An Unpolished Account from Kirkland to Hoquiam

In my life, I have decided to make a point of not talking badly about people behind their backs. It was driven home yesterday that not everyone shares such a desire to avoid gossip and bullshit. I learned yesterday that someone who used to be a “friend” is jealous of me and likes to talk shit about everyone around her.

            The conversation started innocently enough. Randy, my friend Kelly, her dog, my dog, Persephone, and I all met with another friend of mine in Kirkland, a place I’d never visited before. I was pleasantly impressed by what I saw of Kirkland, little as it was, and my friend, Kara, and I were sitting on the grass, she with her son and I with my dog, as Randy chased Persephone around the grass. I’m not sure why or how the conversation ended up on a Facebook group we’re in, but Kara mentioned the group, which I’ll call the Lounge, and asked me a question having to do with some other group members.

            “Some of the other ladies left the group,” she said. I hadn’t known anything about it, so I hmm’d and ha’d and nodded my head, furrowing my brow and mentioning my ignorance of the other, now former, group members’ activities. At the mention of other members of the group, though, I thought of someone who had been a mutual friend to Kara and me who goes by Nessa. Opportunity bloomed before my eyes for me to tell someone about how Nessa had suddenly, unexpectedly, and without a word to me, deleted me from her Facebook friends’ list. I didn’t feel that it was a great loss—Nessa had blatantly avoided my Halloween party last year, only to have the gall to invite me to her house when I’d expressed that no one was showing up to my party—but I hadn’t had anyone to tell about her having deleted me until just now, because I didn’t have anyone nearby who would have cared to hear about it in any capacity.

            “Nessa deleted me from Facebook,” I said, adding something before the sentence to segue into the topic. The reaction from Kara wasn’t quite what I’d expected, as she said: “She’s jealous of you.” Did I say that wasn’t quite what I’d expected? Let me correct that: It came as a complete surprise. My eyes widened and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

            Well, it was then that I learned that Nessa had been talking badly about me to Kara, who did nothing to add to it and simply tried to diffuse the situation when it came up (after all, she and I are friends and I’ve done nothing to incur either woman’s wrath), but of course I was filled with a burning curiosity to know what was said about me, behind my back, without my knowledge. Happily for me, Kara was happy enough to oblige and humor my curiosity.

            What I learned wasn’t necessarily very specific, but it was quite revealing. Before delving into the things Nessa had said about me—which were quite unimportant but satisfied my curiosity nonetheless—Kara mentioned that Nessa had betrayed her, and not slightly.

            The story is not mine to tell, but suffice to say that what Nessa did was a complete betrayal of trust with Kara and, as far as I’m concerned, was unforgivable. Kara is a more forgiving woman than I, however, and she did forgive Nessa for it—though she admitted to me that she shouldn’t have, based on the caliber of person Nessa has proven to be. Long story short, the betrayal had to do with an actual legal case that was going on and Nessa gave out information that she had specifically been forewarned not to give out. Her excuse when she apologized profusely was as follows: “I didn’t mean to.”

            She didn’t mean to? I don’t think so. Let’s spell out a scenario of similarity in order to shed some light onto my incredulity. Let’s say that Susie is my partner’s ex and she’s trying to keep half of my partner’s belongings because they used to be together, but my partner wants his belongings back, so he’s fighting for them using the legal system. I don’t want Susie to know anything about me because it could somehow jeopardize my partner getting his things back, so I tell my friend, who has become friends with Susie, that I don’t want Susie to know about me. I specifically tell my friend, Nessa (let’s at least keep that part consistent), “Please don’t tell Susie anything about me. I don’t want her to know my name, where I live, what I do for a living, or anything. Nothing. Please.” Nessa agrees, but the next thing I know, Nessa has told Susie every last thing she knows about me!

            I would never have forgiven Nessa.

            Hearing Kara’s story was infuriating. I was filled with a kind of righteous rage, that which drives me to exact vengeance on those who have wronged me or those close to me. I put it aside, however, as it’s not my battle and my friend had already forgiven her for the betrayal, whether it deserved forgiving or not. So, rather than getting into a rage and ranting about the injustice of it all, I mentioned my Halloween party—which led to my learning that Kara had planned to attend, with Nessa! Another surprise!

            This was when I learned that Nessa enjoys making plans with Kara and being the person who coordinates it all, with or without Kara’s knowledge but often with her involvement, only to then decide to cancel and leave the cancelling up to Kara, who beforehand hadn’t even known she’d be involved. It’s a shitty thing to do. Imagine if you and I were friends and I made plans that involved you, but didn’t tell you about them. You get a call from the person with whom I’ve made the plans: “Hey, are you still coming to my picnic?” You’re surprised: “What picnic? Was I going to something? What’s this about?” Suddenly, you become aware that I’ve signed you up for an event without your consent or knowledge. Then, on the day of the event, I say, “You know, I just want to stay home. Can you cancel? Also, can you find a bus back to your house since you don’t have a car and I don’t feel like driving even though I don’t have an issue with gas money because you’d help me with it if I would just give you a ride?” Essentially, that is what Nessa does to Kara.

            When Kara said she’d planned on coming to my party with Nessa, I was angry with the latter woman all over again. How dare she ignore my party completely, make plans with someone to actually attend, then cancel and follow up with the gall to invite me to her disgustingly filthy household to do what I could only assume would amount to sitting outside and smoking weed, because the interior of the house is revolting and also a health hazard…which brings me to my next point.

            Nessa was offended when I looked out for the health and well-being of a child at her home.

            Nessa is not a mother. She cannot understand motherly instinct and she clearly doesn’t respect one mother’s concern over another mother’s child. Nessa had requested help in cleaning her disgustingly filthy home, and I had volunteered because it had been my idea that she should conduct a cleaning party and get as much support as she could, so as to get it done and maybe make it fun. Another friend of mine helped, admittedly more than I did, but on the first day, I was there. So was another woman Nessa had invited.

            The other woman had a small child, perhaps 4 or 5 years old, if memory serves. The house was full of fumes from unchanged kitty litter and stagnant chicken shit in the floors. Unhealthy, respiratory-problem-causing fumes. So, looking out for the child, I suggested keeping her outside so as to prevent her getting sick. Kara told me that her son gets sick every time she takes him with her to visit Nessa’s home. Yet, Nessa took great offense to my concern, choosing to take it as some kind of slight against her. Ridiculous.

            It turns out, from the enlightenment I received from Kara, that Nessa seemed to decide she no longer liked me after I suggested keeping the child outside for health and safety reasons. I had no idea. Nessa never said how she felt while I was at her home, cleaning without safety equipment, nor did she send me a message over Facebook or a text message via phone to express her feelings over the matter. She did, however, feel comfortable with venting all about it to Kara, which turned out well for me because I get a much better idea of her character in addition to getting closure over the issue.

            I will have it known that I did not consider the loss of Nessa’s Facebook friendship to be a big loss. I looked at the “add friend” button on Nessa’s page and thought, “Well, that was unexpected.” That was about the end of it for me, until my good friend, Kara, enlightened me further.

            If anything, my conversation with Kara about Nessa made me feel better about myself and gave me closure to an issue that had vaguely confused me. Someone is jealous of me. What an ego boost! The only other person who has admitted to being jealous of me has done so to my face and it was my older brother, who has proven himself to be a real nigga capable of real talk, whereas this bitch can’t even tell me to my face how she feels. My older brother thinks I’m better than him—it’s not true, but it’s what he told me he thinks, to my face, because he has balls—while this bitch complains about me behind my back and talks about how “negative” I am when I post a meme.

            I compare Nessa to my older brother only because they’re both jealous of me. That is the only connection and the only reason I think about it is because, for the longest time, I thought my brother was a bitch-ass nigga. Ebonics may not be my first language, but I’ve become familiar with it and it is the most appropriate way to describe some things. This is one of those things. Hearing about Nessa made me realize that my brother isn’t nearly as lame as I thought he was and he does, in fact, have the intestinal fortitude to be a good man. I have so much more respect for him now than I did before the revelations of Kara.

            So, for my brother, Cristopher: If you’re reading this, I love you and you are important to me. I want to help you in any way I can to make your dreams come true.

Getting My Baby to Sleep

                “Shhh… Shhh… Shhh…” The mantra is a regular, along with Hush Little Baby and the occasional Alouette as I rock my six-month-old daughter in an attempt to make her sleep. Her eyes are heavy; they drift close only to snap back open and stare blearily at me, drifting closed yet again. Watching her fight sleep would be entertaining if it weren’t such a regular habit.

                Just about any parent on the plant knows the struggle, and if they don’t, I want to know their secrets to having babies sleep at regular times that can be scheduled.  My husband and I have been bed-sharing with our daughter since shortly after her birth; she slept better between the two of us and we wanted to be able to sleep, too. Now, she’s six going on seven months old and I am doing my absolute best to get her to sleep in her own bed. We have a pack-n-play set up on my side of the bed and I feel this need to insert myself as her mother, fully and completely, by getting her on a sleeping schedule wherein she sleeps in her own bed and things go well. I’m probably imagining some kind of unreachable utopia of parenthood that never happens, but it’s a damned good fantasy, damn it!

                It’s only been a few days, but here’s the rundown:

                Day after day, night after night, I sit in my recliner and rock with my daughter as I try to get her to fall asleep so I can put her in her bed and get work done. So far, I have only succeeded twice, and her sleep was short-lived. I don’t mind the short life of the nap as much as the times I’ve failed getting her to stay asleep after putting her down in her bed. I set up the old Graco swing my grandparents bought for us from a garage sale and found out Persephone enjoyed it. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that it wanted to launch Persephone at the TV. I still put her in the swing, but I either push her manually or watch her like a hawk while it’s on so that I can turn it off should it get even slightly too fast. We need a newer swing, but what can you do when you’re broke? That’s why I’ve been trying to learn HTML and other computer skills in order to have more success with my blog and, soon, my webcomic. Between trying to get Persephone to sleep and trying to work on my computer skills and making money online, I’ve found myself pushing off the Wii and getting a workout with Just Dance 4.

                This evening, I became so angry that I was shaking. Persephone had woken up both times I’d put her down in her bed; both times, she’d looked around for a minute or two and then started crying. I can’t figure out why she won’t go back to sleep like she’s done twice for me previously. Am I putting her down too quickly? Maybe I should fake putting her down before actually putting her down so that she doesn’t think much of it. Maybe I should also move slower as I go.

The Happiest Baby

                I’d have titled this entry, “The Happiest Baby on the Block,” but that’s probably a registered trademark, as it’s a DVD of tips and tricks to calm a fussy baby. I gave birth to my daughter, Persephone Anne, on August 11^th—about a month ago, now—and from the very start she has been an absolutely wonderful baby. She doesn’t fuss much, and when she does, she’s very easy to soothe. This entry is the story of having the baby and how I’m doing a month later with her.

                I was worried from the moment I found out I was pregnant and it was too late to terminate that I would end up with postpartum depression after birth. Deep down inside, I knew with a morbid certainty that the mental illness would rear its ugly, tar-black face and there would be no avoiding it. What I didn’t know was how soon it would show up. After all, baby blues are normal and postpartum depression usually kicks in a little later, right? That’s what I’d heard and gathered from all the research I’d done prior to having my baby.

                The afternoon I broke my ankle, I went to the hospital and was in the ER for many hours before moving up to the Labor & Delivery Triage to be monitored. Ultimately, the hospital staff decided to induce my labor and it was decided that I would have my baby. I mentioned this in my last entry, which detailed how I broke my ankle. I was given an epidural and labor didn’t last too long, really. I’d say it didn’t last more than twelve hours, but I don’t think that’s quite accurate, so I’ll say it didn’t last longer than six hours after the nurse broke my water. I didn’t feel it until the baby started moving out—and then she was pressing hard against my right hip and it felt like the hip would split open!

                It was a smooth delivery. My baby was, and still is, completely beautiful and I received a few stitches to aid recovery from a small tear the baby caused. We were later moved, a few hours later, to a different room, where we were to stay for about 48 hours while they monitored the baby and me. Everything was going well…until maybe 24 hours later.

                From the moment I started actively pushing the baby out of my body (a little before that, actually), up to the next night, I got no sleep at all. I might have napped a couple of hours, but it was certainly nothing significant. On top of that, I was beginning to have difficulties breastfeeding. Persephone, my new daughter, wouldn’t take enough of my nipple into her mouth for a proper latch, which left both of my nipples blistered and feeling pinched. Come Tuesday night, I couldn’t latch her on for the pain and I couldn’t manage to make the nipple guard stay on a nipple for her to eat that way.

                With my broken and sprained ankles inhibiting my movement, the pain from childbirth, and the pain in my nipples all piled on top of a baby screaming from hunger, I couldn’t handle it anymore and I was sobbing along with my newborn. Words came out of my mouth and I don’t remember all of them, but among them were things like, “I’m sorry, but you’re hurting me!” and “Why are you crying?!” Looking back, the second quote looks completely wrong; I knew exactly why she was crying and I was feeling completely inadequate and useless with the pain in my nipples rendering feeding her impossible.

                Multiple nurses came in during this episode and tried talking to me. Randy took the baby to another room and a nurse tried talking to me—continuously saying my name wrong, pronouncing it like uh-leash-uh instead of the correct uh-leash-ee-uh. I couldn’t handle it the third time she said it and I yelled at her, “It’s Aleashia!” She promptly got up and walked out of the room. I was later given a breast pump to express enough milk for Randy to feed the baby while I got some sleep; then, I was provided some Benadryl to assist with the actual sleeping.

                When I woke up, I didn’t feel much better, but I’d gotten a few hours of sleep. I immediately wondered where my baby was and pressed the nurse call button to ask. A few minutes later, Randy came in with her and said that all was well. I was still relatively miserable, but it was good to know the baby was doing well.

                It wasn’t long after that—the next day, maybe—that I was getting everything situated to feed Persephone. I moved to get my blanket out of the way so that I could position her properly to feed when all of a sudden she flipped over and off the bed—landing on the floor. It was so sudden, I immediately had Randy call the nurses in. The baby hadn’t landed on her head; she’d landed on her side, maybe her shoulder, but I was worried that she might have hit her head.

                The next thing I knew, we were still in the hospital long after we should have gone home and when we asked what was going on, we found out that the pediatrician had called Child Protective Services.

                Ultimately—long story short—CPS closed our case the day we went in to talk to them. The baby is safe.

                Now, for the best part of this entry: The fact that I have the happiest baby I’ve ever known. Persephone isn’t particularly fussy, but when she fusses, it’s usually really easy to find the problem and fix it. Most of the time, she wants my nipple; popping one in her mouth will calm her down immediately. Every parent knows the checklist: Is the baby hungry? Does the baby need a diaper change? Is the baby hot or cold? Is the baby bored? Does the baby just need to cry for a while? Does the baby need to burp? There’s more to it, though. If you go through the entire checklist and the baby is neither hot nor cold, nor bored, nor hungry, nor dirty, nor gassy, and the baby continues to cry, there are ways to easily calm the baby.

                In the film, The Happiest Baby on the Block, the man I will call the Baby Whisperer has what he calls the five S’s: Swaddle, Side/Stomach, Swing, Shushing, and Sucking. When Persephone continues crying for no reason, I swaddle her. It almost never works by itself, so I put her on her side and begin swinging her. Usually, this is enough to calm her down; other times, I have to shush her on top of it. Other times, I have to pop a pacifier in her mouth on top of it all and simply work with her for a few minutes, but ultimately, the five S’s work wonders. I have an extremely happy baby, ultimately, even though these past couple of days have been a bit more difficult than usual.

                I love my daughter so much more than I thought possible.

Broken!

                Just about everyone I know has, at some point or another, broken a bone. I’ve been relatively proud of the fact that I had never broken a bone, something that seemed a bit funny to me after an incident in 2007 where I broke some cartilage off in my knee. Well, my winning streak in which no bones in my body had been broken during my life had to come to an end sometime, as determined by the Universe, and the Universe decided that Sunday, August 10^th, at nine months pregnant, I was to break my ankle.

                The morning started out fine. My dad and littlest brother came out to visit and the plan was to go to Northwest Trek—my grandparents, dad, and brother. My grandpa was almost determined to keep me at home so that I wouldn’t go into labor while walking the pathways or riding the tram, but I went along while Randy slept (he did not want to get up).

                The tram ride was the first thing we did, which was fantastic, because it meant that I could go into labor any time during the day afterwards and it wouldn’t really matter. We walked the park, though, and I felt no labor pains—no contractions, nothing. I was a bit disappointed; the main reason I’d wanted to go to the park, aside from a strong desire to get out of the house for a while, was so that I could walk around a lot and hopefully move things along to get the fetus out. We came home without incident and I went to the bathroom, which was when I heard Mema (my grandma) rushing through the house and saying something about Liliana, my cat, getting out through the window screen on the back porch.

                Quite concerned, I finished my business and headed outside, wanting to help find the cat, which was likely long gone by this point. But I hated feeling useless—being nine months pregnant renders a woman relatively useless in a lot of ways. I headed down the porch steps and on the last step, rolled my right ankle. My left ankle followed as I tried to catch myself, and I heard a pop and felt a snap in my ankle as I fell flat on my butt—screaming. My dad and grandma came running and out came my grandpa, everybody trying to get me to calm down, which simply wasn’t going to happen right then. I knew my ankle was broken, but then Mema said something about the possibility of only having pulled a tendon. Somehow, with much help, I scooted back up the porch steps using my now-sprained right ankle.

                I sat for a while as Beba—my grandpa—wrapped my left ankle in a bandage. I repeated a few times that I needed to go to the hospital, and finally I was helped out to the car by my dad and Beba. The ride to the hospital was excruciating, every bump in the road jarring my broken ankle despite its being wrapped. Finally, we arrived at the emergency room and a wheelchair was brought out for me. With some help, I managed to get into it and I was wheeled inside, where they stuck me on the bed in a room for trauma patients.

                This all started around 2 in the afternoon, which was roughly the time of the fall. I was sitting around in the emergency room for hours, going from the trauma center to radiology and back again as they took X-rays of my ankles and spine while using multiple shields to protect the fetus. The next thing I knew, it was extremely late—like, 10pm late—and the orthopedics had finally shown up to splint my ankle, which had been determined to be broken. Nobody said anything about my right ankle except that it was swollen—as if I couldn’t see that for myself. After getting the angle of my foot wrong in the first splint—and causing me to scream-cry uncontrollably like a newborn (literally)—the orthopedics finally got a splint on correctly, but not without other doctors coming in and giving me pain meds through my IV despite my protests that they were ineffective and I didn’t want my baby being all drugged up.

                At last, the splint was finished. They left my right foot and ankle completely alone, though, which was rather annoying, considering how swollen it was.

                Why, yes, my right ankle was swollen, thanks for pointing that out… and leaving me to know that it’s sprained without a professional determination. That swelling got worse over the course of the next week and a half, swelling so that my toes no longer resembled my toes and instead looked like tiny, fat sausages at the end of a really fat… something. I’m really not sure what I would call what my foot looked like at its most swollen.

                I was stuck in the hospital for the week. After having my left ankle put in the splint shown above, Randy wheeled me upstairs to the labor and delivery triage of the hospital, where they monitored me for several hours, beginning around midnight when I arrived. I had Randy take Mema home at that time, since I didn’t know how long they would keep me there. Around 3am, the doctor came in and began telling me how and why he believed that they should induce my labor to have my baby. I was surprised and felt a bit of victory—when I had arrived in the triage, I’d mentioned having the baby to the first nurse who came in and she told me why they prefer not to induce labor until after a mother had gone the full 40 weeks of pregnancy. This turn of events, I thought, was rather convenient; I wouldn’t need to return to the hospital later to have the baby.

                I was induced Monday and had the baby that afternoon… I had an appointment back with orthopedics on Friday and as it turned out, I ended up having to stay in the hospital for the week, so when the time came, I was wheeled down to orthopedics, where I received an actual cast.

                I’m supposed to be non-weight-bearing on this ankle for 6 weeks. It’s been two weeks now and it feels like eternity, since this is the same leg in which I broke part of the cartilage off in my knee and I’d had to go 6 weeks non-weight-bearing then, too. I’m sick of my right leg getting so much exercise over my left!

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!