. At least whilst he’s away and not able to call.

  
And there’s a big part of me that wants it to stay like that, for him to keep that frankly ridiculous image of me, “Olive, Super Mum” in his head. A bit like before Sweet Pea was here and he thought I walked around with full makeup and lace undies on everyday. He now thinks of me and her in this madonna- and baby esque way. I ask myself everyday, Should I burst his bubble? Should I send the email telling him exactly how I feel during those moments of desperation? I don’t think I will, although I’ve considered it!

What good would it do? It won’t get him home any faster, it probably wouldn’t make me feel any better. And it sure would make Popeye feel awful. Which a tiny part of me wants, but a bigger part (the non-evil part) realises that then we would both be miserable, and making him miserable is not what I want to do. I want him to be happy, but not too happy, I want him to not miss me, but really I want him to mega miss me, and I want him to have fun, but not too much fun.

I think what I want, and what I will never have, is for him to understand wholly, completely, what it’s like day in day out with a newborn.

But what I will never ever understand, is how it feels to be separated from your daughter and wife and only see her growing up in pictures. I can only imagine. And it’s pretty awful.

So whilst the image of “Olive Oyl: Super Mum” is a complete work of fiction, my view of him and his life onboard is equally as rosy tinted and idyllic, as his is of us at home.

Who am I to add to his unhappiness at the situation by enlightening him to the pooey, noisy, sleep deprived truth, it’ll all be waiting for him when he’s home!

Brain farts

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ Leave a comment

They say it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. That being said, it must also be a woman’s prerogative to drive herself loopy with contradictions.

Some of these brain farts I have already covered in other posts, such as when I don’t want Popeye anywhere near me, yet cling to his tear stained t-shirt like a limpet crossed with a banshee (see “why doesn’t he just go already”). Others include hating time with a passion, then loving time equally as much, all depending on one key factor, is he home or not .

All the time my brain is behaving in this contradictory manner, I am doing my own head in. I don’t understand why I am so backwards and mental and generally slightly unhinged. Moreover I don’t understand how or why Popeye copes with it. I don’t know if it’s happened since I became a navy wife, or is a consequence of being one. I.e do you have to be mad to love a sailor, or does marrying a sailor make you mad?

This debate goes round and round in my head many times during a deployment. I think it when I start to cry over finding a snotty tissue he’s left in his jeans pocket, I think it when I start laughing manically after I’ve packed away all the Xbox crap very important game paraphernalia. I think it when I find myself scowling at happy couples in the street, and I think it when I have a full on adrenaline rush when the phone starts ringing.

But the time when I seriously begin to doubt my sanity is when I have just received the holy grail of contact (as a couple we still have not mastered Skype, I know, I know, how do we cope etc). I’m talking about the much awaited, much anticipated phone call.

So you all know my response to the ringing phone, and my mad phone ninja skills. What I haven’t covered is the completely irrational response I have after ending the call.

This response has no bearing on the quality of the call, it can be long, short, detailed, sober, drunk, end with “I love yous” or end with being cut off. The point is, dear readers, is that there are many many times when after the phone call I have catapulted into complete and utter despair. Like, total meltdown depressed, crying, hugging the bemused dog who tries in vain to escape, eating a whole tub of Ben and Jerrys, despair.

A navy wife friend said to me that this is the reason she prefers emails, because at least then you can plan what to say, be excited to receive the next message, and revisit the conversation, I must say I’m beginning to agree with her, she writes a good blog, you can find a link to it here actually.

I have no real reason as to why the odd call makes me feel so crap. I have many theories, ranging from me being hormonal, to jealous that he is having fun without me, to possibly me simply not being a normal person.

Usually, for other people, wives and girlfriends, when their partner or loved one does something or gives them something that they have wanted for a long time, the response is happiness, gratitude and love.

Not for me! I get pissed off! And sad! And annoyed! And I wish he just hadn’t even bothered ringing because now I have to watch the second half of Downton Abbey feeling annoyed at Mrs Bates, because even if Mr Bates is in prison, at least she gets to bloody see him!!!

I can’t even finish this post with a heart warming summary, or an insightful commentary. Because I literally have no idea why I react like this after some phone calls. There’s no pattern, no way to predict it.

Stupid brain farts.

Pussers socks

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 17 Comments

I need to rant, a straight up rant.

Until very very recently I thought I was the only one who had a major hate problem towards an inanimate object, specifically clothing.

That was until I posted on a Facebook page for navy wives about my hatred towards said item of clothing.

I was amazed at the response. I am not alone in my hatred of pussers socks!!!! Other wives too have told me that they can’t stand them!

First of all, for those of you lucky enough to not have these items of clothing in your life/laundry bin, pussers socks are of the devil navy issued thick black socks.

“Olive, why all the negative nelly-ness? They’re only socks, how bad can they be?” I hear you cry.

Well they aren’t just any old socks, these socks may be self aware. Or at least up to no good. Let me elaborate.

They are basically made of something akin to Velcro, they attract ALL hair and ALL fluff that your husbands feet may encounter. And when you live with me (I’m a moulter) and a hairy Westie dog then the socks become a veritable lint roller for the floor.

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It doesn’t matter how many times you wash them, those hairs ain’t never coming out. Ever. Ever.

So then you end up storing all the socks up for when you’re doing a load of towels or, what is even more ridiculous, just doing a load of washing exclusively of pussers socks. Which obviously is a little bit bonkers because, well they’re socks for goodness sake.

Another strange quality these socks possess is that, once brought home from the issuing depot, and worn and taken off, they will never match again. Each sock is made of a slightly different weave/pattern/thickness and you will drive yourself crazy if you try to match them into pairs. Don’t even try. The different thickness would really annoy me, but if Popeye thinks I’m going to spend ages sorting out those beasts, he better get himself another wife!

And they seem to be able to move. One navy wife said that she swears they multiply in the drawer. I thought about this and it makes perfect sense. They separate from their pairs and then go in search of a mate that is biologically different from themselves, once found they disappear into the drawer, or, in my house (the reason for the original Facebook rant) under the bed, where they bump uglies (which is the whole sock I imagine) and make new, giant thick socks to annoy you. You will find nests of these socks only once your hubby has deployed and he is safely thousands of miles away.

All you can do is destroy the nests and return them to the sock drawer. We used to share an undies drawer but now, because of the socks, Popeye has a whole drawer basically just filled with them, bursting at the seams.

Another navy wife made an interesting point, that also applies to Popeye. Sailors, it’s seems love these socks. They think they’re comfy. And stylish, Popeye wears his even when not at work. And I can only assume, seductive, based on the reports of partners attempting to play footsie with the beasts on their feet. (Err no, I don’t think so, I’ve got a headache.)

In the interests of science I have worn them before, and I’ve just put on a pair now to evaluate their comfort level. Yes they are thick, and I imagine very nice and warm during winter. But these socks are issued year round, and below decks is usually a balmy mix of BO and farts, not exactly “snuggly socks” conditions. They are also scratchy and nylony. Ok I guess, but not anything I would get attached to.

I can only surmise that sailors get attached to these strange socks because they are navy issue, and therefore have almost a nostalgic place in their heart. They are reliable I guess, and they are practical. But they are still totally gross and far far too big for any normal footed sized man, they go past my knee.

I know it’s a really weird thing to be grossed out about, but they truely are massive, unmatching and seemingly never clean. The sheer volume of them is what really takes the mick. And the fact that I am sure they wait for hubster to deploy, before emerging into the light in their swarms.

“Subject to change”: a massive understatement brought to you by the Royal Navy.

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 2 Comments

The thing about the navy is, that until you are in a relationship with a sailor, you have this rosy tinted view of the “might of the British navy”. This super powerful, super organised sleek beast, epitomising the pinnacle of military might in the first world.

When you’re about five minutes in to said relationship with sailor, this view begins to lose its lustre. I am a bit of control freak at times granted, but that does not begin to explain my frustration with the oldest established military force in the U.K.

You can’t organise one thing, not one teeny tiny eeny weeny event or anything and safely bank that your partner will be there. Popeyes catchphrase at the end of any conversation about leave or deployment dates is “subject to change”.

“Subject to change” is putting it bloody mildly. When we were first dating I dropped a young fresh faced Popeye off at the train station on Sunday night. We had our standard hug and kiss goodbye and I drove merrily home to tidy up dirty cups, snotty tissues and sweet/choc wrappers left as what I can only guess are love mementos by Popeye, (which I have been reliably informed are an alpha males calling card by the way, so there), thinking in my wide eyed final year uni student way that “yes, I will of course see him on Friday. As per usual. That’s what he told me so that is what must be happening.”

I did not see Popeye for two months dear readers.

It wasn’t even a deployment, just basic sea trials (translation: pissing about on the sea whilst the engine breaks again and again) and bad timings of him being duty weekend in between.

This baptism of fire was about four years ago, before a deployment proper. It taught me a hard but necessary lesson.

Subject to change= “don’t rely on anything darling sailor is saying about where he is going to be at any given time on this planet until he is physically standing in front of you in the doorway with his x box in one bag and dirty kit in the other”.

This also happens with deployments, I’ve known countless other wives and girlfriends who have saved up all their pennies, adjusted their countdowns on the calendar and bought a whole new wardrobe so they can fly out and see their partners mid deployment. This does sometimes work and must be amazing to do. Alas, there are times when the ships timetable has changed, or their partners are duty or the some other international incident has occurred which means that all their build up and excitement comes crashing down.

These are “big” examples. There have been hundreds of times when leave has been cancelled, or he’s come home really late, or not come home at all and not been able to call until the next day (visualise me having a panic on a Friday, pacing around the living room and thinking, “is he really not coming home? I need to know so I can open some wine or not, will I be needed for lifts from the train station? Oh sod it he’ll have to get a taxi”.)

Just yesterday (and probably the inspiration for this cheerful little post!) I said goodbye thinking I’d see Popeye after he’d finished work, nope. Not a chance naive Olive! Gone until further notice! Don’t even know where he is! I’ve learnt to go with the flow now though and admit defeat. My timetable and plans MUST come second to the navy . I knew this when I met him.

Doesn’t mean I can’t moan about it though.

NONE of this is the sailors fault. No way. It seems to me that yes, the navy IS powerful. And it IS a world leader in protecting humanitarian rights and providing aid. What it is not, however,is all that organised in terms of sticking to the plan... Which I think is the part that annoys me (and other partners of sailors) the most.

This flexibility in the plan may be an essential component in keeping the Royal Navy up there as one of the “big boys”, or (and I suspect this is true) it may be due to the dubious attention to detail or rigorous testing provided by BAE so that half of what they need to do they can’t because the thing they need to use to get there is broken. Or they get to where they need to go and the thing they need to fire or check or use is broken. Therefore a wasted journey for the ship and missed Christmas plays, birthdays and anniversaries for the crew.

But I have to mention the flip side. Those fantastic spine tingling, breath taking evenings when you’re watching some highly intelligent documentary on TV (ok ok so it’s more likeI’m a celeb, X factor or true blood but he doesn’t need to know that, as you quickly switch to question time or something with Micheal Palin in it).

The door knocks, the dog starts going mental, you jump up, half daring to think it could be him, half hoping its a free dominos pizza and not a murderer. And there he is! Exhausted, dishevelled and grumpy, but home. These surprises are what makes up for all the crappy times when the Royal Navy messes us around. In these moments I freakin love the Navy. Like properly. Forever. Until the next Sunday night.

So my message to you the next generation of fresh faced, intelligent navy partners, is this: use the dates your Popeye gives you as a vague indication of when you might see them. Get holiday insurance. Do what you were planning on doing anyway. Don’t spend your life waiting for the navy to care about your plans and agenda because it’s got bigger things to prioritise. Understand that your sailor finds this JUST as rubbish as you and prepare to be amazed at how much of a warship can be repaired using gaffer tape.

Oh yes and make sure you shave your armpits for those surprise hugs in the doorway.

Muchos love

Xxxx

“It’s complicated” -my relationship with time.

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 8 Comments

I think I’m in an abusive relationship. Not with hubster Popeye, don’t worry, he’s a kitten, but with time. Let me explain this analogy, ahem: Time, it treats me badly again and again, reduces me to tears and g&t’s and yet I always go back to it when it promises me it will never treat me like that again and how much it wants to make me happy.

See? Time+navy+me=abusive relationship! Or at the very least some kind of unhealthy codependent relationship based on love/hate.

When you are doing a deployment countdown you view time as your mortal enemy, and I, at least, spend a large chunk of each day taking it down a peg or two mentally (hang on maybe I’m the abusive one…). I spend a RIDICULOUS amount of time thinking about time (ironic) and how months and weeks are really not all that long. In short, when Popeye is deployed I demean time, I shorten it and patronise it, I beat it into submission until its not too scary.

For example, two months sounds scary, eight weeks, not so much. Also to say he’s still away for two and half months is awful, but if I take time by the gonads and twist, two and a half months magically turns into ten weeks! Tah dah!

You can also do this not just with months and weeks, but also with days. *gets magic wand and magicians hat*. Firstly, this works best when you’re in the ten week countdown. It also works best when you are alone in the house, holding a giant bar of dairy milk, standing in front of your calendar. No one knows why this is, its just physics or something.

Basically you don’t count the day they are coming back, nor do you count the day you are currently on. This means you can easily, at any point, shave two days off of your countdown as and when needed. Viola! Take that countdown! Here’s some more time magic…

You don’t count the day they are back, because omgomgomgtheyarebacktodayimawakeat3amandIwenttobedat2.45.

You can also not count maybe two or three days before they are home because omgomgimsoexcitedandihavetocleanthehouseandwashthedogandthecarandmyselfanddefuzzandbuyfivenewoutfitsandemergencydiet.

Not enough? You can also cut off any days you are meeting up with friends or staying at other peoples houses, or hotels, because then you won’t miss your sailor as much when you go to bed if you are tired and tipsy and also (as every navy wife knows) time passes quicker when you’re busy.

At the beginning of a deployment round up how much time you have done to give yourself an ego and moral boost. So if they’ve been gone for ten days, that turns into a fortnight, which you mentally say as “half a month”. And then abracadabra-10 days = half a month! Which sounds a hell of a lot better than telling yourself “they’ve only been gone a week and a bit”.

A month consists, always, of four weeks, not five, no matter what the calendar (or the bank) says. This way you can say “one month down, five/six/seven to go!” sooner and feel smugger faster. (I know “smugger” is not a word, but I am employing word magic here as well as time magic so there). You can then use this feeling of amazingness to combat the ‘I don’t know how you do it’ well meaning people’s looks with an “aha but I have already almost,kind of, I’m getting there, DONE it biatches!”

Aaand the best thing is, this feeling of wowzers look at me surviving and time passing aren’t I brilliant only gets better as more time passes!

I suggest you continue lengthen time in this way so that you feel freakin awesome until you reach the halfway point when you can start to shorten time again because, hey you’ve done half a deployment now chick and you are feelin pretty fly.

So that’s one side of my relationship with time, the other side is the side when Popeye is home on leave. Suddenly the very fabric of time changes! Three weeks, which was a very short and laughable amount of nothing-time during deployment is now a beautifully long vast insurmountable amount of time that will last forever. Three weeks becomes an eternity that you refuse to see the end of.

That is until time tricks you once again. Because no matter how 100% sure you are that three weeks is, in fact, forever and ever, no matter how much stuff you plan to cram into those weeks, you will wake up one day, usually for me around about day 17-18 and go “oh crap we haven’t done anything apart from stay in bed,walk the dog, watch walking dead and eat subway for two and a half weeks! How did this happen???”

Answer: Time has tricked me, once again.

And so it starts again, the feeling of super-duper-time-on-steroids whizzing past us both, heading terminally towards him going back to that bloody ship again to spirit him away for odd weeks here and there until the next deployment.

It makes me feel like Wiley coyote and the “meep meep” bird. It really does.

One of our strengths is, as navy wives and girlfriends, we can weave a mysterious magic with time. But, as Spider-Man taught me, with great power comes great responsibility. And time will come back around and bite you on the bum the second you start to relax your attention to it.

My advice, never take your eyes off it, it’s a tricky, sneaky thing, which is simultaneously my best friend and my greatest enemy.

Muchos love,

Olive Oyl
Xxxx

Navy wife MOT

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 10 Comments

Now I’m not saying I let myself go during a deployment, but I do “relax” into what can only be described as a asexual state.

Because navy wives are a strange hybrid during deployments, we’re not single we are “taken” in the sense that we have got a partner, but they are just not here at the minute. When I do go out, dont get me wrong, I like to look good and feel good. I’m not paired up in the traditional marriage sense, but I AM spoken for. I dont flirt nor do I want to, but you dont fit into the “single” category, nor do I feel that I can 100% fit in with the married gals I’m out with either.

I still feel single in the sense that I have only got me to depend on, there’s no lift home from hubby, no one to swap stories with when I come stumbling in, he’s not there for me to catch his eye in the universal sign of “help! weirdo alert” when some creepy guy at the bar starts chatting to me. I have to pay the whole taxi fare. There’s no one to hold my hair back etc.

To compensate for the strange dynamic of being in a relationship, yet for all intents, purposes and for practical reasons, hoofing it alone, when they’re away you can totally get away with things that you can’t when they’re home.

I don’t shave my legs when hubby is gone, unless it is a very special occasion or Im getting worried the hairs have started to stick through my leggings and the static may cause a spark at the petrol station.

I do shave my armpits, but not with the finesse or attention to detail that arises when Popeye is home or it is summer. I have been known to wear a t shirt in lieu of a vest top because of my relaxed attitude to underarm fuzz during deployment.

I let my eyebrows have a race to the centre of my forehead (not really, but they do get quite bad at points).

Skin care routine? What skin care routine? (Unless you count leaving makeup on overnight and using shower gel to get it off the next day).

Of course hubby never knows about this, when on the phone I can pretend that I’m up and am having an oh-so-productive day when really I have spent two hours playing candy crush and looking at cats doing stupid things on YouTube, I’m still in my dressing gown and the dog has buried a chew toy under the duvet next to me. In the same vein if we ever Skype I will make sure my face and upper body look great, in some stylish top, and he will never know that my bottom half is wearing primark pyjamas with jams stains on them.

I only send him the pictures of me that I like, so I get to filter out all those that make me look a tad bizarre. It’s not a lie as such, more like giving Popeye a more favourable angle to miss when he’s away.

“Ah hah! clever me!” I think. “It’s the perfect ruse! I can totally relax my already fairly lax beauty regime and he will never know! Am a genius, this way he is still in love with me and I don’t have to worry about trivial things like haircuts or nice nails! nice one Olive, you’re doing swell girl.”

This state of happy self contentment/blissful unawareness continues until…

“Oh CRAP. It’s three weeks till he’s home! Three weeks! how did this happen?
Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod”.

When you’ve stopped staring blankly at the calendar agog that the time has actually past you come to the scary realisation that, he’s really coming home AND (no matter how many times you speed change, turn off the light and dive bomb under the covers) he’s going to have to see you naked at some point. SHIT.

And I’ve just realised my mother in law reads this blog. Hi…*waves*…

Anyway…

Once the initial surge of panic fades, you make the navy wife MOT list:

1. Haircut
2. Stop biting nails then get manicure.
3. Sort out feet.
4. Shave legs (if I start now I should be finished by the time he’s home)
5. Wax everything.
6. Exfoliate six months of dead skin cells off of your body.
7. Put a face mask on, maybe play some Enya or other plinky plonky music, to try and convince yourself this is pampering and relaxing, and not at all stressful or painful.

(Oh yes and the house list:
1. Clean the crap out of everything in a style of nervous desperation because you can’t sit still until the house is gleaming and you’re scared to move anything anywhere.)

I’ve suggested at my local salon that they should have a package called the Navy Wife MOT and include a haircut, bikini wax and eyebrow shape in it. I think they though I was joking but I was totally serious! All my navy wife friends do this, or a variation of this, depending (in my case) just how bad they’ve let themselves get during the deployment. Some girls probably look like they’ve bathed in milk and honey and had their makeup licked on by kittens every day (like my personal self image nemesis at 6.30am in the morning, – Charlotte from Sky News no one should look that good at that time of the morning, it’s unnatural and unrealistic and makes me want to cry into my bowl of Special K red berries).

Sorry, got carried away.

I am not one of those girls. I forget to take my makeup off at night, and wake up looking like ive been punched in both eyes (sexy), I would rather have an extra five minutes snooze than spend ages on my makeup in the morning, I frequently button up my cardigans (see, I wear cardigans!) the wrong way and don’t notice, all day. And I have gone out SO many times with not just wet hair, but wet hair with conditioner still completely in it, for that “barely dry, yet totally greasy” look.

The annoying thing is that this homecoming level of personal preening lasts for about a month after Popeye is home, after that I relax again, not quite to deployment level, but not as OCD as when MOT time comes around. That’s because it’s just not me. I mean, I’m clean and I make sure I’m de-fuzzed, but I don’t let it take over my life. My skin may not have been treated to a facial, my eyebrows may have just left the starting blocks, but an MOT level beautification isn’t needed, as lame as it sounds I feel confident just being myself.

A navy wife MOT is that extra reassurance when I feel what (I hope) are quite natural homecoming body image insecurities. Realising that hey I’m not asexual, I’m a woman, an ok looking woman at that, and he loves me. Sometimes it just takes a little extra scrubbing to make me realise that I could show up wearing a bin bag and Popeyes eyes would still light up like its Christmas.

Socialising and trying not to be mental.

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 4 Comments

I think being a navy wife has made me slightly unbalanced. Please feel free to judge me, because I feel quite guilty about it, even though I am actively trying to remain stable and rational.

Especially when I compare me, in my time-greedy-navy-wife marriage to “everyone else” and their civvy-wholesome-sensible relationships.

Let me explain a bit,

Popeye is generally away for six/seven months, then home for about 3 out of 4 weekends a month the rest of the year, bar lovely lovely leave. So suffice to say, our time together is precious. (This time of course does not include time apart for effing BOST, Super-Annoying-Promotion courses of Stress And Grumpiness, or SAPSAGs for short or any other ridiculous and possibly pointless jaunts around the home waters).

(As a side note I once calculated the actual number of days per year we would spend together, including summer and Easter leave. All I can say is DONT DO IT. Deployment Maths is evil and led to me having a massive cry and freaking out about how we were ever going to make this marriage work. Not a good idea mid deployment, or anytime for that matter.)

Without fail on those precious Fridays he can actually come home ( crazy idea I know) at approximately 4pm our world is paused and our metaphorical drawbridge goes up.

We hole up in our house and because a)he’s a chef b) I don’t want to leave his side for more than 10mins to shower/pee, we order takeaway and totally veg out. Then we spend the remainder of the weekend hiding from friends and relatives and generally being lazy, spending money we don’t have and eating out, a lot.

We do venture out from time to time and actually see other people, and when we do I have to remind myself to share. Share my husbands company that is.

I restrain myself from standing on the edge of the circle of guys talking about football and cars and simply strain my ears trying to eavesdrop from the girls circle, only vaguely listening to our conversation, and replying with vague “mmm hmm’s”, “yeah I know” and “no way”‘s as appropriate. This has back fired on me several times when I’ve said something like “yeah I know” to someone’s horrible bad/ serious news like their dog died or they’ve lost their job or they think they might be gay. There are times when I gravitate over to where hubster is and laugh a split second too late at a joke I haven’t really heard. Awkward.

If someone dares to say that we should split up for a bit during a night out, i.e boys go to a different bar, girls will catch up later, I get a bit of a sicky feeling, and I start doing Deployment Maths (Deployment Maths is a bit like OCD, so when this happens on a night out with friends you can’t help but calculate that out of the 48 hours he’s home for, he will spend 16 sleeping/being hungover, 8-12 hours socialising, you will spend x hours going to/from said friends house therefore leaving you with approximately 5 hours together all weekend. And he’s not home for another month.)

I KNOW how totally clingy and mental this makes me sound, I’m a trained psychologist remember, however, I am at the merciless grip of Deployment Maths. My only defence is that in these cases I don’t let the panic get me. I smile, wave goodbye to Popeye and quickly order a double, hey if he’s getting those 16 hours, I might as well too.

Popeye copes much better at social gatherings such as the above than I do. He is chatty to everyone, to the point where he’s sharing stories from life on board that I haven’t even been told. It’s like finding out about this whole side of him he doesn’t think is all that relevant or interesting when he’s home and we are hiding with the home phone off the hook.

If your sailor, like mine, literally sends a variation of the same email every day week for 6 months, these escapades and anecdotes of daring do’s and hilarious scrapes from deployment can leave you feeling, well, quite surprised and then miffed to be honest. Popeye literally sends this email to me 80% of the time whilst deployed, ahem:

“hey baby, nothing much is going on here, same old stuff. I miss you loads and I can’t wait to see you, all my love, Popeye.”

Every email. For 6 months. Seriously.

This has led me to conclude that he either-forgets about these adventures on the high seas/around the globe, can’t be bothered to tell me, or doesn’t have time to email me the details. To this day, I still have no idea which of these theories is true. I’m leaning towards the former as its not so depressing.

So when my super-sonic-social-gathering hearing picks up on how he stole a giant fish from a bar in New York and they got pulled over by the police with said giant fish in the back of their car, or how his friend broke his collar bone trying to do a breakdancing move in Norway or whatever, I am just a tad peeved.

Is it wrong that I feel a pang of jealousy that Popeye doesn’t share these stories with me when we’re sitting at home watching tv and snuggling on the sofa? Or is it that he doesn’t feel they are important enough to waste our precious paradigm phonecall minutes on? I’m not one to disapprove, in fact I think it’s bloody hilarious the stuff him and his shipmates get up to, so that can’t be it. No, it’s more likely that when he’s home he, and I, mentally “shut off” the outside world, including navy dits, bills, report writing or visiting my grandparents.

When he phones home its for a bit of escapism from what generally is drudgery day to day on the ship. He wants to hear about what he misses, not relive another day apart, no matter how much fun he’s had. Rather wait until he’s been home, had some downtime with the drawbridge up, then go out and entertain. My husband the social butterfly who just wants to come home and forget all about work. Until he’s got an audience. Bless him.

Well Meaning people

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 14 Comments

Hey there people in blog world!

Happy 2014 and all that jazz! After a fairly crappy crimbo for me (which I can’t talk about right now -its a top secret matter blah blah blah), I thought I’d get cracking on another post to entertain you navy wives out there in cyber space, and hopefully make you think “jeez at least I’m not as mental as her“.

So off they’ve gone to save the world again. And you’re at home coping, leaving your clothes on the floor, not hoovering quite as much as you should, and singing and dancing along to Cher with a glass of Pinot Grigio on a Friday night because hell, you can.

Home life, although stressful and/or tedious at times is pretty much sorted. You’ve got this single woman living down. However when you step outside that front door and into the real world, there are some well disguised threats to your new found sense of equilibrium.

Well Meaning people, often coworkers, are the worst for this. “How are you doing since Popeye left?” Is a common question, accompanied by the Dreaded Head Tilt. The tilt that simultaneously says “oh isn’t she a little trooper” and “I really pity you” at the same time.

Fighting the urge to punch them in the face or burst into tears, you must give the obligatory response: “I’m ok, it’s been X many months and so far I’m doing alright”. Whilst at the same time giving a small shrug and looking humble and yet bashful.

You must say this or a variation of this. Trust me.

Screaming “I can’t cope, the house is a bomb site, the dog keeps vomiting something orange onto the carpets, in the last two weeks all I’ve had is a sodding one line email from Popeye and I haven’t shaved my legs nor armpits in 3 months” is NOT what the Well Meanings want to hear.

Other phrases I’ve come across that Well Meanings feel compelled to say, include, but are not limited to:

“Oh the time will just fly by”. (Really? And your knowledge on the “psychological interpretation of the passage of time during deployment” comes from which fully controlled and scientifically valid study???)

“I’d love 6 months without [insert civvy spouse name here], I wish they’d leave for that long!” (Why don’t you just divorce them then?)

“It must be great having the bed to yourself/tv to yourself” etc. (ok yes these are perks but gosh darn I DO NOT want you to tell me about them. When you do it makes me want to grind my teeth for some reason).

“My husband went away on business for 3 weeks, it was awful, I know exactly how you feel”. ( at this point my brain actually explodes).

Boy writing this has actually made me a little tense! *breathe*

The thing is they are genuinely trying to be kind. It’s just that when you try and comfort someone about something you have absolutely no experience of, and cannot relate to, you reach into your mind and pull out something that you vaguely hope will work. Then you’ve done your bit without staring vaguely at the person in an extended version of The Dreaded Head Tilt.

The truth is, nothing will ever be adequate, because unless they say “oh by the by my husbands the admiral of the fleet, I put in a word for you and Popeye will be home by tea time” then whatever they do say just wont cut the mustard.

And of course my reactions aren’t always as violent as described above. Those reactions are usually what I think after the third or fourth Well Meaning person has asked them.

I know I sound like an ungrateful cow for dismissing these honest to goodness questions and positive assertions about how I will cope during the deployment. And it’s so bad, because these people are kind and supportive and good people. I guess I’m just not as good as them! I’m just so glad I’ve got this space to write out my ramblings and rants. Because I really don’t want to punch a coworker in the face.

Why doesnt he just GO already?!?!?

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 3 Comments

Im going to write about a bit of a taboo subject among us navy wives. If im wrong then I am a complete cow and I really hope hubster doesnt read this. (But if Im right then I can pretend to hear all you ladies go- “thankyou finally someones saying what we’ve been thinking, hurrah!”). Let me know. If not then maybe marriage counselling is the way forward.

I know my other two posts have been about during the deployment, but what one part no-one seems to talk about or give a flying rats arse about is the build up to the deployment. (And by “no-one” I mean many of Olive Oyls nearest and dearest, not you my lovely readers of course).

I think the build up is one of the most intense times of the year. If like me, darling sailor is sodding off again for 6 months to save to world, after pretty much every 9 months at home, then yes, it does seem to be every year. During this time I go through what can only be described as a regression. Let me describe it for you…

Staring.

I will stare at Popeye with giant Bambi eyes at various times throughout the day and night. I know Im doing it. But I cant stop it. I find myself trying to memorise his eyes, toes, knees and filtrum (thats the dippy bit under your nose, get your minds out of the gutter!).

Sometimes I make this into a game/challenge when he’s sleeping. How much can I remember in 30 seconds then put a blanket over him and test myself. Sooner or later he will notice though (read:wake up) and ask/yell at me to stop as I look creepy (apparently). In this same vein I will also take secret photos on the ipad when hes not looking/asleep.

Mini stalking.

I call this mini stalking as its stalking but on a small, non threatening scale. I guess I could have called it “drifting” or “shadowing”. Because no matter WHERE he is in the house I will somehow gravitate to just behind one of his shoulders. Or next to him on the sofa. Or infront of him when hes standing and shouting at the football on TV. Or when hes shaving (dangerous).

Sighing.

Ditto as staring (see above).

Uncontrollable hugging.

Now, I am a very “huggy” type person. I love hugs, I love giving them and recieving them. But when a deployment is looming im like ants over a picnic in summer. Its like im a junkie who knows her supply is gonna run out. I ambush poor husband with hugs. When hes trying (and failing-because of the above, and below) to eat his breakfast. When hes trying to put the shopping in the car, as he starts off for a jog, etc. Not cool Olive. Not cool.

Bursting into tears.

Basically what it says on the tin. All the time. Everywhere. With no prediction.

Wanting to create “Special” memories.

“Lets go for a walk and feed the ducks”. “Why dont we watch [insert romcom film hubby hates here] and snuggle on the sofa?”. “Lets go to the Zoo”. “Lets go back to the bar where we first met and re-create it”. “Lets make customised recordable talking bears for each other to have”. “Ive written you a poem, why dont you write me one too?”. “I want this evening to be special, lets have a romantic dinner”. “Let go ice skating and hold hands as we skate”. “Lets get each others names tattoed over our hearts its so romantic.”

And then my fellow navy wives, the last few days before D Day…

Bitch from Hell.

Basically, all the above happens and really starts pissing off Popeye (giant suprise). So he gets grumpy, and I get snappy. Make that REALLY snappy. To the point that every tiny thing he does (clears his throat, makes a sandwich and leaves the marj out, puts all his washing in to get it clean before he leaves and not mine, he breathes too loudly, etc) starts to wind me up.

I begin to make little “tsk, tsk” noises, that he pretends not to hear. I make them louder. I kick the bag he’s packing off the bed by “accident”. I start to slam doors and hide his ID badge. I stamp my foot and cross my arms. I mutter under my breath whilst tidying up. I crash in and out of rooms and I smoke. A lot.

I get so irked and stressed and annoyed by his very presence, EVERYTHING he does annoys me.

Im not sure but I think steam starts to fizz out of my ears. Im a kettle thats about to start whistling.

And then, then I think the “bad” thought…The one I darent speak aloud, and  I feel pretty bad-ass just typing it here.

“Why wont he just hurry up and GO????”

______________________

Something completely insignificant will start it off, like him asking me to pass him some socks. Or him leaving the cap off the toothpaste again. I start screaming at him and dont want to talk to him or look at him. And then I start getting really really annoyed at myself because I know that in just a few short hours I wont have that luxury. I wont see him for ages.

Then comes the second wave of anger:

“I cant even be annoyed with you because youre leaving and ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!”

Cue crying, feeling like a truely horrible person and generally chastising myself for being such an idiot.  Of course its so completely not his fault. The good thing about Popeye is that he totally gets it. Or if he doesnt he does a pretty great job of acting like he does. Which at the time just makes me feel WORSE.

Usually we have a hug. All the while im half pulling away because I am, obviously, the spawn of the devil, and half hugging him closer. Knowing that every second is precious.

You see its not HIM I want gone. Its that feeling of dread, of nauseau, of unreality and (after the first time) deja vue, that accompanies the build up to a deployment that I want gone. And the catch 22 is that the only way that it going to stop is when HE has to go. They’re two horrible feelings that are completely entwined and enmeshed together and at some point I and other people like me (I hope ahem), just lose it.

The build up to deployment is a very intense time, but I hope that the fact that me and Popeye know what we’re both like helps us to laugh at each other, once Ive finished slamming cupboard doors.

Muchos love

Olive Oyl xxxx