Yeah, words do hurt.

In the 7th grade I used to do a lot of charity work as part of my Catholic school’s after school club. One particular Tuesday (always on Tuesdays), we went to a church across town to help out in a soup kitchen. It was something I had done many times before with my friends and had either positive or neutral experiences with. Sometimes the people we fed were very gracious and talkative; other times they just took their food and went on their way, which was also fine. We were there to provide a humble service, not receive praise. However, this one particular Tuesday stuck out as the most negative experience I’ve ever had in my charity work, and it has followed me to this day…

So it’s after school and my friends (all girls) and I are serving food. We’re halfway done with our two-hour shift and for the most part it’s been fairly normal: some conversation, middle school girl laugh sessions, serious reflection during prayer...the usual. I’m serving food to this one guy in particular and, before he walks away, I smile at him and he responds, “wow, you’ve got terrible skin! You’re gonna hafta wear a lot of makeup when you get older!”

Two things: first, yes, I come from a family where bad skin is hereditary. My father struggled with acne, his sister (my aunt) struggled, and so on. It’s a part of my life that I was more or less blessed with. So I was well aware of my skin issues. Second, did I mention I was a middle school girl at this point? Could there be anything more damaging to a middle school girl struggling with puberty run rampant than having a grown man tell her how hideous she looks? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My friends, of course, told me to ignore him and somehow I managed to get through the rest of the service, while silently cursing him (inside the church no less).

If my luck with dating and my 12 year relationship with Halbastram is any indication, I’ve done fairly well in the face department (not a supermodel but not whatever gross abomination that dude thought I was going to turn into). However, like most people, I do have my self-conscious moments. Even though it took me a long time to (sort of) force that guy’s hateful assessment out of my mind, I still found myself remembering his words whenever I was having particularly bad breakouts or scarring. But I was never big on going the full-face makeup route, so I just learned to deal with it. A little mascara here, a touch of lipstick there & I’m out the door. When I’m away from a mirror, I can forget him.

Which brings me to today. I was tooling around on BuzzFeed and found an article about women who give tutorials on using makeup to cover-up bad acne and scarring. The women all suffered from bad skin problems like myself and had clearly found ways to make the best of it. I found one video in particular especially helpful, as the presenter had the same skin tone and scarring problem as myself and saved the link to watch the whole video later. And as I was writing down the products she uses and the cost (SO MUCH $$), I found myself stopping and realizing that I was wanting to do exactly what that jerkstore predicted all those years ago: I was planning on spending a mint to use no less than seven different products on my face to cover up a lifetime of acne scars. Then I started to feel self conscious again: did I really have that much of a problem with my face? No, it’s not even about that. As much as I want to try these new techniques, I am struggling with not wanting to play into his awful prediction. I could try to convince myself that I’m doing this for me and my happiness, but truthfully his words will always be in the back of my mind.

It’s upsetting that a stranger’s word have impacted my life this much, but you know what? I’ve had this face for twenty additional years since he came along. I can choose to go bare (as I’ve done for the better part of twenty years), or I can choose to go full-face glam. I’m not trying to win any beauty pageants and I’m sure as shit not trying to appease some dude from the soup kitchen. I’ll deal, whatever my choice may be. Because my life will go on, as it always has.

Bottom line: watch what the fuck you say to people, yeah? Even the most cynical of us have fucking feelings. I couldn’t say this in the 7th grade, but it feels good now: hey, fuck you guy.

(I know this probably goes against everything I ever learned about forgiveness and turn the other cheek and whatever, but, you know...hurt feelings.)

Adventures in pre-packaged underwear shopping

I get why people shop at Wal-Mart. Everyone likes to save a buck here and there and sometimes you just don’t give a shit that society mocks those who shop at certain establishments; when the money is tight, keeping up appearances is the least of your concerns. Even I used to frequent the Wal-Mart during my time in Grad School, when I was lucky if I could even afford a box of cheap pasta to feed my family. Over time, though, Target became my primary shopping destination because Target is just so wonderful. While it’s easy to point to the unfair and lackluster business practices of the Wal-Mart corporation, my beef is with a certain caliber of customer. It’s nothing to do with the way they dress or their income bracket. It’s more to do with the behavioral traits of certain shoppers. And while I get that this type of behavior isn’t limited to the Wal-Mart corporation, as I experienced it while working at Big Lots, I seem to encounter this every.freaking.time. I go into one of their stores.

Seriously, people, do you not know what size underwear you wear?

The great thing about brands such as Fruit of the Loom and Hanes is that they offer comfortable bulk undergarments on the cheap for those of us who aren’t in the market for V.S. or La Perla. The caveat to this saving is that the undergarments come pre-packaged in 3- or 5-packs, with the size indicated on the upper right hand corner. If a simple letter is too confusing for you, they also offer an explanation of the sizing on the back of the packaging. So if you know your waist size, you’re good to go. However, there is a percentage of the population out there for whom those two options are simply not enough and have worked it out in their brains that it is perfectly acceptable to just rip open an entire package of underpants, take one out, start pawing at it with their gross hands, decide that they aren't interested, stuff it back into the package they so nicely destroyed and then put it back on the shelves.

You know what? With the internet and the smart phones, there’s no excuse for anyone to not know what boyshorts, bikinis, high-waists, high-cuts or hiphuggers look like. And if you can’t decide whether Large is your size just from the wording on the packaging, taking the underwear out and holding it up to your FACE (where your ass is not located...I think…) certainly will not help. And what makes you think that ANYONE would want that pre-fondled package of underpants that you destroyed? You don’t think- and that’s the problem. And that makes it all the more difficult for people like myself, who aren't devoid of common sense, when I go shopping for underpants, because I have to carefully inspect each package to make sure it’s never been opened (because I know some of the better retailers roll them up all professional-like and stuff them back in and slap a piece of tape on the back flap and call it a day...you’re not tricking me).

Here’s a helpful tip: are you wearing underpants while shopping (PLEASE SAY YES)? Do you have the vaguest idea what size they are? Good, now GET THAT SIZE. If you’re unsure of the cut or style, they have INDIVIDUAL pairs of underpants hanging on racks less than 10 feet away. GO LOOK AT THOSE. Come on, man. I know that it’s easy to not care about something because it’s “not my store” or “they’ll make money anyway” or, the classic, “I don’t give a shit.” You know who does give a shit? Society. Don’t you want to be a member of society? Of course you do. By destroying the pre-packaged underpants and getting your cooties all over them, you’re playing right into the hands of the people who think that Wal-Mart is low rent and mock those who cross its path. Don’t be a stereotype. Cut that shit out.

Apartment Hunting: It Gets Better After the Millionth Time

Apartment hunting: it gets better after the millionth time. At least, that’s what I’m trying to trick myself into thinking. While it’s all fun and games being shown vast, luxurious spaces and imagining how your life can fit right in-where you’ll curl up with your favorite book, how you’ll wake up every Saturday morning for coffee and toast with a crossword at the kitchen island, the maroon velvet curtains you’ll put up in the second bedroom that will double as your office/writing space-the realization that you’ll have to move all of your already-acquired crap into yet another apartment suddenly makes your crummy two-bedroom, right above the neighbors you so lovingly call The Door Slammers, seem like a stay at the Waldorf Astoria. And if it were possible, you’d just as soon stay put, at least until you can save up the money to hire some burly men to do all the work for you.

But alas, we don’t get that luxury. Kansas City expects us to be settled down with full K.C. residency by the end of July and moving all of our crap is inevitable. Fortunately (for better or worse), because we haven’t even been in our current apartment for a year yet, there are still plenty of boxes that have yet to be unpacked. Although time isn’t completely to blame for our lack of unpacking- we simply don’t have the space to unpack everything. That’s just how much crap we’ve accumulated: books, comics, cds, old clothes that should have been dropped off at Goodwill years ago, etc. We’re not junky and we’re not necessarily hoarders. We just never realized how much crap we had until it was time to downsize at the start of the recession and we were forced to move out of our condo.

But back to the move. We've begun our search, which is, suffice it to say, going much better than searches in the past, as we now have the freedom to widen our prospects. There was a damn-near perfect apartment in the downtown area right across the street from the main branch of the public library. But it was without a balcony and balconies have become very important in saving my marriage, as Halbastram and I make it a point to take time out to sit and have a drink and a smoke on nice evenings and talk about whatever. Plus, every now and then the stupid cat likes to get outside and enjoy the “fresh” air, and I’m not even going to entertain the notion of leashing my lazy asshole of a cat, so that apartment is out.

Another apartment we looked at is in the middle of one of the more hip neighborhoods in K.C., with bars, restaurants, grocery stores and tattoo shops all within walking distance. After living in largely isolated places for the last five years, where I’d have to get into my car whenever I wanted a snack, this place is perfect. The only downside: because it is the “hip” part of town, there will be plenty of fresh-faced 20-somethings looking to have a good time, which works for me, except now that we’re on the road to fertility, I have to start thinking beyond my own selfish living arrangements. Not that you have to live in Boringland in order to start/raise a family, but a cramped apartment complex probably isn't the best choice, considering that we don’t even have space for our stuff, let alone another human being.

And a lazy asshole cat.

Then there’s one last apartment complex, which we’ll call Rip-Off City, that basically wants you to pay a king’s ransom in fees before you even make your first rent payment, all because it’s located near the university. And, as I've learned in five years living in two separate college towns, businesses love to rip students off any and every way they can, even if non-students get caught up in their fuckery as well- them’s the breaks. Despite the fact that it’s in a perfect location within walking distance of the art museum and the shopping district, they can bite my shiny metal ass.

As it is only February, we have a few months ahead of us before he have to make a commitment. And while it would be nice to have a cool apartment in the cool part of town across the street from the library or up the street from the hottest bar in town and a stone’s throw away from the museum, what I really want more than anything is a home that I can plant my roots in for a while, be it a house, condo or apartment. I’m looking for a final sense of stability and normalcy. And I know that I’ll find it somewhere in K.C. Eventually.

Hopefully by July, though. Because I got schedules.