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.

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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 twitter...no 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.

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, "heather...it'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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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.

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. Also...you 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.

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.