Monday, April 23, 2012

ghostWRITER not ghostRIDER ~ Similar but Different

This is a conversation that started between my husband and I and ended between my 17-year-old daughter and I. Which is odd because normally a handful of other kids would've also jumped into the mix and by the end no one would've known what the hell was going on. This was exceptional.


me: (this picks up in the middle of what my husband and I had assumed was a private conversation, only apparently it wasn't...don't worry about what we were talking about. I have no idea) ...So, I told them that I could be considered a ghostwriter, I guess.

daughter: (looking at me with shock and awe) You're a Ghostwriter?

me: (looking at her and feeling very proud peacockish) yeah. Some would consider my work for the Kindle Book Review, ghostwriting.

daughter: Really? Like the movie!?!

me: (confused with head tilt) HUH? (then Nicholas Cage open-hand smacked me right across the face and I remembered his ridiculous movie.) Ohhhh...No. -Well, not really. Kind of. Only my face doesn't turn into a skeleton, my skull doesn't catch on fire, and I don't race around on a motorcycle killing people. But other than that, we're totally similar. In that we're both bad asses.

daughter: (confused with head tilt) huh?

me: ghostWRITER! Not ghostRIDER. Because remember? I am a writer. I am also your mother and not a ghost.

daughter: (looking down flipping through her magazine and shaking her head) Well, you should definitely be more specific about your career. You'll give people the wrong impression.

At this point she looked at me exactly the same way the 110-yr-old man who had attempted to go through the round-a-bout the wrong way looked at me when I had to slam on my brakes nearly impaling myself on the steering wheel in order to avoid hitting his 1985 Buick Riviera. Like somehow I was the breaking the rule of not knowing that today was obviously "go the wrong way thru the round-a-bout day." Sorry. You're right. Clearly, I'm the wack-job here. And apparently it would be commonplace for someone to mistakenly assume that what I mean by 'ghostwriter' is that I am really a ghost riding around on a motorcycle with my head on fire hunting people down. I will certainly try to be more clear in the future.

Follow this wack-job on twitter at @highdysfunction 

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Organization? No, Thanks. Chaos Makes Us Happy.

Those of you who repeatedly try to impose your obsessiveness to schedule disorder on us...STOP. We take flying by the seat of our pants very seriously at our house. That nagging need to plan our lives years in advance...nope doesn't exist here. Hell, we don't even know what we're having for dinner and it's like 5:00...we don't even know if we're having dinner. Sadly, after glancing at our schedule it's not looking good.

My message to obsessively-planned stressed-out (probably walking around with gastrointestinal complications) people is to chill the freak out. My daughter has a few friends whose parents force them to plan every single thing they do together as if they'll immediately be run down by a rogue car if any detail is missing. Her friends are always calling her cell saying, "My parents need to know when you're going to be home. They need to know when we're leaving. They need to know when we'll be back. They need to know you're blood type. Do you lean more liberal or conservative?" She's 17. And going to grab a damn ice cream cone with your kid. Stop complicating my life. And guess what?...She doesn't know when she'll be home because she's currently a passenger in my jacked up mini-van. And guess who's not making a special trip to get her there at a certain time? And guess who's now driving slower on purpose? In my clenched-teeth scary-person whisper...Don't try to organize my chaos. It pisses me off.  

All of these questions inevitably send our family into a raging state of frenzied anxiety. Which leads to the complete absence of happiness and it's replaced with crazed yelling and confusion and ultimately my irritable bowel syndrome kicks in...What time should I tell them!? How the hell would I know!? Well, how long does it usually take? It depends on where we need to go! Shit! Where else do we need to go?!? I don't know what to tell them! Do you know what to tell them, honey!? Tell them we don't know!!! Mom, pleeease give me a time, they're going to freak! Oh shit...stop the car! Stop the car!! I've gotta get to a restroom...

Just stop it already. You're messing us up with your need to organize.

Please follow me on schedule, just random tweets @highdysfunction
Tell all your friends...unless you don't have any. Then tell your relatives.

And what's a girl have to do to get a few followers on her blog? A ton of you read it everyday. I check the stats. Quit trying to keep me a secret.

Monday, April 16, 2012

A Catfish Big Enough to Take a Baby

First thing. When my son said he wanted to have some kids over from the Drama Club, I assumed he meant like 6 or 7. No. He did not.
30 children have taken over my home. And graffiti has taken over the walls of my basement. My husband and I tried to leave. Just to grab a movie. But my son grabbed my arm and told me it was "unsafe for us both to go." Bloody hell. Who are these people?

So, instead we escaped to our bedroom to watch whatever might be on TV. It happened to be River Monsters, a dumb-ass, unrealistic, ridiculous, effing show which my husband watches with such hope and enthusiasm that you'd think it would somehow complete his life in some capacity for them to find one...

Can we talk about this for a minute? They have NEVER found an unidentified river monster.

My husband likes to declare that they have found a few -so do my son's- but guess what? No - they have not. A large sting ray and a giant catfish are not river monsters. They are a large sting ray and a giant catfish.

So, I like to make it a point to jump up in bed every so often and yell "Guess what?!?" And then slam myself back into my lying position and calmly reply, "They don't find the river monster in this episode." Because there is no river monster in any episode. Ever. Then my husband gets this disappointed look on his face as if I've crushed all  his hopes and dreams and he's been waiting his whole life to capture the river monster and I've just ruined it.

To make things worse the "explorer, biologist, fisherman, host" (his words, not mine) sounds like a mix between Simon Cowell and the creepy man from Forensic Files. And he says things like, and I quote, "A river monster of this size is capable of taking a baby." Taking a baby? Taking it where and what does that even mean? Is it killing the baby? Taking it for a swim? Maybe it's handing it over to the river god. Because he goes on to say, "This could be the river god that spills out the river spirit, the beast behind the power of this river."

I don't even...I cannot...please make the show be over.

P.S. My son is incredibly angry about this post. He yelled, "You can't talk bad about the show!" - Yes. I can. Then he read a little further. "Mom, you don't even understand the show." - That because it's idiotic. And then "Mooooom- they HAVE found a river monster!" - Yes....I've heard.

Bicycle Helmets...You're Never Too Old to Wear One

With my daughter's senior year fast approaching, this weekend we took a moment to reflect on our tremendous strides toward developing her into a well rounded woman. None more evident than the first time we allowed her to meet friends at the high school basketball game, solo. She was 12 and fighting like a champ to show her independence. She argued and her attitude was a little questionable. Eventually, we caved. But when it was time for pick up we thought it best that she learn to be a bit more diplomatic and a little less bitchy in her debating skills.

I handed my husband our 10-year-old's bicycle helmet. I would wear the 8-year-old's. We strapped the helmets onto our chins. But it was tough, being that they were children's helmets...not intended for our big adult heads. My husband's was on backwards. Both of us choking from the tight fit. It would be difficult to talk with the strap properly holding our chin into place and cutting into our skin. They fit atop our heads like a hard dome protecting a dangerous growth or perhaps a soft spot.

I climbed into the driver's seat of the 1990 green Dodge shadow - left to him by his 95-yr-old great grandmother when she passed away -God rest her soul- and we tore down the drive-way towards the school with the faded out bumper sticker in the back window that read Wild Thing. It wasn't until we were on the main road that I looked at my husband grabbing at his chin and trying to stretch out the nylon material, "'s choking me." I started laughing so hard it was difficult to drive. "I cannot look at you...I cannot look at you." He started laughing and choking and said "What the hell do you think you look like?"

We arrived at the school and pulled right up to the front door where the fake cop guy is always trying to direct traffic. Game faces on. For good measure, I had my husband hang out the window and wave his hand and yell her name. She was dutifully standing inside the lobby with friends waiting and watching.  It took a few seconds before it registered that the moron hanging out of the car with a bicycle helmet 10 sizes too small was actually yelling her name. Instinct told her to run, she mouthed OH My Gawww...and turned and ran. But a SECOND instinct kicked in and she turned and ran toward the car.  We were busy waving and smiling at her friends and still yelling her name. She jumped in the car and yelled "Go! Go! Whaaaaat issss WRONG with you!?!?"

And that's when we knew our parenting was spot on. Her reasoning skills were solidly in place. She knew that if she went with her first instinct to run....we would've came after her, helmets and all. But she figured it out by herself.

She's going to be fine. Just fine.

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Friday, April 13, 2012

Poppin up on Google

Thanks for the love friends. We now show up on Google. In my best 90's Britney voice, Hit me baby - one more time. It's the little things in life.

Interesting side note, we pop up between two erectile dysfunction sites. Ummm...accidently stumbling upon our site is obviously a big fat win for their potential customers. Our site could essentially benefit them in a couple ways. Firstly, these men clearly could use a laugh which we freely offer and usually at our own expense. And secondly, our issues may make their's seem a bit smaller. No pun intended. (Some may even suggest that some of our topics (I.B.S.) are way worse than E.D. Though I'm pretty sure they're very much not.)

Bravo to me on the whole branding thing. I really knew what I was doing there.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

It's Your Lucky Day, Kid...I Got Your Cigs

I'm a little off today. Everyday is out of whack for us but this month, this week, today feels exceptionally out of whack.

My son woke up at 4 am ready to throw up, my other son's science fair project was due today. (It better get an A.) The dogs ripped up something in the yard this morning (it's still there.) And the kitchen sink and cabinet tops are filled with dirty dishes. Welcome to our house, where removing your shoes isn't necessary. In fact, stomping and rolling around in the mud before coming in is strongly encouraged.

So, in order to get my head on straight today, I drove to the gas station to get a diet coke. Which was my first wrong turn of the day. Starbucks would've been a much classier choice. (And as evident in the paragraph above I run a high-class establishment.) 

As I was standing in line for my diet coke, the woman in front of me was attempting to pay, only she wasn't because she was counting her money, trying to answer a cell phone, and yelling at her, what I would guess as, 5-year-old son. I wasn't entirely focused in on the circus taking place in front of me until I heard this sentence, "Ohhhh, it's your lucky day son. I barely have enough for your cigarettes." youdidwhattowho???

So, now I'm laser zoomed in. And as I'm looking at her pile of goodies which consisted of a 44 ounce big gulp, a newspaper, a container of chocolate milk, and yes her Marlboro cigarettes right next to his...candy cigs, how precious, I couldn't help but think... That newspaper must be for him. And really? Today's his lucky day. That's not good for him. Not good at all.

Don't be afraid to leave a comment. I'm not scary...usually. should know I'm getting ready to add several pages to the blog. That is all.

You can find me on Facebook listed as Highest Level of Dysfunction - like me. All I want is to be liked. On twitter I am @highdysfunction - follow me.  All I want is to be followed.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

I Almost Went Potty in My Pants.

I selected this post to be featured on Top Mommy Blogs. Please visit the site and vote for my blog!
So, I said I would elaborate on the whole almost going potty in my pants during our vaca incident. So here goes.

(My children hate that I speak so self-deprecatingly about myself in a public forum. They're about to become a lot more disturbed about this particular share session.)

I don't think a more serious situation has ever developed in our vehicle. The grave atmosphere in our mini-van would've suggested that we were traveling to a funeral. (And so would the speed in which my husband was driving.)

Let me first say that I know, to some degree, that you know how I felt. Everyone has needed a restroom like RIGHT NOW at some point in their life. My situation may be a little more serious with the whole IBS and what-not. (Irritable Bowel Syndrome which I have never been medically diagnosed with except I know I have it and I am my own best doctor.) This is like the twelfth time we've experienced a near miss of this nature. But never have I been as white-knuckled as I was during this narrow escape. I mean I was squeezing so hard my ass was having spasms. (And that is NOT an exaggeration.)

When my husband refused to pass the red car creeping along at a slow crawl in front of us, I was pelvic thrusting in the air, arm braced to the ceiling and beginning my apology speech to my children. "I CANNOT. I am so sorry! I'm not going to be able to hold it. I mean I am so embarrassed. Please don't be mad at me." This is where my husband began to get fidgety. And sweaty. 

Bless his heart. He was very nervous. When I asked him about it later, he was like, "I mean there was just no where to go. I kept thinking, no no no...the smell." His finger braced on the window button.

Then I saw the condo complex. But I was confused. Was I happy or scared? I didn't know if I could stand or walk at all without a catastrophe. Could I? So I started prepping my daughter. "Give her the key! Give her the keys!" I have never felt a greater urgency in my entire life. As the car came to a stop I was cheering her on as if she was running the last leg of a marathon. "Go! Go! Go!!!! Ruuuuuuun! Holy Mother of Mary!" And she sprinted like a champ. I've never seen those legs move faster. And then she yelled. "I'm in, Mom!" Ahh, music to my ears as I scooted along behind her.

That night was bad. And I was miserable.

I felt that sharing my story may help someone, somewhere. And yes, I do understand that I am not the ambassador for IBS, FAMILY! Maybe I should be. We sufferers need to stand together. (though maybe not too closely and maybe there should be like a million port-a-potties.)

IBS Sufferers Unite!!

I've lost my mind. And like 3 pounds.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Ahh, Sweet Vacation and Other Crazy Things

I'mmm baaack.

Ahh, Vacation. It's always a sweet experience for our family. And this trip was no exception.  

I learned that though I have not been officially diagnosed with IBS. It's as good as fact. In addition, I learned that when my IBS kicks into high gear, my husband gets very fidgety and nervous...but still deems it unsafe to pass in the "no pass" zone. If nearly shitting my pants doesn't do it, nothing is going to make this man break traffic laws. More about this on a different day.

Somehow in the last year, I have also picked up the nervous habit of grabbing the car ceiling and lifting my right leg to the dash when my husband is traveling at a high rate of speed toward the back of a stopped car on the interstate. And he has picked up the habit of becoming very pissed off about my new habit. At one point he yelled, "how many times have I run into the back of a car!?!" Which, I felt, was a good question. So I responded with, "I don't know? How many?" To which he responded, "One time!" To which I responded, "Why would that be your redeeming argument?!? You can't ask that and then have run into the back of a car. Ever." Wow.
I don't have a good explanation for my behavior other than his driving skills must've fallen off at some point.

But through all of the dysfunction, I learned that my husband still fills up my heart and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. I love my kids and think they're brilliant. And I love the sunny weather. It makes me a better person.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

We're Too Difficult for the Drive-Thru? Yeah, Ok.

We are on vacation. Which means in the near future I will have a lot to say on this blog. But for's a little snippet.
On our way out of town we stopped at Wendy's to eat. My husband didn't want to go through the drive-thru. Apparently, we are "difficult."
So we went in and waited in line. The kids and I ordered (quite simply) and then he stepped up to order and it went like this.
"I'd like a double combo. Medium. With a diet coke. And can you please have them cut that in half?"
What's that, Nancy...?
Standing behind him, I started laughing and so did all of the kids. This provoked the cashier to laugh. She looked at my husband, "Are you serious?"
He was.
This isn't the first time I've heard this ridiculousness. He used to do it at Burger King with their sub-style sandwich. But this was just a cheeseburger. Really?
So the kids and I proceeded to make fun of him and laugh with the cashier who was still cracking up. She even laughed when she went to the fry-boy, "Hey...he'd like his sandwich cut in half." He looked up at her with disgust. Which made her laugh harder and made me double over.
My son posted this nonsense on his Facebook, and my cousin Kelly's response best summed it up, "I hope he didn't forget his purse while he was there."

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

I Speak Raccoon. And I Don't Like What I'm Hearing.

My 14-yr-old son called us last night, panicked, and told us not to come home. There were six raccoons on the porch and he feared for our safety. You may think they're just raccoons. But we have history.

A few years back, we were awakened by what sounded like someone screeching and banging together pots and pans in our drive-way. I fully anticipated looking out the window and seeing some jackass teenagers that had too much to drink. Only, when we looked out the bedroom window, it was 3 raccoons, smacking our cat-food lids together. Looking right at us. Saying, "What? You can't do a thing. And we already ate the cat food." Bastards. 

In the next few days they managed to shred the bottom of the garage door, rip up the inside of the garage, and fight the end of the rake my husband used to get them out of the garage. Every night they chanted "Hell No! We won't go!"

So, recognizing they were attempting a hostile take-over, my husband contacted some friends who trap them. And don't get all sentimental on me. The bastards got destructive and it was full-on war. 

The first night we trapped one. And we awoke to the sound of metal being dragged. Because metal was being dragged. The other two sons of raccoon bitches were dragging their caged mother down the drive-way for an escape. I don't know how they managed to get her out of that cage. All I know is that there was blood everywhere and she was gone. And we were pissed.

And then it happened. The next night my husband got smart and bungee corded the metal containers of cat food shut. Only they got smarter and took the bungee cords off. Like a sleep deprived man, broken for the last time, he jumped out of the bed in his boxer shorts and stomped downstairs. I jumped to my knees and watched out the window waiting for him to bust out the door. But he didn't. He came back up pumping his gun. HARD. His b-b gun. He looked like Rambo. He removed the screen very stealth-like. He aimed the gun...and knelt down in his boxer shorts, acting very ninja warrior. (only I'm not sure they use guns.) And he shot.

And then his facial expression changed from ninja-warrior to my great aunt Nancy's. He said, "Oh no. Heather. Oh No. Come here!!!"

So I jumped from my very quiet position on my knees and ran over to him. He had shot the damn thing right between the eyes. It was convulsing and bleeding out and it was the most disturbing site I have ever seen. And I, for the love of God, have no idea why he found it necessary to scar me like he had scarred himself.

There is no real point to the story. Maybe it's, even animals lovers have a breaking point. And sleep is super important to us both. I just hope these new raccoons know who they're messing with.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Musical Chairs With MY Family

Hey guys...what a weekend. And yes, I realize it's Tuesday. On Sunday, we attended what should have been a normal and fun birthday party for my 8-year-old niece. But, clearly this is asking a bit much from our family. I do give major props to my sister-in-law who made every effort to keep it light and fun with snacks, the trampoline, cousins, friends, and wait for it...this is where it goes sharply downhill...musical chairs.
My parents, along with their highly competitive drive to win, got a bit caught up in their emotions.

They tackled one another while fighting for a chair in front of God and yes, all of the 8-yr-old's parents they had never met. It should be noted, this chair was NOT the championship chair. And it should ALSO be noted this came directly following my mother shoving down a sweet little 8-yr-old girl whom she had never met. I would like to think mom didn't see the dejected look, and sad eyes on the little girl's face as she was running behind her pointing at the back of her head yelling, "No! I don't think so sweetie...Not while I'm playing. Huh uh. This is my chair. You may be eight, but you're a slow eight."

You may think I am exaggerating. I'd like to say that's true. It's not.

For those of you who have read my blog and think, I wonder what's wrong with this chick. Your answer is the video. These are, after all, my parents.

I have to think that sweet 8-yr-old girl found some kind of victory in this moment.

Friday, March 23, 2012

10 Things You Don't Know About Me...

The 25 10 things you don't know about me.

1. I don't wear underwear and I don't wear make-up. There are general exceptions to these rules. But on most days this is true. My children are disturbed by the first, and wish greatly that I'd reconsider the second. (They also wish I'd reconsider the first.)

2. I REFUSE to eat at a buffet. And honestly, I don't understand why anyone else would eat there. They are cesspools filled with nasty bacteria and children's boogers. And guess what U. S. of A.? It's why we're fat. All You Can Eat is a slogan, not a rule to live by. It's gross.

3. My cousin and I had a dream of being great Dumpster Divers. (Yes, I realize this contradicts the whole bacteria at the buffets rant. I don't have an explanation - it wasn't well thought out.) We were going to jump in the dumpster in the middle of the night, keep what we wanted and sell the rest. Except, the first night we went it was freezing rain, and I stuck my hand in an unidentifiable substance and lifted it up to show her and she thought I was giving her high-five and smacked my slimy hand. And that was it. Done. (We did find a great pair of scissors still in the wrapper and I think we also brought home a broken office phone.)

4. According to my husband, and I hesitate to put this on here, I occasionally yell Yahtzee in my sleep. I only know of one time when this actually happened and that's because I sat straight up in bed and yelled it, and it woke me up. The other times are alleged.

5. When my daughter was 1-yr-old I bit her finger. Hard. She was in bed with me and I was dreaming that my brother and his best-friend were messing with me while I was napping on the couch. So, I waited until the string they were dangling in my face touched me again, and I bit down as hard as I could. Only it wasn't a string. It was my 1-yr-old's finger. And she screamed. And I cried. Which brings me to number 6.

6. I very rarely cry. I have a missing sympathy gene. I mean, if something is really really sad, then ok. But probably not even then. I'm not proud of it. But I do love a lot. I mean if someone messed with my kids I'd stick my foot so far up their ass they'd be shitting toes for a week. That is love.

7. On my wedding day I wanted an ice sculpture. So, my dad went to the local rental outfit and picked up a plastic sculpture mold. Only, he forgot to freeze it. So, in the middle of the reception, right there on the table, was a plastic mold filled with water. Swear. (This is the same man wearing the mauve pants in my previous posts.) And by the way, the cake also had the wrong initials on it. What a high class affair.

8. I am addicted to diet coke. And by addicted, I mean, I shake like a heroine addict if I don't have it.

9. When my son was five we thought he had a mental disorder because he would cry and say he heard voices in his head. Finally, I asked what the voices were saying and he sobbed, "run fat ass, run!" And like an open-handed slap in the face, I realized that having him watch the movie Stand By Me at the age of five wasn't my best choice. He thought the movie was real. Let this be a lesson to you. Parental Guidance is suggested and strongly encouraged.

10. I once left my 7 and 8-year-old at a high-school gym. When I was leaving the parking lot my friend pulled up beside me and said, "Do you have your boys?" I freaked and ran back into the gym... Where they were blankly staring at me while holding onto a janitors hand.

Now you sit down and write a list of the things people don't know about you. Reading back through mine, I feel like a winner. I real live winner.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Happily Ever After Divorce

My parents were clearly distracted with their pathetic marriage during this ridiculous vacation. Otherwise, I am certain that they would've noticed that I'm missing my pants, shoes, and hair brush 1,000 miles away in the middle of the mother effing wild west. And for the record, Mom and Dad, this river looks just like the other 13 that you woke me up to see.
This vacation was a few years prior and proves my original theory. A.) That smiling was frowned upon during their entire marriage. and B.) That I DID originally wear pants, shoes and comb my hair. 
Post-divorce. (My dad is smiling also, just in another house.) This is the year I found my hair brush and my brother found puberty.  

I am bat-shit crazy tired. Which happens when I try to exercise. No worries, it's a very random and sporadic occurrence. So, tune in tomorrow for 25 Things You Don't Know About Me. (Strictly because mine will be better than the one's written by famous people in US magazine -- even if my mom's the only one who will read it.)

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

I'm Pulling the Car Over and Other Happy Vacation Moments

Welcome to the year 1987. The year when my parents decided to trek across the entire Continental United States in our mini-van. And, apparently, the year I stopped using a hair brush. I'm not sure what qualified this trip as a good idea? We like to refer to this time period as the Pre-Divorce Era. Also known as the, If I'm not going to be happy, nobody is, DAMN IT era. (And the beginning of my personal care routine as we know it. Less is definitely more.)
Even though my father isn't in the picture. I assure you he's there. My 11-year-old looked at this picture and asked if I hated this vacation. I told him not nearly as much as Papaw hated happiness.
He was one of those fathers who would say, "If you laugh one more time, I'm pulling the car over!" Only, as far as I know, other fathers reserved this saying for frowned upon activities like, crying, screaming, punching, and belching...Which were firmly high-fived in our mini-van.

Stay tuned for Pre-Divorce versus Post-Divorce pics and not only did I lose my hair brush, but where the hell are my pants?

Monday, March 19, 2012

Hey, Hey, Hey, J.J.!! Wait, that's Dad.

Today, while reminiscing with my mom and grandmother, I came across some old photos. Welcome to my version of Show and Tell.

Holy mauve pants and matching sock hat. This picture is kind of fuzzy, but oh so fashion forward. Which is bizarre considering this is the same man who secured a license plate on his rusted-out Dodge Ram truck with duct tape that read, "If u toucha my truck, I smasha u face." Meet my dad. Or, as we like to refer to him in this pic, J.J.  Dynomite!

He's with my older brother, and the family dog Samson. I'm not quite born yet, which from the looks of this picture, is a small victory for me. I've been told there is a home somewhere near. But I'm not totally convinced that they didn't reside in the tent shaped dog-house and cook atop the rusted out trash barrel. 
Mom did study the picture and quickly confessed that, yes indeed, this looks to be around the beginning of their 19-year downward spiral. Yes, I can see it.

Check in tomorrow for a peak into my childhood anti-grooming and overall personal care rebellion. Which still carries over today.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Mommy and Not Me

My husband and I had breakfast at IHOP this morning. Harvest Nut & Grain pancakes. Yum.
We also had the pleasure of sitting next to, what I assume was, a Mommy and Me Group. 
I did the inconspicuous head tilt toward the group and whispered, "A Mommy and Me group."
My husband continued eating, "Why didn't you ever get involved in a group like that?"

It's a good question, really. He already knows the answer. Which is why he laughed when he asked the question.

But then I thought, what is the reason for my not participating in a Mommy & Me Group? I came up with several.

I'm not a super emotional person. There are many things that have shaped my distorted view. If you're in a Mommy & Me Group, don't get all irritated. It's just my opinion. Which, if you ask anyone in my family, doesn't count. I'm sure women's lives are enriched in some way and they're better from Mommy & Me, blah, blah, blah. Or something beautiful and personal.

So, I made a list of the reasons I've personally never participated in Mommy & Me.

1. I think "Mommy & Me" would've been more appropriately named, "I'm Bored and My Real Friends Are at Work."
2. I never had an organized diaper bag, let alone a stylishly colorful one. I barely remembered mine. (mostly I didn't remember it.)
3. It didn't seem like my idea of FUN. If I'm going to be part of a group, I want it to be fun. Like maybe, The Anti Mom-Jean's Club.
4. Hang on tight for this one (please don't send me hate mail.) It seemed pathetic. Like, the only people who would want to hang-out with me are the other pathetic people that signed up to be part of this group.
5. And if I'm being totally frank, I wouldn't have enough invested in any of these women to care when their child walked, talked, or said mama. I just wouldn't.

I should mention, my husband read this post and said, "Heather, Mommy and Me is a child-centered group. It's meant for the kid." Huh. This never crossed my mind. Which probably indicates that the problem lies with-in me, and not so much the group. So really, I inadvertently helped these women by not participating with them. And I even somehow managed to find friends who had similar aged children, all by myself. Friends who share the same distorted views.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Thieves are Making My Tide Rise

Allegedly, this man is stealing an entire cart full of Tide laundry detergent. He's jogging right out the entrance like it's his job (i think it might be). And allegedly, it's happening quite frequently. Thieves are stealing it in bulk and reselling it on the black market for drugs. 
I am no Nancy Drew, but this man (and the other thieves) don't appear to be operating a cunning or ingenious plot to dominate the world of Tide. They seems to be pretty 'out in the open.' Should it really be that difficult to dismantle this crime ring? Apparently it is. It's estimated they've stolen tens of thousands of dollars worth.

And frankly, I'm pissed.

Firstly, these jack wagons are going to ultimately effect the cost of my Tide. And no mom wants a rising Tide.   
And secondly, why does a drug dealer need to buy Tide for 5-10 bucks? I can't even do that with double coupons. (not that I've ever tried.) In the words of my 11-year-old, "It's not fair."

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

My Daugher Would Never Do That

I heard a mom say to another mom today, "My daughter would never do that."
I thought Whaaaat. A. Dumb. Ass.

If you're a parent and you disagree with're wrong. Teenagers try very hard to be badasses even if they end up being mostly jackasses.

Last year my daughter sent me this text while we were at a basketball game: Can I get something to eat with Josh after the game?
My husband and I responded:  Not tonight.
Her:  Whyyyyy? Please can I go?
Us:  No. Not tonight.
Her: They won't let me go. They're bitches.

I processed this for a full minute and handed him the phone to read. And then I started laughing. Uncontrollably laughing. He looked at me and said, "This is NOT funny."
I said, "It's not." (Still laughing) "She called us bitches." (Still dying.) Omg, she actually called us bitches and accidentally sent it to us.(Crying laughing.) (Other parents staring at me laughing.)

When I finally pulled myself together, we collaborated and sent this back: I don't think you meant to send this to us.
The greatest pleasure was watching her read it. She was about 10 rows below us and to the right. It was the best punishment of all. There she sat, all red faced with nowhere to go. (She was a JV cheerleader and required to sit through the whole game.) And she cried. And cried. And cried.

Boy, that was a fun ride home. We put on great game faces and said some very parental things.
And that night before we went to bed, I said to my husband, "Can you bring me a glass of water?...bitch"


Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Why Motels are a No Go

A conversation I had today with my 12-year-old about our spring break accommodations:

Me: I booked our condo today.

Him: Is it a motel?

Me: No, it's a condo.

Him: Why can't we stay at a motel?

Me: A condo is nicer.

Him: Why? What's the difference?

Me: A motel is what you see sometimes when we drive down the highway. The doors are on the outside. As opposed to a hotel which has a bigger lobby, the rooms are nicer and you enter from the inside.

Him:  But we aren't staying in hotel. You said we're staying in a condo. Don't we enter from the outside in a condo?

Me: (Long Pause.) Yes. Ok, look... motels are cheap and dirty. You're dad tried to get me to stay in one in San Fransisco. It had cigarette butts in the ash-tray and candy wrappers on the floor. And the sheets looked unclean and there were bars on the windows. I cried until we finally left. (pause)
Plus the people on CSI always die in motels. We're not staying in a motel.

Him: Oh, that makes more sense.

Monday, March 12, 2012

My Husband's Response

My husband feels as though my earlier post warrants a response. So, I am allowing him the floor for a moment. Because he is a child. And this is his childish rant...

If we are telling bedtime stories, you should know that my wife's side of the bed looks like an episode of Hoarders. She has at least 10 empty and half-full diet coke can's on her night stand, a half eaten sleeve of Ritz crackers with crumbs, and a few bowls of left-over whatever that she took to bed cause she was, "staaaarving." It's a wonder we don't have rodents.

Seriously? Such a child.

This Morning's Rise and Fall

I love my husband. I do.

Last night we went to bed around 11:30p.m. At 4:45 a.m. this is what happened.

I was asleep on my side, facing outward. The same is true every night.
He slept flat on his back.

He must've jerked (which he often does) and it woke me. I'm glad it did. I wouldn't have wanted to miss this.

All of the sudden he jerked toward his side of the bed. Hard. It all happened so fast it was hard to process. I barely turned my head to see what the hell was going on...all I saw were arms grasping at air. (Our bed stands 4ft high) I think he may have been trying to grab the covers, or maybe a hope and a prayer. He was almost successful. But somehow I was coherent enough to know to hold tight.

It was the loudest thud EVER.

I did good. I quietly and slowly said, "Honey...what are you doing?"

He was pissed. Actually, I think he was several things...pissed, embarrassed, frustrated, tired, but above all confused. He said "I fell off the bed. Damn. It." "Son of a Bitch."

I don't know exactly what happened next, but according to him (much later in the day) his foot was stuck under something. He attempted to stand up. Not once, not twice, but 3 times. It sounded like someone was wrestling him, or hiding under the bed holding onto his foot. At one point, when he was trying to stand, he fell to a knee. And the combination of words that came out of his mouth were so randomly vulgar I thought I would die.

He said, "Was that funny to you?" Ummmmm. You bet.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

In Case You Wonder What Pee Tastes Like

Not everyone is invited into my "group." I have requirements. I don't have that kind of time or room in my life. Don't get me wrong, I have a general like of people. But not that guilt thing that other women feel about including everyone.

I like my friends to be falling apart. Chaos everywhere. The moms that look for the matching baseball sock right up until they're 10 minutes late for the game even if they leave right now.

They have to have multiple children. By multiple, I mean more than 3. If you have 3, you may qualify with multiple pets or a really idiotic husband. Maybe.

Most of my close friends have 4 or more children. And on the rare occasion I call them, none of us like talking on the phone, it's just another thing hanging on us, they generally answer the phone yelling, "Is it really that hard to pee inside the toilet?!!...Oh, hey what's going on?"  

Which is why I love this text from my close friend Kate.

OMG...I just had to run Bryan's ventilator in to get it checked, then I got back in the car and as we r driving down the road I took a drink of my diet coke...Which was no longer diet coke bc apparently while I was in there Todd and his mom dumped it out so Bryan could pee in it and they forgot to tell me. How nice...just in case you wondered pee actually tastes a lot like ocean water but warmer and a tad less salty...And how is your day?

And this is why I make room for Kate in my life.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Welcome to the Crazy Train...

As it appears…We’re the family with fluffy dogs frolicking in the front yard. We wave at the neighbors as they walk in front of our home. Our boys shoot hoops in the driveway and address adults as Mr. and Mrs. Our daughter comes and goes in the car she received as a sweet-sixteenth birthday gift. And my husband comes home every evening to a lovely dinner I’ve prepared.

What’s real…our daughter’s Christmas present just shit on my living room carpet, which is officially ruined and in desperate need of being removed. It’s puppy training gone sideways. This isn’t my first rodeo and I don’t know if he’s that stupid or just trying to piss me off. Either way…

Sometimes, I walk in the house and pretend. OMG!! We’ve been broken into!! Only, that’s not likely. The number of dirty dishes lying around indicates the robbers would’ve been too malnourished and dehydrated to steal anything. I walk around on pins and needles hoping my neighbors don’t drop by for anything. And when the doorbell does ring I nearly stroke out.

I run the sweeper and dust which prompts my children to ask who’s coming over?

My van is 7 years old. It’s a great van. But when I drop my 11-year old off at school French fries and water bottles fall out. And the side door won’t automatically open anymore because the boys spilled something on the track and it’s sticky.

My husband and I lie in bed at night and wonder how it will all come together. We laugh until our stomachs hurt.
I fantasize about being that mom. I try. Hard. And fail miserably. The 6 of us are all passengers on the crazy train. It feels like we’re moving. It feels like we’re making progress. So, we assume we’ll eventually get there. But it doesn’t really matter. We’re just enjoying the ride.