May 18th, 2010 by Ang

So some crazy crap has been happening lately, which I’ll go into later, but wanted to approach something.  One thing I realized is that I haven’t been writing like myself on here.  I’ve always prided myself on my informal writing style, one day I wrote something poetic, and got loads of compliments on it, so I started trying too hard.  Sorry about that.

Anyways, today I want to talk about one of the many ways I’m irrational.  Mainly because it happened today, and I tried to talk to Matt about it and he looked at me like I was insane.  Which I probably am, but I haven’t harmed myself or anyone else yet so I’m good.

To drive with me is an interesting experience.  My darling friend Erin once told me if she ever wanted to rob a bank she would hire me as the get away driver.  I learned to drive in the Boston area, which is debatably home to the worst drivers in the country.  And my family are all crappy drivers.  (Sorry if you’re reading this, you are, it’s genetic though, I don’t blame you.)  I’m not reckless, I’m just impatient, I pass people, I drive over the speed limit, but the worst part is I take driving personally.

I’ll be going along just fine when I see a car out of the corner of my eye in the lane next to me, moving up to pass me.  Now this guy is just driving his car, I’m simply a moving obstacle that could smush him, on a road with billions of other moving obstacles that could smush him.  To me though, this guy is silently judging me, lambasting me in his mind for being so ridiculously slow that he has to go out of his way to pass me.  I am INFURIATED!  It is then my goal in life to prove I’m just as fast as he is.  Then he’ll feel stupid and I’ll feel awesome and life can go on.

Now if I’m driving on my own, this is no problem, I speed up, pass him, and 2 or 3 other cars just to rub it in his face.  If Matt’s in the car, he says things like “Ang, it’s a highway not a race.” or “The speed limit is 55 not 85″ or “So did the guy tip you after you blew him for your license?” or “OH %@#$!  OH %@#$!  OH %@#$!” This is very distracting/irritating and usually ends with the other guy winning, which puts me in a funk for the rest of the day.

Other times I just decide to hate people.  For absolutely no reason.  Today was one of those days.  We had borrowed my dad’s car and were bringing it back, but decided to stop for something to eat.  Matt was in front of me in one of our cars, and I was driving my dad’s old Jeep.  I was diddybopping along, and I see this guy next to me in a Ford Focus station wagon.  FOR NO DISCERNIBLE REASON WHATSOEVER I decided I hated this man.  I hated his stupid car, I hated the way he was driving, I hated the music he was playing (That I couldn’t hear since his windows were up).

Other times I decide if I like people or not based on their cars.  Not in a “Your car is nice and expensive, I should be nice to you on the distant possibility that you might give me copious amounts of money one day” way, but in the “That car looks happy, it must be owned by a nice person.” way.  I believe that cars have souls and personalities, especially when they’re older, and I get angry when my car’s feelings get hurt.

There is a reason that my 1995 Ford Explorer ALWAYS started for me, never died on me (Unless I ran it out of gas, but it’d start right back up again because it loved me), never spun out in the snow, even though it’s tires were bald.  It loved me and I loved it right back, down to it’s wooden arm rests, gray primered exterior and sagging headliner.  I called him Choo Choo for the endearing “Chugga Chugga” noise it made.  Matt hated my Sploder, and as a result (haha I typed “Reslut” at first), when he drove, it would spontaneously cease to work, the power steering would cut out, the engine would start smoking, the seat belts would suddenly tighten up and choke him, and it would make loud obnoxious beeps for no reason that he could never figure out how to shut off.  When he made me sell it because “it was a death trap”, I cried.  I insisted that we sell it to a friend so I could visit it.  When the friend came up from Florida I would hug my truck, and whisper sweet nothings to it.  When the friend went back to Florida the Sploder caught on fire on the way down, and became an incinerated blank lump on the side of the highway.  I think he died of a broken heart. I still have the key

My first car and I had a mutal loathing for each other.  My parent’s made me buy the ‘89 Nissan Stanza because someone donated it to the church, and we should give the money to them.  I paid a thousand bucks for that hunk of crap.  It wasn’t even moving when I got it because the parking brake was frozen.  The inside was cheap and plasticy, and smelled like mold, the outside was the color of bloody diarrhea.  It rattled when I went any faster then 10 miles an hour.  One night I was coming home from work, going about 30 miles an hour and a brand new tire exploded, I over corrected, went crashing into a stone wall, spinning around and coming to a dead stop facing the wrong way.  I had hit my head and was wandering around, when the guy who’s wall I hit came running out announcing that he had called 911.  I told him I was sorry for hitting his wall but my car was an ass hole.  He told me to sit down and wait for an ambulance.  After replacing the rims that were bent, I started driving the STUPID Nissan again, but the car reeked of gas.  Turns out I had a hole in the tank, and I just didn’t care enough to fix it.  God only knows and no one cares what happened to that key.

My gold ‘88 Golf was my vehicular soul mate that always took care of me, and brought good things into my life.  I gave my dad $500 to get me a new car, he spent $50 on the Golf and the rest on a new grill.  Best $500 I ever spent.  My Golf is how my husband and I fell in love (I had no idea how to drive stick, he taught me, then the Golf would have mechanical issues that were excuses to go visit him, and were always cheap easy fixes).  My Golf was a sleeper car, and I spanked so many upstart punks in their little souped up Civics and Acuras.  It was forgiving of my mistakes, I could start in 4th in that car and it might groan a little, but wouldn’t give me any problems.  The Golf was the epitome of a spitfire, and the best therapy when you were angry was to tear through the gears.  The radiator fan died, and I had a switch that turned the fan on so it wouldn’t overheat.  I felt like a race car driver with my “nitrous” switch.  I lived in that car for almost a month when I had no where else to go, and it was so solid that even in the middle of a nasty New England winter, I never froze.  One day a jerk in a conversion van decided to pull through a parking space and his back bumper caught my Golf’s front fender and sliced into it like a tin can.  I came out of the store and saw the ghastly image, it was like seeing a pet bunny disemboweled, I felt beyond ill.  Bystanders had thrown themselves in front of the guy in the van to make sure he didn’t leave, and the insurance money was more then I got paid in a month.  We got a new quarter panel at the junk yard, and the matte black on faded gold would have looked white trash on anyone else’s car, but on the Golf it was a scar that he wore with honor.  When we were supposed to pick up our firstborn child Araby (the puppy) at the breeder, there was a freak blizzard, and Matt’s Jeep couldn’t make it in the horrible road conditions.  He dropped me off at my parents’ house, where as soon as he left, I hopped into the Golf and we drove for an hour, picked up Araby, and went to Matt’s.  We got stuck once, I simply put it in reverse and he backed right out for me.

One day i ran out of gas.  I called AAA, and they put a few gallons in.  I remember thinking that the gas smelled funny.  Not 100 feet out of the parking lot we were in and the Golf sputters and dies.  I call AAA again and get it towed to Matt’s house.  We take it to the dealer to get looked at.  The tow company put diesel in my car and the fuel pumps were ruined, and I couldn’t afford new ones.  I bawled like a baby, I did everything I could to try and get the money, but it just wasn’t to be.  The Golf sat in the driveway for almost a year, but I would go out, sit in the seat, lean back and talk to him, he was a great listener.  A guy who dealt with junk cars came up to the house one day and offered to “Take away” my Golf for $50.  I told him (in mostly 4 letter words), that the car wasn’t for sale, and told him if he ever came back I would eat him.

But one day Matt insisted that we sell the Golf to a nice enough guy from the neighborhood who came to the door.  I sat down and interviewed him, informed him that my car wasn’t to be used for parts, that he was to take care of it, that it was a good car, and he shouldn’t get it in trouble.  I couldn’t take his money, Matt had to do it.  I’m crying right now writing this, that’s how much I love that car.  Every once in awhile I see the guy driving it.  He has a rust bubble on the trunk, and a scratch on the back passenger door.  It hurts my heart to see it.  If I could I would pay anything to have my Golf back and fix him up like he deserves.  I still have the key, and the VW badge from the grille is in a frame.

After Choo Choo, I got my first car “WITH PAYMENTS!!!” (Not as exciting as I thought it was).  The ‘98  Mercury Mountaineer, was basically a newer version of the Explorer, except it was a girl, so I occasionally call her Chi Chi.  There’s nothing wrong with Chi Chi, she hasn’t caused any problems, other than the alternator went once.  We just never connected.  She’s like the co worker that you’re friends with because you work together, but you wouldn’t go out of your way to hang out if you didn’t have to.  She carried me, my crap, my dogs, and more for over 100,000 miles without complaint.  My brother in law is currently driving her, I nod politely in passing, on occasion I take her out. But in 20 years she’ll probably just be a foot note.

Right now my car is my 95 Chevy Tahoe/tank.  We’re pretty tight.  Bought to be a winter car for Matt, we just clicked, and she is unequivocally mine.  A week after we picked her up, some lady in front of me slammed on her brakes in a blizzard.  I had to swerve and got slammed into a 4 foot high snow drift and a 45 MPH sign.  The only damage was a scratch on the mirror and a dent in the plastic running board.  She’s old school and epic.  She’s a little bit gangster, but with 4 wheel drive.  Matt installed a cherry bomb, she’s incredibly loud now, and as a British friend of his said “Now THAT is an American car.”  Some idiot kids rode their bikes past her and gouged some nasty scratches in the side, so I’m going to get her repainted when I can figure on what color I want to go with, or just stick with her glossy metallic black and chrome.  I can’t just disrespect her and leave her like that she’s been too good to me.

Now that we’ve tapped into the car part of my crazy there’s so much more to get into, like my food crazy, and my number/word crazy, and stranger crazy.  But that’s for later, because this is already too long, with not enough pictures.

May 4th, 2010 by Ang

There is a reason.  A medical reason actually.  HaHAH didn’t see that coming did you?  Everyone is all “Fake nails are so bad for you, blah blah” and while they actually kind of are, the alternative is unthinkable. See I used to get fake nails when I was in highschool, and the first time I did it, it was because my friend was doing it, and I wanted to do it, and we had a salon inside the store we worked at (It was the Super Happy Fun Store, use your imagination).  And I was scared because it was super uber girly and I didn’t really get to do super uber girly things very often back then, and they had drills and sanders.  Which I was brought up to keep AWAY from your fingers.  But I was 16 and as we all know, 16 year olds have a tendency to reject their own mortality, so there.

My first nail experience wasn’t really the greatest.  First off it was  sterotypical nail salon, in that the staff (this is going to sound bad) was all of an Asian persuasion, which in and of itself isn’t bad, but the fact that they ignored you the whole time, in lieu of talking to each other really made me nervous.  Add to that the fact that I have freakishly small hands (Like I compare my hands to small childrens’ hands to show that I have the smallest and win, and if their hands are smaller than mine I call them a carny and run away before their mom comes to beat me up.), and they got very angry at me that I inconvenienced them, and they had to go back to the giant crate of fake nails to find ones that fit me.  Which I apologized for, but instead of saying it was OK, they took their vengeance out on my cuticles.

My friend is next to me and she’s talking, and I’m asking her questions that were kind of important to me, but things she brushed off as part of the experience.  Things like “Is this supposed to hurt/burn?”, “This is really hot, are my nails going to melt?”, “Do you smell that gas leak?  ITS SUPPOSED TO SMELL LIKE THAT!?!?!”, and my personal favorite “Umm I need a band-aid…” which isn’t really a question, but still something that should have caused alarm.  Because the incredibly sadistic efficient nail technician had accosted my cuticles with such vehemence, that they soon exploded and there was blood all over the place.  I started to fidget and say “Ummm excuse me?” (This is when I still functioned under some assemblance of meek behavior, so obviously a LONG time ago).  Not only did she not even bother turning her head to look at me, she kept digging the drill into my now GAPING wound.  Like there was literally blood splatter.  I would like to say I was concerned for the sanitation of my fellow manicure-ees, but in reality my finger was going to fall off because she was going for the bone.  So I yanked my hand away and she grabbed it and slammed it down and yelled at me!  I have no idea what she said, but she was waving the drill in my face, and considering what she had done to my hand I really didn’t want to push her.

I was confused because I was pretty sure this wasn’t supposed to be happening, and no one else was bleeding, and all I wanted was pretty nails that didn’t show all the dirt hen I started to cry.  I am NOT a pretty crier at all, and I snort, and blubber, so people started staring, and noticing blood everywhere (It didn’t hurt anymore because I had lost the feeling at this point), and the manager came over and kindly patted me on the back and gave me a tissue to wrap around my finger (Which graduated to a paper towel, then a cotton ball, then some gauze from God only knows where) and said I got free airbrushing!  FREE FOR THE WIN!  (Yes I was stupid.  I was 16.  I’ve said this already.)  So they left the bloodied stump finger alone and had pretty things spray painted on my other fingers and in 2 weeks when it was time to get my nails filled, my other finger had healed (Because I’m immortal duh…) and I had the matching set.

I eventually got older and poorer and stopped getting my nails done.  THEN I started working in landscaping.  And my nails were NASTY.  I had black dirt gunk under my nails, and black money gunk, which was even dirtier than the dirt gunk, and looking at them made me feel decidedly not pretty.  So I Googled, and found a nail tech who had fantastic Yahoo reviews, and this is how I met my current nail tech, Stephanie, whom I adore beyond measure, and if I move I will fly up here to get my nails done.  No lie.  She does what’s called a “Pink and White” which is the acrylic painted onto your nail, no tips, and the french part is permanent, so if you paint over your nail and then use nail polish to take it off the french tip is still there.  AND because the acrylic is thicker, I can go OBSCENELY long without getting a fill.  AND they can save your fingers.

Yes I’m actually getting to the point now.  Well sort of.  Good Lord, I have to start cutting back on backstories…  So, my Honey and I are very passionate people.  And we’re both very stubborn, and very loud, and on occasion this causes slight problems.  Like when Honey’s brother was in college and asked me for help with a graphic design project, and I showed him how to do it, and instead of doing it on his own HE TURNED IN THE ONE I DID!  And I was beyond livid, and Honey’s mom was rather irked, but Honey and his brother didn’t really see the big deal (Honey mostly because I single handedly saved his brother’s GPA).  So there was yelling and screaming, and it was my turn to stomp off in a rage, so I went out the back door, and reached back to slam it shut.  Well Honey decided to be helpful and shut it for me, and kicked the door shut.  On my hand.

***PAY ATTENTION TO THIS***  HONEY DID NOT SEE MY HAND!!! HE DID NOT DO THIS ON PURPOSE, HE IS NOT AN ANG ABUSER OR ANYTHING ELSE!  DO NOT TELL ME TO RUN FAST AND FAR BECAUSE THIS IS WAS AN ACCIDENT!

Well I dropped to my knees like a rock, fingers still stuck in the door.  I saw colors and kind of had my head rolling around and apparently I was crying.  I don’t remember this part.  I remember Honey coming out to see why I didn’t come back in to yell at him for taking my door slam away from me, and he fell to his knees and said “Oh Baby I am so so sorry.” and I knew he was sorry because he only calls me Baby when he feels really bad, but I kind of wanted him to feel worse (Because it didn’t really hurt in my brain yet, so my priorities were kind of screwed up) and I screamed “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME!  And he grabbed me anyways because he is much much bigger than I am, and took my hand and looked at it and then HE started crying, which he just doesn’t do like ever, at all, and he started holding me and cradling/rocking me and saying “I’m so so so sorry Baby, I am so sorry” over and over.  I was intrigued at what caused this extreme reaction, so I looked at my hand out of mere curiosity.

I really shouldn’t have done that because then it started to hurt.  It hurt like a completely black and swollen middle and ring finger that were bent at 45 degree angles should hurt.  My fake nails were cracked and continued to crack as I watched because the swelling was forcing them in a direction they really weren’t used to going in.  So first I threw up, then I started shaking and bawling and apparently babbling, and Honey’s mother came in and started screaming at him, which made him feel even WORSE.  And there was much yelling and I kind of toddled off, where apparently I passed out and woke up to being slapped in the face, which is NOT the best way to be woken up.  Not only is this a bad idea because it hurts, but it is also a bad idea because when your boyfriend that is a foot taller than you takes you to the ER to get your fingers (That he slammed in a door) X-rayed, AND you have a bright red hand print on your face that is suspiciously the size of his hand, they make him leave and have a very scary police officer, who is obviously very bored ask you if the boyfriend beats you.  There’s a very long comedy of errors story that goes with this, but this post is already way too long.

So I, to use the doctor’s terminology “Demolished” the ends of my fingers, and got a splint, and had my fingers taped together.  The Doctor also said if it wasn’t for my fake nails I would have LOST MY FINGER TIPS!  That’s right, nails are a safety measure.  Take that OSHA!

There is a lot more, like when I thought I had a bruise under my nail and it was really dead nail that started flaking off in black dust, and made me cry because I thought I would lose my nail forever, but Stephanie miraculously saved it from falling off before it grew out.  Or about how I decided to go sans nails, but the nail on my middle finger has this weird ridge growing in the middle now, so if I don’t have the acrylics on, it splits in half and there’s more blood and trauma and I have to have nails now til I die.  And Honey can’t complain about it because it’s his fault.  AND I have arthritis, which is kind of bad, but it’s kind of good, because when I want something I can just be all “Can you do *insert inane request here*?” “Why can’t you do it?”  “Because my fingers really hurt, and I can’t.”  Honey will then absent mindedly ask WHY my fingers hurt, because he is a man and he lives in the moment, and has every part of every car ever made memorized, and can’t be expected to remember things that happened a billion years ago.  And I will say “Remember?  The door?” and he will immediately feel like crap and do whatever I asked him to.

And before you get all “Poor Honey…” keep in mind that in NINE years of being together, and all the horrible things he’s done to me (Like pantsing me in front of the Air National Guard, or recording me throwing up in Target and using it as my ring tone) this is the ONLY thing he’s felt bad for.

God I love this man…

February 13th, 2010 by Ang

The wedding is over.  Tomorrow we’ll be having our 3 month anniversary.  Which means grandmas are pushing babies hardcore.  I get it, your friends are traipsing the country visiting their 27 grandchildren and you don’t have ANY!  That your youngest is too young to be thinking about it and you doubt the middle child will ever settle down and start a family (ironically this works for both sides…)

I love babies.  I really do.  I love kids.  Babysitting was one of my favorite jobs.  I hate snotty obnoxious rude kids with a passion.  I get choked up thinking about staring down at a little baby that’s some adorable conglomoration of me and the man I love.  (I hope to God it’s adorable, because Matt says if it’s not we have to give it back and I’m not quite sure what kind of paperwork that entails.)  I’m torn because I don’t feel that we’re ready right now.  We’re not in the living situation to handle it, and I want to enjoy being a wife for a while before I’m a mom.  But I also know that you’re NEVER ready, and if you wait til you are it’ll never happen, and the not being ready is part of the fun.

We’ve talked about it.  I want three, boy girl boy.  I’d be more than happy with all boys though.  Matt wants only two, girl and a boy.  (Boy is a must or the Jandaks die out forever.  No pressure though.)  We have a girl’s name picked out, but we can’t come to an agreement on a boy’s name.  (He wants STOOOOOPID names and I want names of awesome.  Girls name is obviously awesome and shall not be shared because if you steal it I will hunt you down.  Seriously you had no idea how many names like “Gertrude” and “Henrietta” we had to say no to til we found one we loved.)  Because that’s all that matters right?  Picking out the number and sex of your future babies (Which you have no control over) and names for kids that don’t exist.  *Sigh*

I’m freaked I’m not going to be able to do this.  Not like that I can’t do it at all, but I won’t be able to do it well.  I want my kids to have the things I didn’t, but I don’t want them to be spoiled.  I want them to be tough but not cruel, smart but not know it alls, respectful but not pushovers, simultaneously gifted in athletics, the arts, and linguistics.  And they have to be ridiculously good looking.  And perfect.  And I’m not, so I don’t know how this is going to work.

See Matt’s cousin got married.  He married this amazing woman who is gorgeous and brilliant and the perfect wife/mommy.  She blogs and takes care of their two little boys (Who are adorable), and of course is a teacher, and plays all these education games with her baby and toddler and does field trips and still goes to the gym and cooks delicious healthy meals and looks fabulous for her husband.  This is not going to happen with me.  I know this.  I doubt she ever sits on the corner of the bathroom sink for 45 minutes yanking out chin hair, or lays on her back, feet pressing against the wall, lifting her butt so her belly fat shifts upwards and she can zip her stretch jeans.  I doubt she even OWNS stretch jeans!  I’m horrified my babies are going to come out with hairy Afro poof heads instead of perfectly golden Aryan locks, and they’re going to teethe on Eggo waffles dipped in Scotch instead of frozen organic peach slices.

I won’t drop them off at daycare with my hair perfectly coiffed, just the right amount of make up to flatter my natural beauty, in an adorable outfit that looks professionally styled down to my delicate little ballet flats.  The children dressed in precious little grown up clothes that smell of hand laundering and drying on a clothesline bathed in Springtime Sun, as they turn to delicately kiss Mummy’s cheek and pronounce their undying love and affection.

Instead, I will be dropping them off with my work clothes in the back of the truck, laying on discarded Eco Friendly bags so as to minimize the dog hair they collect.  My pale face glows, and I seem to stare unblinking as my eyelashes lack the mascara required to make me appear human.  My hair is thrown up in a blind amputee’s version of a ponytail, blowing my over grown bangs out of my eyes, with a baby on one hip, while under my other arm I’m trying desperately to cling to a diaper bag that could effectively house an extended family of meerkats, and a mini back pack too small to actually hold anything other than an 8 pack of crayons, 31 pennies, 2 nickels and something that used to be a dollar, emblazoned with whatever cartoon character is vital to childhood existence at the time. Barely grasping my fingertips, a toddler is yanking at the over-sized sweatpants I wore to bed the night before. I’m trying to remember what underwear I have on, since that factors into my mental debate of whether to release his sticky little hand (Which would of course mean he would instantly be transported into the middle of the road and hit by a truck carrying some sort of explosive toxic material, as that’s what happens the second you let go of a toddler’s hand) to attempt to preserve my quickly slipping modesty, or let him pants me in the middle of the parking lot.  They will be wearing whatever clothes were in my immediate vicinity, and all too late I will realize that in Jr’s eagerness to prove to me that he can dress himself, instead of the adorably preppy plaid pants I thought he put on, he is actually wearing a pair of his father’s boxers, fastened with some strange assortment of tape, gum, playdoh and string around the waist.

*Sigh*