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 

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.

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 me...you'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"