I'm Coming Out!

I haven't posted in a while. A long while. My original plan for this blog was for my identity to stay incognito: just some anonymous person who lived in Jacksonville and loved to skewer its idiosyncrasies. At first I found the cloak and dagger act fun but soon discovered it to be a detriment, especially while wading through emails and comments from irate readers and trying to defend myself from those wanting to know just who the hell I thought I was talking about poor Marine Wives and their love of idiotic bumper stickers (according to Blogger data, my post popular post by far).

And then I got called a coward who hid behind a keyboard. A coward! Them's fighting words.

So people want to know just who the hell I think I am. Please indulge me while I dig in to my bag o' hate mail and use the greatest hits as a springboard to answer your questions.

"I don't care what you say. Jacksonville is a great town. I grew up here and am raising my kids here. I don't know why you hate it here so much but why don't you just go back to Texas or wherever the hell you are from. We would be better off without you."

As much as I would like to blame Texas (because who doesn't love to blame Texas?!?), North Carolina claims me as one of her own. I was born and raised in one of the "Vuhls"; Fayetteville to be exact. Fayetteville is like Jacksonville's wiser big sister. Both are military towns saddled with derogatory nicknames (Fayett-Nam being the most popular choice for my hometown). Fayetteville is home to Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base. The place is crawling with soldiers, military spouses and military brats just like J-Vegas; just swap soldiers for Marines and rinse, lather and repeat. Unlike J-Vegas, Fayett-Nam gave up any illusion years ago that it could survive without the military. Under the old adage of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em", Fayetteville caters to its entire population and reaps the benefits. Just visit Fayetteville's revived downtown area on Hay Street then take a stroll down Court Street in Jacksonville. There is a lesson to be learned there.

Now does this qualify me as a true Jacksonville local? As I have been told by numerous drunk locals in bars, Cumberland County ain't Onlsow County and Fayett-Nam ain't J-Vegas. Even though I speak with the same silly accent as them, I am not truly a local. So be it. And don't hate because I know how to properly pronounce Richlands.

" I was slightly offended here and there by what seemed to be a lack of appreciation and patriotism."
"All your talk... aren't you glad that there are people like my husband defending this great nation and allowing assholes like you to write whatever they want?"
" Too bad you never served or else you might have more sympathy."

First off, let me declare that I am indeed very grateful for the men and women who defend this nation and its ideals. Americans too often tout our rights while overlooking the fact that service members make sacrifices on a daily basis in order to ensure those very rights for us.

I do understand those sacrifices. I raised my own right hand years ago. I served* for four years and got out as a sergeant.

* In the Army. Yeah. That's right. Some of you may disqualify me right on the spot for this fact. I will just smile and say "Hooah!" I suspect some of the biggest whiners on this issue are the ones who haven't served a single day of their lives anyways (sorry but Marine Wife doesn't count as service, ladies) so I am still one up on them.


(after seeing a picture from the School of Infantry posted on my Facebook page) "You are probably one of the shitheads that shook the machine and made the 1stSgt file paperwork. You a 0311?"
"Please tell me you are a grunt."

Nope. Not a grunt. Bad enough that I was in the Army but I was also an intel weenie to boot.

"Why did you even come to Jacksonville if you hate it so much?"

After getting out of the Army, I began earning a living as a slimy defense contractor. I took a job at Quantico, which was my first exposure to the Marine Corps. After five years at Quantico, I transferred down to the Camp Lejeune office. Being a North Carolina native, I liked being closer to home. And I don't actually hate Jacksonville. I bought a house here and got married so it appears I am laying down roots. I think Jacksonville has its fair share of ridiculousness and am quick to point out its flaws but, all in all, I have a nice little life here.

"It is obvious that you have a hatred of women. We aren't all whores that cheat on our deployed husbands. But I hope you meet a woman who cheats on you cuz you deserve it."
"You left us hanging, bud. Whatever happened to the chick from the Tarheel? Did you at least nail her?"

This one makes me laugh because I am of the XX chromosome variety. Let me put that in J-Vegas bumper sticker speak: I R Female!

I don't hate my fellow women; I just hate dumb women. I can't stand a woman who acts like pushing a future Devil Dog out of her vagina is akin to curing cancer. I want to gouge my eyeballs out when women try to pull their husbands' rank on others. I want to throw myself in to the fire pit when I attend a party and women start every single one of their sentences with "Well my husband says..." But if you are a woman with her own accomplishments and are capable of forming an original thought outside of your husband, you are cool in my book.

Regarding the "chick" for the Tarheel, read that post over again and note that it is very gender neutral. I had to play a pronoun game while writing that one. True story but I had to work the verbiage as not to reveal that my dance partner was a guy and I was the female in the story. In fact, I played that game a lot with this blog, having to rework posts or completely delete them in order to ensure that people didn't figure out my gender.

So the "chick" from the Tarheel is actually my husband now. We got married last year. And, as a cheeky nod to how we met, we danced to "Fishin' In The Dark" at our wedding. The two-step, not J-Vegas style, as to not give the minister a heart attack.

"Wow!! It's so easy to throw stones when you are on the outside looking in. Thank you so much for completely misinterpreting every single military spouse decal you saw. Please, tell me what's it's like to be perfect and have the right to judge everyone else. The day you walk in these woman's shoes, is the day you get the right to say anything. You can't even imagine what's it's like to kiss your husband good-bye and not know if you will see them again"

The Bumper Sticker post draws the most fire, mainly from wives who say I know nothing about what they go through. Here is the biggest bomb of the day: I am married to a Marine, thus making me a fellow Marine wife (although not a Marine Wife because I refuse to overestimate my importance in his career and appoint myself to a proper noun status). Once upon a time, I was also an Army wife, even though I was also on Active Duty at the time. I grew up an Army brat and watched my mother be an Army wife too. Hope this qualifies me enough to be able to walk in your shoes (although I might have to take a peek at your His Boots, Her ??? sticker to know if I am walking in flops, boots or heels today).


I do really heart my Staff Sergeant Air Winger and he knows this without me having to slap a decal on my car. On his next deployment, he will know that I missed him (and he will probably figure out that he is going to get laid in a few hours) without me declaring it to everyone else driving past the air station via painted sheet. He is a hard-working Marine with many accomplishments that I am proud of... but they are HIS accomplishments. His rank belongs to him. I no longer wear rank on my collar. Sure I think he is a stud in his blues at the USMC ball but, recognizing the seriousness of the occasion, I don't try to compliment his uniform by wearing a red dress so low cut in the back that my ass crack is hanging out and a slit up to my womanhood. 


Sure there are challenges being married to a Marine: his hours are long and his schedule is irregular, he faces deployment at any time, the pay kind of sucks, we may have to uproot everything and move should he come down on orders. Here is the clincher though: I knew what I was getting in to when I married him. I have no right to bitch. If I wanted someone with good hours, I would have married a banker or a school teacher.

After receiving our official marriage certificate, it was time for the inaugural trip to the ID card center and DEERS office. Or, as I liked to refer to it as, my GI Man took me to the Land of the Big PX. Here is what I was greeted with in the parking lot:

GI Man just smirked at me and said "Welcome to the tribe." Indeed.