Humans are Actually Terrifying

                Many blog entries have been made to illustrate the scariness of nature. Usually, these entries revolve around animals and how terrifying they can be—and many of them have similar themes. You’re afraid of spiders? Here’s a list of the 10 largest/deadliest/scariest-looking spiders we can find pictures of and information for. You like cats? Here’s a list of the most unsettling facts we can possibly find about the feline world. Wait, you think these particular animals are scary? Let me tell you all about the animals that eat them.

Cracked.com's Scariest Animals

                Other blogs have gone the other direction—posting information in order to convince us that nature isn’t scary at all and the world is really a wonderful place full of beauty and mysticism. Such articles include things like the top 10 largest holes in the ground, largest lakes, most strikingly-colored aquatic life, etc.

                A news article covers the “ten scariest animals in nature,” an article that seems to debunk the scariness of some animals while illustrating that others are scarier than we thought.

NBC News's Scariest Animals

                Popular images when one Google searches “scary nature” include deep-sea life and tremendous storms, along with the occasional image of nature eating something like a street sign.

                Still other blogs like to simply post information with no hidden agenda. The best example of that, in my opinion, is a video series by zefrank1 on YouTube called “True Facts About...” The videos themselves are highly amusing and great fun to watch, yet they still cover facts that are, in fact, true (imagine that!).

                However, how often have we taken the time to look at humans as a creation of nature? Religious people like to argue that we are created by an almighty, omnipresent, omniscient, benevolent, just, jealous, vengeful, mysterious “God”, when the truth is that nature “created” us, just as it created every other mammal, reptile, amphibian, sea creature, and plant on the planet. The truth is that evolution is a fact, whether you decide to believe in it or not. The greater truth, as I have come to know, is that humans are by far the scariest creatures ever to come from nature.

                “But what about the box jellyfish?!” one might ask. The box jellyfish minds its own damn business and won’t hurt you unless you mess with it—intentionally or not. Now, let’s focus on what I’m actually saying, please.

                Humans are the only creatures to unintentionally cause serious harm to the environment. Wikipedia hosts a lovely list of nuclear and radiation accidents and incidents (actually the name of the page, if you want to look it up yourself), organized so that you can jump to one category in particular if you’re so inclined. Their list of nuclear meltdowns is one that I find particularly compelling for illustrating my point.

Nuclear Radiation Accidents and Incidents

Images of Nuclear Accidents:

                Those are accidents. Those images and the lists on Wikipedia don’t address what humans do deliberately to destroy the planet. A lot of people think explosions are cool. The Myth Busters are famous for blowing stuff up in nearly every one of their episodes. I have a number of friends who think explosions are really cool-looking; these are also friends who advocate firearms and are great fans of what Americans like to call “air power”. Now, don’t get me wrong, explosions can look cool… but…

                I’m sure we’re all aware of the attacks on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Here’s a look at those explosions.

Nagasaki and Hiroshima

                Those are pretty nifty, aren’t they? Nuclear explosions are famous (or infamous) for their mushroom-shaped clouds and, conveniently, Google has a nice collection of images in stock! But this post isn’t about the explosions. It isn’t about weapons or war or firepower of any kind. This post, I’ll remind you, is about the scariness of humanity.

                Consider, for instance, the aftermath of any given explosion. If you’ve seen images on the news after Hurricane Katrina, you may have an idea. But Hurricane Katrina was a natural disaster—not something done to the planet by humans.

                We agreed that those explosions looked pretty cool, didn’t we? Sure, we did. We like looking at pictures of explosions. What we don’t like looking at is the aftermath. Take, for instance, the aftermath at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

                The rubble and people made homeless don’t look like much, especially when placed side-by-side with pictures of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The woman’s face, even, could be worse, couldn’t it? Images like these should be far more compelling than they are, but radiation itself is invisible (unless it’s glowing in the dark). We can’t see the danger floating in the air that we as a species created. What we can see, however, are the effects of that danger.

                You may still be asking yourself, “How are humans the scariest creatures on the planet?” to which I respond, “We destroy everything.” Not only do we destroy the planet in every creative way we can imagine, we destroy each other. People are all too happy to be terrified of being bitten or eaten alive by piranhas or sharks. What they don’t seem to be afraid of—as they should be—is an attack from a fellow human being.

                The irony of this is that humans attack people far more often than any other animal in nature. It’s in the news every single day—a school shooting, a serial killer on the loose, sexual predators possibly living in your neighborhoods and preying on your children, a mother who has killed her baby, and kids who have killed their mother. Why are we not more afraid of humans? Humans are unpredictable, dangerous creatures! They come in all shapes, sizes, appearances, rendering judgment by appearance impossible!

                One terrible fact that I, and many others I know, have come to notice is that people are immensely guilty of “bystander syndrome”—an inner voice that tells you, “Someone will take care of it,” accompanied by a feeling of non-involvement and non-responsibility and, perhaps, a twinge of guilt—whenever they see something that they know, ultimately, is wrong. Take, for instance, a man falling down in the street and not a single person stopping to help him for well over an hour, then by the time someone finally does stop, it’s too late. He’s dead. Or, perhaps there’s a situation you see at a bar where a man is hitting on a woman who is clearly drunk; you know the woman doesn’t want anything to do with the man but you do nothing to separate them and ultimately he rapes her.

                There are many things we tell ourselves as bystanders and we are all guilty of bystander syndrome at one time or another. In the situation with a man falling in the street, we may look at his shabby clothing and unshaven face and think to ourselves, “He’s probably homeless,” or, “If he’s really sick, I don’t want to catch his disease,” or, “I don’t know anything about him and I don’t want to put myself in any kind of danger.” We are conditioned from a very young age to think, when we see a stranger, “You never know who someone is.” The problem with this conditioning is that this inner talk is almost always negative toward strangers. We don’t stop to offer aid to a homeless man on the sidewalk because we don’t know anything about him. He could have been a largely successful man before he lost everything due to circumstances outside his control. Or, as we are more prone to assuming, he could be a drug addict just looking for his next fix. In the situation with the man and woman in the bar, we are likely to think to ourselves, “It’s none of my business,” or, “I don’t want to fight that guy,” or, “I don’t know them; I shouldn’t get involved.” We are conditioned from an early age to think that what others do is none of our business and we should never get involved in the affairs of others. We put blinders on, stick our heads in the sand, and mind our own business for fear of altercation with another person, or fear of judgment.

                More than those things, however, we laugh things off that are not funny and should not be made into jokes. The word “rape” is thrown around so often now that fewer and fewer people take it seriously and therefore are less likely to do anything to prevent a rape from happening—due to the idea that it “isn’t a big deal.” It is a big deal. It’s something that the US military is focusing on very heavily, along with drunk driving, to eliminate—and, with it, bystander syndrome, so that those around people who are drinking or making advances on drunk women are not driving drunk or taking home unwilling partners.

                Bystander syndrome may well be the scariest trait of humanity. After all, while there are rapists, pedophiles, and murderers out there—and usually you can’t identify them by looks alone—think of this: There are more people than all of those criminals combined who sit back and do nothing while these things happen. Think of Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors, who smelled the rotting corpses of his victims and heard the sounds of his tools while he went about cutting them into bits—yet who did nothing to investigate. Some called the police, yes—and good for them for doing so, I’m certainly not saying they shouldn’t have—but the police, after very brief questioning, went on their way and thought no more about it. Or—even worse than Dahmer’s neighbors—think of the two cops who went to his apartment with one of his last victims, a teenage boy, after finding said boy trying to run down the street naked with blood on him from being anally raped—a boy found by two girls who called for help and knew something was wrong, girls who did something and were not bystanders—and after brief questioning and absolutely no background checking, the cops left the boy with Dahmer in his apartment and went on their way. Bystanders are literally the reason Jeffrey Dahmer got away with murder so many times.

                What I’m trying to say is this: Rapists of all kinds…

…serial killers…

…and drug addicts…

…might scare you. They might make you nervous. But I have to ask you…

                What about your neighbors who will stand idly by and watch a drive-by shooting destroy your house? What about the people filling a restaurant so that nobody can get in without a reservation, turning away as you choke on a piece of your food? What about the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people in the streets, walking right by you as you fall over, coughing, in desperate need of medical attention on your way to the hospital—and not a single person stops to ask if you need help while you collapse to the ground and cough out your final breaths among specks of blood?

                It isn’t just about what humans do to destroy the planet. It isn’t even about what humans do to actively destroy one another—such as with war.

                It’s about the fact that we do nothing to stop it, and we are doing more and more of nothing every single day.

Surprise! You're Pregnant

                The morning of March 21^st was painfully ordinary. I had been assigned since December to snow removal shift—a special duty during winter time with one focus: Remove any and all snow that falls on the flightline as quickly as possible. Due to lack of snow this past season, however, those in charge saw fit to end snow removal, and I was sent back to my ordinary workplace—my shop. I’d been back since Monday, having somehow shifted my schedule over the past four days from night shift to day shift. I was also assigned to the Unit Fitness Improvement Program—a required program for anyone who has failed a physical fitness test. I’d been on the program, making slow but steady progress, since I failed my first ever fitness test in July, last year. This morning—Friday, March 21^st—was the defining morning of my time in the program. The plan this morning was that I would take a “mock” fitness assessment—basically, a fitness test that doesn’t get recorded officially, as a means of measuring whether or not I was ready to take the official test again and pass it. Upon passing—and I was absolutely certain I would—I would be scheduled for my official test, which I would then take and pass, and I would no longer be required to show up every morning at 05:30 to the gym (although my plan was to continue going for further improvement). I was excited and nervous at the same time.

                Commence the test! I passed my push-ups and sit-ups without problems! It was time to run a mile and a half. As I stood after completing sit-ups, however, I felt a horribly sharp pain in what was undeniably my uterus. My first thought was that something had gone awry with my Intra-Uterine Device—the lovely little T-shaped doodad that acted as a contraceptive. The pain was stabbing, but I thought, if the IUD had moved, then I would simply walk it off so that I could do my run, finish the test, and have the Unit Fitness Program Manager schedule me for my official test before the middle of April.

                As I walked, though, I realized something. First, the pain in my uterus was not abating. Second, trying to jog in order to warm up only made the pain worse. I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to run for the test, and would therefore forfeit the entire thing that morning. What was even worse was that the plan for Squadron PT that morning was a mile-and-a-half run that involved a very large hill. If I couldn’t run for my fitness test, only to miraculously recover to run for PT, how would that look on me? I’d look like I’d pretended pain just to get out of the fitness test!

                The UFPM came up to the track and I approached him after trying another warm-up lap with no lessening of pain. He asked if I was ready, so I told him what had happened and explained that I had already scheduled an appointment with the medical clinic for the following Monday. I didn’t give him all the details, but I’d scheduled that appointment because I had been missing periods for a couple of months and having strange pains on occasion within my uterus. I attributed these things to a problem with the IUD—not to mention, skipping periods has been normal since adolescence. What’s more, I was told that a pregnancy test conducted in January was negative! So, here I was, in the gym with the UFPM, telling him that I had pain and thought my IUD had moved.

                “I’d rather you be able to run for the PT test. It would be better for you to run the test than to run for PT with the squadron,” he told me. I completely agreed—but my uterus didn’t. So, we made a plan. My husband and I would try to find an opening at the clinic that very morning for me to have the issue looked at. If that didn’t work, we would go to the ER.

                Commence plan A: Find an appointment at the clinic that morning! This plan failed miserably. There was absolutely nothing open—not even for an urgent issue! Talk about useless!

                Commence plan B: To the ER! Now, this plan panned out. Randy drove me straight to the Bitburg hospital and we walked into the ER area and found a nurse. She didn’t really speak English, which left me to figure out how to tell her I had uterine pain… in German. It involved a lot of gesturing, but the nurse managed to get the gist of what I was saying and directed me, with some pointing and a little repetition of the word, to “Gynäkologie.” At least I understood that this meant gynecology and I already had a decent idea of where to go. Randy had recently had to stay a night in the hospital and had been on the gynecology floor. So, away we went.

                We arrived and found a waiting room, where we sat… for a while. Randy went off, got breakfast from McDonald’s, and came back. We ate the food. Then someone asked us what we needed. We told them and then we waited some more, until finally we were told we could wait outside the doctor’s office. We sat there for a while still, until finally a brown-haired man showed up with a strange voice and friendly mannerisms to lead me into the examination room.

                Naturally, the first thing he grabbed when I told him I thought my IUD was having issues was, of course, the speculum. It was terrifying! I’d never seen a German speculum before! This thing looked freaking primitive! It was like two elongated, curved slabs of metal that didn’t even connect. I stared at them as if they were going to tear me apart, rather than just make it possible for the doctor to take a look at what was going on with my hoo-ha. He laughed and told me that they were normal and it would be fine, and then he began an attempt at taking a look to see the IUD and what was going on with it.

                The PAIN! Dear gods, the pain! It felt like there were barbs on the speculum, like it was driving into me like some kind of sick drill—like the drill you see in Atlantis: The Lost Empire when they’re trying to dig through that wall of stone and earth! The speculum—a device made of smooth, round-ended metal objects that ordinarily cause no pain whatsoever—was like the tongue of Hell trying to enter my body via some kind of Satanic induction. My entire body tensed as I tried to let it be, thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, it shouldn’t take that long, the doctor should find what he’s looking for soon enough, or it’ll stop hurting so much soon… My jaw clenched between exclamations of, “Ouch… Ouch… Ouch,” while I made the most valiant attempt at keeping my voice down because dammit, I wanted to know if my IUD was moved! Hell’s tongue or not, Satanic induction or Angelic intervention, I needed to know what was going on with my birth control and I was determined to endure whatever torture was necessary in order to find out!

                After a handful of “Ouch!” exclamations from me, the doctor pulled the speculum out and observed that I was too sensitive for the instrument. I concurred as politely as possible, while secretly thinking, Gee, you think?! What he said after that, though, surprised me. He said he would need to use the ultrasound to see the IUD and check for infection or displacement. I’d had a little bit of experience with ultrasound in that hospital—Germans seem to use it for just about everything—and so I acquiesced. The ultrasound couldn’t possibly be as painful as the speculum, right?

                This time, I was right. The ultrasound instrument was only slightly painful, and only upon insertion! Once in, it was simply cold and uncomfortable—things I could deal with rather easily, considering the Speculum of Death I’d just tried enduring. The doctor moved the stick-like device around, searching my cervix and uterus for the IUD to see if it had become infected or displaced itself somewhere inside. On a screen for my viewing pleasure was what he could see on his computer—the images produced by the ultrasound, as typical of what you would see with, really, any ultrasound, ever. But then, I saw this:

                “What the hell is that?!” I demanded immediately. Seriously, look at that thing! It looks like some kind of tumour! Oh, and I’ll also have you know that all of the information you see there about “19 w 4 d” and “17 w 3 d” wasn’t visible on the screen. This is a print-out.

                “You don’t know what that is?” the doctor asked, sounding equal parts amused and confused—as if he couldn’t understand how I might not know what that image was showing.

                “No. Is it a tumour?”

                “That is a pregnancy.”

                “No.” No. No, it isn’t. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.” No way in hell. I’m here to have my IUD checked. The IUD is there to prevent this! This guy’s messing with me. It’s the only way. That has to be a tumour or something. Definitely. “Is it alive?” I suppose this question was the best thing to ask, considering what was really going through my head was more along the lines of, “KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!”

                The doctor didn’t exactly respond right away. He repeated somewhere in there, “That is a baby,” but then was quiet as he let it hit me that I was, in fact, pregnant. After a few moments, the nurse asked if my husband was in the hall and if I wanted her to bring him in. I said yes, and she brought him.

                Of course, he recognized the image straight away and broke out into laughter immediately. The sudden, nearly-overwhelming urge to either punch him in the face or strangle him rose like a tide within me. He sat in the chair beside the bed upon which I lay prone and laughed into a hand. I wanted to kill him and told him so directly.

                We left the hospital knowing two things. First, I was 18 weeks and 3 days pregnant. Second, the baby was a girl. We had a follow-up appointment Monday with the doctor to determine if we would keep the baby or terminate the pregnancy. Upon reaching the car, however, I already knew that it was too late. I was already in the second trimester and I knew all too well what would go into an abortion at my stage of pregnancy. Just thinking about a tiny female being cut into pieces and ripped out of its incubator filled me with a sense of hesitancy. Could I live with myself, knowing that I had killed something that was most definitely alive, moving, and most likely developing normally?

                The answer was no. I couldn’t terminate this far along. I had stated once, in a discussion with a rather ignorant, “pro-life” friend of mine that I am okay with abortion up to 12 weeks for any reason at all. Here I was, sitting at 18 weeks and 3 days pregnant. 12 weeks was a good 6 weeks ago. At this point, the development was too far along for me to consider the abortion a humane process.

                Decision made! Randy and I decided we were going to have a baby.

                “Now we need to think of names.” The words almost caught me off guard as they came out of Randy’s mouth. Names? It’s a girl, what’s there to think about for names? I had this decided years ago.

                “Oh, Persephone Anne.” The words came out of their own accord, flippantly, without a thought. I didn’t know where the “Anne” came from, but Persephone had been pre-determined for years, despite my desire to never, ever spawn children of my own. I’d always figured, “If I get a chance to name a girl…”

                I went home that day with printed out ultrasound images like the one you see above. I posted them on Facebook, making them visible to a very limited, highly select group of people on my friends’ list, with the words, “Surprise! You’re not allowed to gloat. D:” A kind of dread filled my being the way gas fills a chamber—surrounding, suffocating, creating a strange kind of pressure that is difficult to identify on its own. This dread carried a terror that someone, anyone, who knew that I was pregnant would decide to rub the fact in my face with gloating words such as, “I told you so!” “I always knew it would happen!” “I knew you would change your mind!” and so on. I was terrified that someone would laugh at me. I had done what I could to prevent this situation! My situation was different from all of those parents who say “I’ll never have kids,” and then end up with kids! I had contraception—highly effective contraception that had worked consistently well for a full year! I didn’t want to be pregnant!

                The relief that came when nobody laughed at me was so great that I didn’t quite feel it. Instead of what one might associate with the feeling of relief, the sense of dreadful terror simply crawled away slowly, inching out of my being the way a viscous liquid might ooze through a drain. As more people found out about the pregnancy and still no one gloated in the way I feared they might, I began to relax. It helped also that my best friend and my mother-in-law were beside themselves with excitement that I would have a baby.

                I decided that I would keep the baby. My baby would not be put up for adoption, I would take care of it with my husband and we would raise her as well as we possibly could. It’s hard to come to terms with the idea of having a child, after so long of vehemently denying the very concept and actively working against pregnancy. You really have to evaluate where you are in life and what your own morals are. If someone else ever found herself in my position, I would not think less of her as a person if she decided to terminate the pregnancy.

Learning to Knit

                Knitting is a relatively recent hobby that I picked up after walking into the Craft & Party store on base. I’d been walking through the store, looking at the various items—jewelry making, sewing, felting, quilting, scrapbooking, stuff to make false plants, embroidery, crochet… and knitting. Oh, if you could have seen the amount of yarn on the shelves! Having never been to a craft store before, I was impressed by the sheer amount of yarn lining the shelves in the back of the store. Patterns hung in little basket holders here and there from the shelves as well—and every pattern was free to take, whether it was a knitting or crochet pattern!

                I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of options in the store. Where should I start? Should I even do anything? I didn’t have any real hobbies; I just spent all of my free time messing around with random crap on the Internet. My typical day consisted of going to work, coming home, and killing time before going to bed by generally browsing the Internet. A lot of time was spent on Tumblr. Looking at the yarn, though, I was filled with the impulse to take some and make something with it.

                Near the yarns were your typical yarn-craft supplies—knitting needles, crochet hooks… and looms. Looms? Looms. There were knitting looms. I found them fascinating, and still do, but just like the first day I laid eyes on them, I still have no idea how to use a knitting loom—however, unlike that first day, I have every intention of learning once I have the money to invest in a loom set. I didn’t buy anything the first day I stepped into the craft store… I wanted to give some thought to what I was doing, rather than impulsively buying something to do, only to give up on it and have a bunch of leftover material to follow me around forever with no purpose (I’ve done this before).

                When Randy and I met up at the end of the day, I told him about my adventure in the craft store and the massive collection of yarns. I had noticed, while in the store, that they had kits for learning to knit. I made a point of bringing this up to Randy, as well. His response was typical of him.

                “You can do whatever you want.” What a frustrating response! Of course I can do whatever I want! The question was, should I? Randy was no help in making a decision.

                I thought about the craft store and the idea of beginning to knit for the rest of the night. The next day, I returned to the craft store. I happened to have Randy’s credit card on me, because at the time I had no spending money to use on food for lunch. Walking into the craft store, I took a good while looking at the kits available for learning to knit.

                The first kit that caught my attention and held it was contained in a tube. It consisted of a pair of U.S. Size 15 knitting needles, fluffy pink yarn, and a knitting pattern for a scarf. It was made for breast cancer awareness and therefore had the signature pink ribbon on it, as well as a name like “Knit Pink”, or something. All I really wanted was that fluffy pink yarn, so I grabbed the kit, assuming that I would kill two birds with one stone in learning to knit and acquiring the coolest yarn I’d seen in the store.

                This was about the time that I noticed the other two learn-to-knit kits. One was in the theme of Disney Princesses and didn’t hold my attention for more than a moment. The other, on the contrary, captivated me with the picture of Mickey Mouse on the cover and a pair of red knitting needles whose ends were shaped like Mickey’s head. Mickey Mouse knitting needles? OMG! Need! I was officially torn in half between two kits—the Knit Pink kit with a scarf pattern, which I held in my hand, and the Mickey Mouse kit with the title “I Taught Myself to Knit!” on the cover of the little book it came with.

                Ultimately, the Mickey Mouse-shaped needles won out. I put the Knit Pink tube kit back on the rack and grabbed the book with Mickey’s face on it, looking at the materials included. Two pairs of knitting needles—the red, Mickey-ended ones and a pair of plain gold closed-ended needles, both U.S. Size 8—along with two needle caps in the shape of Mickey’s head, two Mickey Mouse items that I still don’t know what to do with, and a little package of stitch counters. I tried comparing these items to those contained in the Knit Pink kit, but couldn’t see through the yarn and needles to discern if anything else was included. The Mickey Mouse kit was simply laid out much better, in a more professional way. I was sold.

I mean, just look at it:

                Mickey Mouse kit, a few patterns, and quite a few skeins of yarn later, I stood at the checkout counter while the cashier ran Randy’s card. It went through and everything cost a surprising amount totaling less than $20! Holy crap, knitting was cheap!

                Following my first purchase of crafty items, I proceeded to follow directions in the book for how to do basic knitting. I found myself with a practice swatch…

                I wasn’t entirely sure what to think of my beginner’s practice swatch. I had a feeling something was wrong with it, but as a beginner, I also figured that was to be expected. I especially didn’t like the holes in the work and how they were most prominent in the row I’d cast on. But, I kept at it until I felt confident enough to begin one of the book’s projects—a coin purse.

                I chose the huge skein of green yarn I’d purchased, unsure just how much yarn this purse was going to use up. It wasn’t the most attractive green, but I didn’t particularly care. I figured, if nothing else, I could probably give it to my little sister at some point to use to carry something.

                It took some time getting the cast on just right, but at last, the coin purse idea started to come together in the first rows of stitches…

                As with my practice swatch, I was rather unhappy with the looseness of the cast on row of stitches. I also noticed that my stitches had a hitch at one point—the left picture above is a close-up of said hitch. It amused me, because I thought things were going quite well, all things considered.

                What I didn’t expect in the making of the coin purse was for someone to show an interest in it, but before I knew it, my dad’s girlfriend—now ex—was saying she wanted the coin purse! I had no problems with this. The very idea that someone would want my creation filled me with pride.

                Despite that pride, however, I still felt as if I wasn’t quite doing very well with the coin purse. I decided that I would make a second practice swatch, with which I would practice the different stitches covered in the Mickey book. What came from it was far more impressive than the previous practice swatch, indeed.

                I appeared to have mastered the stockinette stitch, and I was alternating with the garter stitch. I was quite proud of my handiwork! Thus, the coin purse took shape even more…

Then, once it was long enough to fold in half and operate as a purse of any kind, I sewed the sides closed…

                I noticed that when I sewed it closed and turned it outside-out, one side was definitely… uneven. So, I tested the integrity of the coin purse by placing my cell phone within and holding it by the close flap. It held! The tension was good and it was actually operational, despite the cosmetic flaw. So, I continued with it.

                I wasn’t sure exactly what to do for decoration of any kind, so once again, I found myself at the craft store, looking around. I stared for days at the various ribbons they had available, until one day I decided I wanted to add ribbons with beads on the ends of them. I wanted the ribbons to be on the close flap, to help hold it closed, since there was certainly no button hole and I didn’t have anything with which to do snaps.

                One day, during the time I was working on the strap for the coin purse, I went to a friend’s house for a “craft night”. This friend does many, many crafts! She crochets, makes jewelry, sews, and does graphic design, to name a few things. The one thing she doesn’t do is knit. While I was at her house, I lamented my lack of closure for the little purse, and she offered me a snap! Thus, the coin purse officially had closure!

                The above picture was in fact taken at my own house, after I had finished the ribbons and beads, but it shows the snap closure, nonetheless.

                The rest, they say, is history. You can find the finished coin purse in my Store for what I like to think is a reasonable price. It includes shipping, which can be expensive, and frankly, if it weren’t for the unevenness of part of the purse itself, I would make the product more expensive, because those beads were pretty pricey. They’re jewelry beads, because the only place I knew to buy beads was at the craft store, and the only beads they had were these bulky, heavy jewelry beads. I had a hard time pulling the ribbons through the beads in order to properly accomplish the look you see in the picture above, but at last, I managed.

                My knitting skills are much better, now, and I am currently working on about three projects. One is a bulky scarf that I have put on the back-burner due to the fact that for some incomprehensible reason, I keep accidentally increasing stitches. Another is a baby blanket I’m making for my incoming daughter, and the third is a scarf I decided to make on a whim but for which I already have a buyer lined up because my friend is a really big fan of this shade of purple!

The Bulky Scarf:

The Baby Blanket:

 The Purple Scarf:

                The baby blanket and purple scarf are coming along nicely. One of these days, I’ll jump back into the green, bulky scarf, but that day is not today. I may have to rip out more stitches than I really want to right now, because that pattern uses a lot of yarn. I might even just scrap the entire thing, buy a couple new balls, and start again with the pattern entirely. Nothing is certain yet with that project.

In Pursuit of Beauty and Hygiene

               (A few Saturdays ago, now), Randy and I decided to go on base for breakfast. We were awake early enough to get delicious pancakes from the golf course! I was super excited; pancakes are amazing and the golf course makes awesome blueberry pancakes. I ordered them along with biscuits and gravy and proceeded to devour the greater majority of my food. The biscuits and gravy were a bit salty for me that morning, so I ate about half of them before deciding to focus solely on the blueberry pancakes. Every bite filled my mouth with sweet, delicious, blueberry-tinted, syrupy deliciousness. There was a party in my mouth and I was having a blast! It was definitely one of the best mornings I’ve had in a while.

                That weekend, the Spring Bazaar was in full swing on base. Spangdahlem Air Base has two Bazaars every year, one in spring and one in autumn, where vendors from all over the local and surrounding areas come to sell their goods and market their products. In my first two years here, I volunteered for every Bazaar, helping set up booths, handing out raffle tickets, helping tear down booths, etc. This year, I opted out of volunteering. There was no way in any kind of hell that I wanted to be on my feet that long while pregnant. Randy, on the other hand, had to go to the Bazaar in order to perform standby duty for his shop, the electricians; they work shifts at every Bazaar in order to provide prompt service should anything electrical need fixing.

                Since Randy had to go, I went with him. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of walking around a couple of hangars, especially since it’s almost always the same vendors who come to the Bazaars, but I figured, why not? I could at least look around, even though I most definitely was not going to spend any money.

                We took our time looking around and I was pleasantly surprised to note that I wasn’t in any excruciating pain while walking. My feet were still sternly attached to my ankles, with no swelling or aching, and my back carried me steadily without threat of falling apart. Randy and I walked around and looked at the items of each and every booth; I made comments occasionally, especially when we passed furniture. We can’t afford to buy any furniture right now, as we are separating from the military and can’t take on a new monthly payment, but I enjoy looking nonetheless.

                Eventually, we bought two rings—one for him and one for me. I chose an Irish Claddagh ring for its simplicity and symbolism; I truly enjoy the fact that turning it one way means something, while turning it the other way means the opposite. Randy chose a simple metal band that complements his hand quite well.

                Quite happy with the purchase and the way the day was going, we continued on our way, looking at the booths in Hangar 1. We had previously explored Hangar 2 and had no particular interest in anything they were selling. As we made our way around, we saw a setup from a spa in Speicher, a town about 5 minutes away from base where a lot of military members live, most of the community speaks decent English, and the people are quite friendly. Randy asked if I wanted anything done from them, but I said no. Spas tend to be quite expensive and I wasn’t making an attempt at running us broke. We had rings; I was happy.

                As time went on, however, and Randy and I found us in front of the spa setup, I reconsidered my options. Randy was offering me anything I wanted—anything at all. He wanted me to be pampered and happy. So, I looked at the menu and ultimately decided on a face wax and a pregnancy massage.

                I’ve never had my face waxed before. This was a new experience for me but I was prepared to deal with any and all pain involved, because I was seriously sick and tired of looking in the mirror and seeing hairs everywhere—my chin, my jaw line near my ears, my neck… I thought, hey, if Randy can afford this and he wants to make me feel special, this is the way to do it. This and a massage. I hadn’t had a massage since my 16^th birthday and was most definitely looking forward to one, especially since pregnancy has caused my back more pain than usual.

                The wax went as expected—mostly. The method of waxing was expected, even the pain. What wasn’t expected was how many times the lady had to go over the same spots—because, apparently, my hair grows in all different directions! Of course! I couldn’t have it easy, one rip per section of face, oh, no! That would be too much to ask! I had to suffer far more than the average face-wax victim (or so I assume).

                Finally, though, the waxing was done and I was allowed to regard the results in a handheld mirror. My face and neck were red. It was expected, of course, and I said I was happy—if only because I couldn’t see anything wrong with my face aside from the redness. The lady suggested I wash my face when I got home, so I agreed, raised myself off the bed, and sat in a chair to await the time for my massage.

                The massage was wonderful! The masseuse was a well-built man who knew very well what he was doing and he made an effort to keep the parts of me that he wasn’t massaging covered with the blankets the older lady who worked there put over me prior to his walking in. This very well protected my modesty (boobs) and made me feel at ease more than if there had been no blanket at all. I only wished I had removed my socks prior to the massage; my feet could have used a bit more attention than they received, but I hadn’t thought of my socks when I removed my clothes. Besides, bending over far enough and lifting my leg in order to get my socks off seemed like a lot of effort that I didn’t want to go to. Regardless, I was quite happy with the results and walked out of the booth feeling better and walking straighter.

                I felt oily—from the massage oil—and tingly in my face from the wax. I had a new ring on my finger to indicate my marriage. I was quite happy with how things went.

                Finally, Randy and I returned home and I cooked dinner. It was the least I could do for my wonderful husband, who had done so much for me that day. I cooked steak and mixed vegetables and Randy prepared the side of instant mashed potatoes (they seem to be his specialty); it was delicious and we were happy. I washed my face and we went to bed.

                Over the next few days, my face broke out like crazy. I used my regular face wash to clean my face and it began breaking out everywhere that I’d been waxed—red bumps raised like angry little volcanoes all over my skin and the redness of the skin itself didn’t seem to want to dissipate. Finally, I brought up my concern and my unhappiness with my appearance to Randy, who informed me that I’m not supposed to use my face wash after a wax. This was quite upsetting; I had blackheads all over my nose and the occasional zit on my face—I needed to use my face wash! But Randy told me it would just irritate my skin, and I did have proof of it doing just that, with spots of my cheeks being dry to peeling and red bumps all over my cheeks, chin, and neck.

                I’ve gone two days now without using my face wash. I left my face alone yesterday and washed it twice today with simple soap and water. The redness has cleared, as have the red bumps on my cheeks, but the acne on my neck, chin, and above my lip remains. I find it highly upsetting that I’ve broken out worse since the wax than I was prior. I’m not sure what I dislike seeing on my face more—hair or acne.

                I would post a picture of my face as it is today, but I’m quite self-conscious about it. I’m considering paying a visit to the spa in Speicher—it’s not that they did a bad waxing job, after all—and requesting a facial. Maybe they can clear my skin up and recommend something to use that may work better than the washes I own. They don’t seem to do much, after all…

Thanks for reading!

Delving into Freelancing

It’s certainly no secret that for the past month, I’ve been looking into working as a freelancer using one of my talents—writing, editing, and/or illustrating. I list all three skills on both freelance accounts I have online, one with oDesk.com and one with Elance.com. Until recently, I thought I would have no luck in the freelance world—that all my efforts would come to nothing and flop.

Then, a client on oDesk.com hired me for a fixed-price job of $20 to draw a cowboy silhouette by the name of “Sancho Pants”. I excitedly took the job and ran with it, hoping to produce something exemplary that would make the client happy. My efforts seemed to fall off the mark, though, as the client simplified the job not once, but twice. My drawings went from full-bodied sketches of bowing cowboys, to silhouette sketches of cowboy heads, to a simple hat and moustache.

I remain quite pleased with the initial sketch—second and third from the left, as you can see. I really do think that particular cowboy was my best work with this job, but as it turns out, my client was happiest with the final product, as seen on the far right. At first, I was disappointed, because when I sent the final image file, I received nothing more than a notification through oDesk.com that my contract for the job had been ended—my only consolation at the time was to look at my payment and see that I had the rest of my money pending my account; this is the only thing that told me the client could have been pleased with my work.

With the completion of the cowboy silhouette, I looked briefly at other illustration jobs, but felt a lack in confidence. I didn’t want another client to simplify their desires  or find me inept. Therefore, I focused more of my efforts on finding jobs in writing and/or editing.

Almost miraculously, I landed an hourly job! The client wanted only freelancers with the lowest rates; based on the average proposals to his job offer, I knew that what I asked by my profile would be too much for him, so I lowered my standards to a mere $1 per hour. It’s not much, but at this point I was simply looking for something to do part-time to get my foot in the door of freelancing and, hopefully, find a client who would give me some feedback so that I might find higher-paying jobs in the future.

It wasn’t until after accepting an official contract with this client—who wanted me to write reviews for textbooks—that I saw that my client for the cowboy silhouette had, in fact, left a feedback for me. It wasn’t just any feedback, either—my profile now boasts 4.6 of 5 stars as a feedback rating, with the words “Job well done” put in by the client himself. I was elated to find this! This was precisely what I was looking for! It also explained one more thing…

Right before seeing my feedback rating from the client who wanted a cowboy silhouette, I received two invitations to interview for writing jobs. The first, I accepted; I then found out that the job, while fixed-price, will pay me $245.00 (based on my proposal and in keeping with the client’s budget) to write a number of reviews for porn websites. Did I have a problem with this? Not at all! If anything, I remain amused, because I’m not the largest fan of porn in general and I certainly don’t pay for the porn I watch. After accepting the porn site reviews job, I received another invitation to interview for a writing job—another fixed-price job, this one for $20, to write a counterargument for something. I don’t know what it was, because I decided to decline the invitation, due to the fact that I now hold two part-time writing jobs and since I’m still technically employed full-time by the military (at least until the end of next week), I didn’t want to overwhelm myself with work.

I made sure to change my availability to reflect that I am not available for new work at this time. I think, though, that when I make myself available again, I will likely receive more invitations for jobs on oDesk.com due at least partly to the one good feedback I have from Sancho-Pants-Man.

Oh, and in my free time, I decided to take my favorite sketch of Sancho Pants and make it into a decent drawing.