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A Collection of Eyerolls (A Momoir), Chapter 1: Yes, Billy Joel, We Will All Go Down Together

Introduction

Life comes with a certain expectation of bad things. As a mom, I fully expected exhaustion and weight gain and crumbs – ridiculous amounts of crumbs, everywhere (I underestimated here). As a middle aged woman I begrudgingly expected divorce (of friends), defiance (of teens) and death (of parents). There’s not a whole lotta surprise there when it comes to the circle of life.

What I didn’t expect were the explosions of unfairness that are both unanticipated and paralyzing. The numbing cancer diagnosis of friends (worse, younger friends). The out-of-nowhere brain bleed that grips a group of friends to its core. The unimaginable loss of a child.

If I can be blunt, this past year saw a whole lotta fkkked up shttt happen around me. In addition to providing solid proof that love and friendship keeps us all afloat — it also provided a resounding wake-up a call with a simple, shrill message: Now.

Love now. Enjoy now. Embrace now. Do now.

So I am.

I am doing.

Now.

I’ve talked about writing a book since forever and I’m not waiting anymore to try to publish it. I’m publishing it right here, right now, one chapter at a time (just like Kendrick Lamar and Carrie Underwood drop tracks. I think I can be cool like that). Maybe if enough people enjoy it, it’ll catch on like the Faberge commercial (*pauses, makes mental note to include footnote explaining Faberge commercial). Maybe it’ll end up somewhere, someday. Maybe my gal Tina Fey will send me a DM.

And maybe nothing will happen. At the very least, I will show my kids that I did it before it was too late.

Because life is too short to wait.

I haven’t chosen a title yet so feel free to pick your favorite:

A Momoir: Parenting Essays to Put a Tear in Your Eye (or a Drink in your Hand)

I Love Parenting (and Other Lies…)

Kid: I Hate My Mom (Me: OMG, I Did, Too!)

And away we go!

* * * * *

Chapter 1 Yes, Billy Joel, We Will All Go Down Together

My obvious disclaimer: I am not a parenting expert. None whatsoever, of any kind. I never will be. I gave birth. Four times. That – along with a blog that perpetually pokes fun at those birthing miracles – taps my credentials. It may not be much but it’s far and wide a way better reason to heed my warnings over say, Oprah’s. I’m actually fairly particular about my own experts. For instance, I don’t want my fitness instructor or nutritionist to have a muffin top or bat-wings (I don’t actually have these professionals in my life but I feel very strongly that if I did and was handing money over to someone for vanity purposes they should without question look a LOT better than me). I also don’t want my hairstylist to have Farrah feathers either, no matter how awesome she looks. And while I may not go often (maybe a few times pre-summer to look slimmer instead of exercising) I don’t want the owner of the tanning salon to be Oompa Loompa orange. So yes, I completely understand having advice standards. I’m also personally critical of accepting guidance from anyone that can’t one-up me, so I tend to tune out other moms unless they’ve got older kids or – trump! – more kids than me. Kate Gosselin, no offense taken, you can stop reading this now, I get it (your ex, though, maybe he should?).

But here’s why you might want to keep reading this:

I am shamelessly flawed, and not afraid to show how.

I do more things wrong as a mom than I do right, yet my kids (appear) well-adjusted.

I mercilessly mock stupid parents and – because there’s no shortage of them – it makes for some funny stories.

All of that and — the bonus – to date, my kids don’t have assigned probation officers gives me some pretty ample street cred. Quite possibly, this is the support group you never knew you needed, but always wished you had. I feel when parenting’s concerned, there’s always strength in numbers and when that fails, there’s always, always wine. This book will give you both. (In the case of the wine, just pour a glass and read; I’ll bet you’ll be able to visualize me joining you. Really, I’m as good as there.)

Other qualities you might admire: I’ve never lost a kid at a mall (Disney, yes, but I won’t shoulder that blame alone: there were 14 of us…) but I have been known to lose track of my 10-year-old’s last shower.

and … I suspect that if Children’s Services ever caught wind of the actual number of times my kids’ sheets are changed, well there may be some action taken.

and … I confess I have signed homework sheets that I never really checked. I’ve also feigned sleep when I heard a screaming child in the middle of the night just to allow my husband the experience of flying out of bed like a rocket to deal with it.

and … I’ve allowed electronics to entertain my brood for hours at a time, just to talk on the phone a little longer or clean my house or finish my Netflix binge.

and … I’ve been known to throw my kids out of the house on a beautiful day and lock the door behind them. True story: none died of dehydration or were snatched by a dingo.

and … when my kids peed their beds I’d simply change their jammies and flip them to the other end. (I used to know a mom who’d go mental whenever this happened. She’d rip her toddler out of bed – no matter the time – and throw her in a bath, frantically changing the sheets and carrying on like a lunatic. What a psycho. Obviously we weren’t friends for long.)

and … I will admit without shame that – until they were old enough to realize – I skipped pages of bedtime stories.

and … I have not always enforced regular teeth brushing with my toddlers because, I’d reason, they’re just going to fall out anyway.

and … I have driven past the library only to hear a tiny voice in the back say in wonder, “Hey, I remember this place, I think I was there once…”

And that’s just the little kid stuff. Wait until you get a load of all the teenage nonsense I’ve survived (because really, have we even truly parented until we’ve taken a bedroom door off its hinges?) As a bonus, I’ve been dipping my toe in the Kids-Attempting-Adulting ocean and THAT (specatcularly!) is proving to be a supreme source of subject matter; fingers crossed, a follow up volume could definitely happen. So I’ve got a lot under my belt already. You’ll quickly see I am far from perfect. My house is always dusty and my inability to remember details makes it impossible for me to recall the name of the last antibiotic any of my kids were prescribed. A profound failure at keeping baby books, I do try to write down the wonderful, embarrassing and quite ordinary things that happen in our daily lives. When I noticed my little guy’s Spongebob underwear clear through his tiny white tee-ball pants, I jotted it down. It was without question the cutest thing I’d ever seen. And when my toddler loudly pointed out during an extremely crowded Easter mass that, “Mommy, look, they drink wine like you do at home!” much as I wanted to die, I wrote that down, too. Apparently I also wrote down that my daughter could get her ears double pierced but I don’t remember that (because I am quite certain that little minx hit me up while I was cocktailing with friends when THAT request came in). Still, it’s all good stuff.

I’m actually glad I wrote down a lot because my memory is junk. There’s something profoundly unsettling that I can recall every word to We Didn’t Start the Fire but I couldn’t tell you where my kid is going after work because he only told me three times an hour ago… Ugh. Don’t get me started. I digress…

I love all my kids. Fiercely. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t daydreamed about shipping them off to a faraway island. While kids can make us crazy, teenagers can make us alcoholics. Hell, they can make us question every certainty we know in life and can cause nervous tics just by entering a room.

So for all the moms who have ever had a child declare in a crowded yet silent waiting room that they’ve discovered your mustache …

And for all the moms who ever realized – too late — with mortified certainty that the word FART was written in Sharpie on their Thanksgiving tablecloth…

And for all the moms who have ever gotten that 2am phone call from a kid needing to be picked up “… or the police will bring me home …”

This book is for you.

Hope you’ll keep coming back.

Cheers.

* * * *

(Enoyed Chapter 1??? Don’t stop now! Keep going! …..)

Chapter 2, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/08/13/chapter-2-sometimes-kids-suck-a-lot/

Chapter 3, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/09/22/chapter-3-sorry-were-tied-all-kids-are-filthy/

Chapter 4, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/12/02/a-momoir-chapter-4-a-moms-plea-to-seth-rogen-enough-with-the-masturbation-already/

Chapter 5, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/04/20/a-momoir-chapter-5-the-magnitude-of-the-middle-aged-mom/

Chapter 6: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/08/24/a-momoir-chapter-6-im-not-always-like-you-mom-but-thats-okay/

…. oh geeze, just get to the blog site and keep going! 🙂

# # # #

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook & @Eyerollingmom on Instagram. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Kids, I Love You. Now Cut the Crap.

Wait, Who You Calling Old?

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mom jeans

Not gonna lie: I’ve been known to be a little judgmental. (It’s really just one of the many book titles I’m laying claim to in the innards of my brain: “I’m Just Saying What You’re Really Thinking”) So it’s actually with great irony that I must report how very publicly I was personally judged this weekend.

It came from a twenty-something waitress as she collected menus following my party’s drink and app order. We asked about the live music scheduled for later in the evening.

She surveyed our table and suggested that we might want to leave before the band arrived.

Excuse me, what?

“Well….they’re a little……” her voice trailed off.

What, we pressed. Loud? Violent? (I’m a big music fan but I draw the line at some of the stab-your-grandmother music that’s out there) What?

“Ummm,” she shrugged, “I just don’t think you’re gonna like them.” She walked off.

Where’s Steve Martin when you need him: Again, excuuuuuse me?

Detecting a challenge, we scrapped our plans to move on to a different venue later on and instead got comfortable. We claimed a pool table and kept the rounds coming.

When the band eventually began they opened up with a pretty awesome Tom Petty song. (Cue the confused looks at our table. Huh?)

For the next three or so hours they played great covers of everything from AC/DC to Van Morrison . I lost track of how many times I lifted my beer to proudly declare “Ha, THIS is on my I-pod, too!” (it’s a Nano but, you know, whatever).

I kept thinking, that snotty waitress can kiss my Adele-sized ass.

Now, I’ll admit there might have been a few vibes that (maybe. perhaps. if you stretched) hinted we may not have been the hippest bunch.

Getting to the bar at 7:30 might’ve been the first red flag, I get that. Young people — like vampires — repel sunlight and bars before ten. I know, I know, been there done that. But I will boast that we were indeed asked to “kindly depart” after the bright fluorescent lights had been on for awhile at last call. Not a proud mother-of-four moment (and certainly not the first fluorescents we’ve ever seen) but hey, no one can deny our chutzpah. It happens (so does taking the next day in its entirety to recover).

Also, there was one of us whose six-foot frame took out a speaker (and maybe a couple of bystanders) with a very animated fall on the dance floor (NOT ME). Lacking the grace of Brian Boitano (funny, how these always seem to happen in slow-motion), okay, maybe that could’ve shined an aging spotlight on us. (No one got hurt. I think. Maybe just their roadie? I dunno…)

And (alright, alright) perhaps a mob of middle-agers hysterically fist-pumping on the dance floor was a bit telling.. Ah well. Three fingers up to make a W: What-ev-ah.

Maybe a final dead giveaway was how we interacted. One thing that definitely set us apart from the youngsters around us as how we sat as a group and talked and laughed. You know, TO EACH OTHER. At one point, a group of four girls nearby all tapped away on cell phones at the same time. Having fun, ladies?

We sure did.

Take THAT, kids.

Here’s an interesting end note. Our waitress was arguably the worst restaurant worker in the history of food service. Her lack of charm paled in comparison to her professional skills. We had to hunt her down throughout the night, usually finding her sitting with friends chatting (I know, right?) Yet we still tipped her well because we are a different generation that does the right thing. (Not to mention that collectively we could put a sitcom into syndication with all the eyerolling actions of our own young-adult-spawn). It makes us somewhat forgiving.

Yes. That would be us: forgiving, freakishly good dancing and not-quite-ready-for-early bird-food-specials fun mongers. #We’llSleepWhenWe’reDead

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was featured in the 2014 Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone.” Her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series yet she places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements. (Next would be the home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook. and@Eyerollingmom on Instagram.

Home Sweet Hope

Why I’m Saying Fkkk That Sh*t To My Milestone Birthday

3 Replies

BadGrannyS

I don’t believe it’s my looming milestone birthday but for whatever reason, I’ve been in a bit of a rut.

It’s not that I’m concerned about being chronologically on par with Cindy Crawford or the remaining members of the Brat Pack (that’s right, Emilio, suck it: still younger than you). I’ve just been stymied on how to keep this blog going.

You see, for years I’ve made a grand ol’ spectacle of using my kids as fodder. But now that they’re older, it’s getting harder to navigate the fine line between respectful-young-person-privacy and must-tell-all-about-their-colossal-stupidity. I spend so much time wondering, Wait, can I say that? the dueling voices in my head are in a constant smack down. It’s certainly not cool to bring up the angst and eyerolls of budding romances, right? And it’s downright inappropriate to reveal what’s been going on in their bathroom, no? And, sure, as universally head-shaking as they may be, I imagine it’s not helping their future college/employment/parole endeavors to bring to light any questionable behaviors. Gaaaaah. Damn kids, always sucking the fun out of things, amiright?

So it’s gotten me a little stuck.

I love to write and I want to keep writing so in an effort to get the creative juices flowing again I’ve decided to bite the proverbial bullet (annnnnnnnd fine, perhaps reveal my true narcissism) and shine the spotlight on myself for a change of pace (cue in sighs of relief from spouse and spawn).

As I mentioned, yes, it’s a pretty big year coming up. While I don’t feel any different than I did ten (sometimes even twenty) years ago (hellllllllllo happy hours!), I have changed some of my thinking for how this next phase of my life will go. I’m finding I’m shrugging and saying Fkkk that sh*t to a few things I used to care about but no longer do.

In my mind, I was going to reach my milestone looking better than ever. Not unrealistically — as in, allow me to reveal the height of bridal fashion circa 1991 as I spin around in my wedding gown — but rather maybe showing up for any birthday fete in a cute little dress. I even gave up drinking alcohol for a month to kick start my transformation but if I’m being honest, that lifestyle change wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I sipped seltzer for thirty days and didn’t lose a single pound. Enough said. I may still wear a cute birthday dress when it’s time but if it’s not as tiny as say, JLo’s, so be it. I refuse to stress about it. To my healthier new me I say: Fkkk that sh*t.

I’d also wanted to hit my Big One with long luscious hair that rivaled my glory days so I simply stopped cutting it for almost a year. I thought, if Sandra Bullock can hold onto her tresses on the 50+ train, why not me? Turns out, without a personal stylist and hundreds of dollars in products, it’s nearly impossible. Still, I martyred on for months – curling and straightening my split ends into a damn near fire hazard. When I couldn’t stand the sight of myself another minute, the hair was chopped into a medium, yet manageable mane that is – naturally — oh so age appropriate. To my long locks of long ago I also say, Fkkk that sh*t.

Then there’s my car. Good grief, I’ve spent the better portion of my adult life eschewing minivans and everything they stand for and I’ve kicked and screamed against ever driving one. Now with learners’ permits gaining and passengers dwindling faster than I care to admit, it’s dawned on me how much I love filling up my car with lots of bodies and enjoying the conversations that go along with that. On the eve of my milestone, I realize I don’t give a rat’s ass about the car I drive. So I got a minivan – and a really, really basic one to boot. Actually, it’s pretty ugly. But it fits all the large, smelly bodies that I’ve got precious fleeting time with. And the way lower car payment makes me happier than trendy. So, to the unsexiest set of wheels I’ve ever known, I say, too: Fkkk that sh*t.

What better way to hit a milestone than to do so screaming irony, eh?

I’m sure as I inch closer to The Date I’ll come up with more things deserving of my Fkkk that sh*t mantra.

But I’ll have to save them up so I’ve got some things to write about.

Unless of course one of my kids becomes needy for attention and I’m given permission to tell you all about his time in the principal’s office … or the girlfriend’s house … or a squad car.

Just kidding.

For now.

What say we get this Milestone Blog Year going? Tune in, comment, share, repost and join me in saying Fkkk that sh*t to all the silly things that really don’t matter at all.

Hashtag, Bring on 50.

It’s Just Poop

1 Reply

If you’ve got kids (heck, if you simply know kids) you’ve got poop stories. We all do.

Some are better than others. Some become legendary.

What’s amazing is how women — moms especially — are completely unfazed by them. We don’t gag, or retch or hold up our hands in an “Oh, please stop” gesture when hearing them. We nod, take another bite of our sandwich and pour another glass of whatever.

Face it: many of us have chosen to share our lives (and our bathrooms) with well, men. Gross, odorous, smelly, aromatic, reeking men. (I happen to find this to be an immensely fair trade-off: in exchange, my lawn is mowed and I don’t have to string Christmas lights. All good. Small price.) Honestly, once women have weathered diaper duty there’s little to make us put down our food (even less to make us put down our glass).

I recently found out one of my sons has a pooping bathroom. Lucky me. It’s the one attached to my bedroom.

One day he began his business in our designated ‘kids’ bathroom when a crisis occurred: midway through, welp, he realized he was in the wrong place. (I know. I’m lucky he finds his classrooms every day. Stay with me here.) Panicked, he shuffled (visual: pants around ankles) down the looooong stretch of hallway until he reached his — er, my — sanctuary. And thus finished.

He managed to clean himself up without issue – with an entire tub of Lysol wipes. THIS, people, is what makes a mom’s forehead veins pulse – not the actual poop going into the plumbing system (only mothers of boys truly know how disproportionate this amount is to a small body) but the entire tub of Lysol wipes. Before my lid flipped I made a silent deal with the devil: Satan, oh Satan, please spare my septic tank.

My kid didn’t even tell me about his adventure until hours later (the important message being — of course — that he had run down the hall with his pants down. To him, that was the story.) Naturally.

With three sons, I have no shortage of stinky tales.

Funny thing, though, when little boys eventually grow into big men their personal attachment to bathrooms continues. My husband and his friends often marvel at the grandeur of the men’s room at our local Home Depot. Apparently it’s at the top of their list of public restrooms because – newsflash – men actually spend a great deal of time in them and pffft, yes, definitely have a Top Three.

More amusing than that: when this topic comes up in mixed company (it does and you know it) there will be women who will flatly insist they’ve gone on entire vacations without ever having going once, have waited until weekend house guests have left their own homes or who have actually waited to be home from Home Depot before finding relief (no, just me? noted).

Anywho, men (cough, my husband) will continue to be completely freaked out by this.

What I’m going to find beyond hilarious is just how many people will click onto this post knowing full well it’s about poop. Just poop.

Who knows, maybe it was that cute little poop emoji drew everyone in?

Funny stuff.

(And my septic’s getting pumped on Friday.)

(actual sign in my home………)

Call Security: A Cruise Diary Continues

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So now that it’s been some time since we returned from our cruise-that-didn’t-explode, I’m thankful I jotted down some notes during it. This whole middle-aged forgetfulness thing is really setting in now and I kid you not, it is a complete and total horror show.

So with the help of some sturdy cocktail napkins, my stories continue.

Being the consummate bargain-hunter, my husband jumped at the chance of upgrading our family (for a (cough) nominal fee) to a higher floor. What? One story higher than the Titanic immigrants for the price of a smaller, less exotic vacation? Where do we sign? Trouble is, our new cabins were – without exaggeration – located one hundred rooms apart. He was stern (with 2 kids), and I was bow (with the other 2 kids). Kind of an interesting concept for a family vacation but whatever. We rolled with it. And packed walkie-talkies.

Night One: exhausted and (still) untan, we called it a night and parted ways – obviously at the center of our floor. Nearing closer to our room, my daughter and I came upon a commotion between two staterooms. It quickly escalated into shouts of “Call security!”

Yep. STFU.

We were riveted. Youth on her side, my daughter ran for help but I stayed put (you know, the witness). You’d think it was a noble civic duty but rather it was more that I was TRANSFIXED TO THE POINT OF PARALYSIS when I looked into the room and saw a man with his hands gripped around a younger man’s throat.

I know, right? NIGHT ONE! Barely past the Statue of Liberty and we’re sailing into Crazy Town. Epic.

So while I’m giving my best “I am not missing one detail of this domestic disturbance” glare, my daughter breathlessly arrives back – with Malcolm, our affable and comedic cruise director.

Now, I don’t know what Malcolm was doing slumming down on our particular floor (and I certainly don’t know how any guy with the words “Woo Hoo” on his name plate was going to be able to assist in anything other than Bingo) but hey, the guy had a radio. He called for security. I gave him my best “You can take it from here” nod and off we went, giggling off to our room far, far away.

In the days to come, there was a security guard (of sorts) stationed outside those rooms so we felt very safe there. Malcolm, on the other hand, stayed clear.

I’m not sure how you move past that on Night One but I did see the Domestic Disturbance (“Call Security!”) Woman doing karaoke later that week so I imagine she did move on.

And there it is: my smooth-as-a-baby’s-behind segue into karaoke.

My loyal readers already know of my affinity for karaoke.

But partaking in my favorite pastime takes on an entirely new meaning when it is offered (deep breath) with a live band. That’s right.

Live.

Band.

(Shall we pause while we all wrap our brains around this?)

I could state the obvious and say that my life took on a more cosmic meaning after experiencing something so profoundly enjoyable. I could even admit that yes, I did entertain the thought of maybe ditching this whole classroom thing and becoming a singer in a band (a band of course that only played to people who didn’t mind hearing the same four songs on a perpetual loop the entire night long). And, sure, I could even brag that –especially following that nut-job from down the hall – I kinda killed it.

But I have to be completely honest.

All these things paled in comparison to the best part, hands down: when my party-of-eleven-ridiculously-awesome-family-and-friends stormed the stage — a la the finale of “Little Miss Sunshine” — and started dancing. The crowd went wild (even Domestic Disturbance Lady was up on her feet) and it was a moment, I tell you. My moment. And while regular karaoke continued throughout the week (much to my husband’s eventual boredom – nightly), the family kick-line in the middle of a Gretchen Wilson song will remain a forever memory for me (and the reason I sign notes to my kids, “Mom the Rock Star.” You know, lest THEY forget.)

Anyway, so yes, basically this cruise could’ve stayed in the New York harbor and it still would have been the bomb. Clearly when you vacation with fun people you can pretty much head to a campground or, I don’t know, the Poconos and have a ball AND save a ton of money but who knew?

I’ll stop here but I might even have to throw together one more installment because I haven’t even gotten to the Poolside Party Guy with the nine-and-and-a-half-fingers. We’ll see.

Hilarity on the High Seas

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We have returned!

As previously reported, we brazenly laughed in the face of odds (and disaster flicks) and embarked on a Carnival cruise. Surprisingly (sadly?) there was nary a floating turd on the Lido Deck so we will never be lifetime travelers courtesy of the cruise line. Ah well.

But, as duly noted on my Facebook status, we arrived home sufficiently brown, shamefully bloated and very, very broke (bar tab? No thank you. I’d rather just write out my daughter’s college tuition check since it pales in comparison).

Honestly, it was a trip. A flipping hilarious, can’t-make-this-stuff-up trip.

Here’s why….

If you think the best part about departing on a ship right out of the New York harbor was our cost-saving on airfare, you’d be brilliant, alas incorrect. Saving money is superb but vacationing with 95% of passengers hailing from New York or New Jersey trumps just about everything.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!

It was a joyous freak show of continuous people watching and I actually found myself jotting notes on napkins so I wouldn’t forget any of the details. I’ve got to be good for at least two more full-length blogs but we’ll see how this goes.

Now don’t lick the stamp on that hate letter just yet. I happen to be a born and bred Long Island girl myself — as was my sailing partner/former college roommate, Betsy. We were amongst our people. We were one of them. We had the right to mock.

And mock we did.

Maybe I could just get started on some bullet points:

* 2600 passengers on a ship and no less than 2500 tattoos. So much ridicule, so little time…

For me, the whole tattoo thing is a perpetual head-shake. 20-somethings with deep, philosophical verses (or rap lyrics) emblazoned in calligraphy all over their body? Really? You’ve already got everything figured out so decided to spell it out in a line from “Fight Club” or a Ne-Yo song? Good idea. Idiot.

And the middle-aged woman sitting at the bar with the face of Tony Orlando on her right shoulder? Hmm. You might guess we barely had anything at all to say about THAT.

Or the guy with the faces of different Transformers on the backs of each calf? Nope. Just don’t get it.

The clear winner, though: The creepy, skinny guy with G-O-D-S G-I-F-T written across his knuckles. (Mom, what do you think of my new boyfriend?) Stupidity on parade.

I could’ve easily ignored my party of eleven for the whole week just watching the tats go by. (Again, let’s go easy on the hate mail. My husband just got his first tattoo after running the NYC Marathon this year. He rocks. And his tattoo is the bomb. But to be fair, I’d mock Tony Orlando on him, too.)

* The food thing.

Sweet Jesus.

It’s actually easy to keep the pounds off while cruising if you simply follow some obvious rules:

First, simply glance around the dining room at everyone eating as if it’s their last meal. All day long.

Or, grab a seat directly across from the old man with the tracheotomy netting politely covering his well, tracheotomy, because it turns out he will, in fact, start coughing if when something gets stuck in it. Kinda makes you put down the danish if you know what I mean.

If all else fails, park your lounge chair next to the deli station that’s poolside. Besides the fact that nothing screams We Are New York!, Dammit! like the lofty smell of sauerkraut all afternoon, you may even find yourself sick to death of Ruebens by Day 2 (unless of course you’re a 14-year-old boy — then you’ll still be eating three daily up until disembarkment). At the very least, sticking poolside and watching people eat in their bathing suits is calorie counting at its most efficient.

* Interesting people abound.

Good grief, I could go on and on with stories about all the fascinating folks I stared at for eight days but I shall end with the best (and maybe continue on with others in my next installment).

We spotted The Most Intriguing Man on Board the first day at sea.

Now, if you combine Samuel L. Jackson, Issac Hayes and Linc from the Mod Squad, you might come close to how coolly intimidating this guy was. Completely (awesomely) tattooed (including his bald head – I’m telling you: BADass. There was NO mocking here), he was walking around with neon colored bungee cords slung over his shoulder. Not the stupid little kind your husband keeps in the garage “just in case” but enormous 8-feet-long ones with bright brass hooks. We assumed he was a maintenance worker because he was shirtless, with jeans rolled up to his knees and work boots. But THEN we caught sight of him that night, strolling into the adult comedy show wearing (and I don’t even think I can adequately provide a proper visual here) a bright red shirt, equally bright red PANTS, and a glittery jeweled belt, smack dab in the center. Like an international man of mystery: we couldn’t take our eyes off him.

Next day, there he was, strolling with his bungees again. At this point we were beside ourselves with curiosity (you know, because there were few others on board to fixate on. Laugh.)

Fast forward another day, another few buckets of beer and POOF! He’s hanging poolside. My gal Betsy made a beeline. It needed to be revealed: FortheloveofGod, she questioned, why the bungees???

They were (wait for it) his on-board workout routine. In the coming days he went on to delight us by actually doing his resistance training routines on the deck rails above us because – along with being the Most Intriguing Man on Board, he was also a cool, good guy and seemed happy to accommodate our shallow lives by providing a little spark. Don. From Brooklyn. The Man.

I haven’t even gotten through half of my napkin notes yet …

(… to be continued …) (obvs)

Mom’s Passed Out (or rather, Vacation Week is Here!)

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My family will be taking a vacation soon and there’s not a doubt in my mind I will be the first one asleep on Night One. We haven’t even left yet and I am exhausted. Why?

Because I’m the Mom, that’s why.

And every Mom knows: when the vacation countdown begins, if we ceased doing what we do … ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere.

We push up our sleeves with a determined “I Can DO this” mantra but the truth is, the procedural that takes place the full week before departure is outrageous. It makes me wonder why anyone ever chooses to leave their home in the first place.

The laundry? Kill me.

The packing? (Did I already say kill me?) I laughably thought it would get easier as my kids got older but now — in addition to needing bigger baggage (for bigger clothing) — I find myself in Supreme Nag Mode. Apparently I am the only household member over the age of 14 that finds it necessary to actually haul a suitcase up from the cellar before 2:00am the night before pulling out of the driveway.

The checklist of Wal-Mart runs, haircuts, dog-walker-flower-waterer-house-watcher instructions — along with the panic-inducing Don’t-Forget-to-Pack-or-the-Vacation-is-Ruined items — has me realizing I never even did the end-of-the-year backpack clean-out on the last day of school. (Quick silent prayer: Please God, let those nasty knapsacks be free of yogurt this year…) May I be totally excused? I’m going with yes, totally.

Worse than that: It was my intention to exercise my way into a respectable bathing suit by now but by the time all of the above was completed (pfffft. was there ever a doubt?) there was no time left. Now I’ve got to rely on the sunburnt-skin-turning-brown trick-of-the-eye to help me get to that goal.

Nards.

So yes, I’ll be a little tired and a little (cough) thicker than I’d like to be but I’m thinking as soon as that first icy cold margarita gets sipped, my revved up week of “Maaaaaaa, where’s my …?” will be but a blur.

We’re taking a cruise with one of my bestest friends in the whole world: my college roommate and her family. When she’s not making me look like a wallflower she will be enthralling my kids with one hilarious story after another. Each day I suspect our husbands’ lounge chairs will be purposely perched farther away from us but believe me, we are sooooo used to that.

That we’ve brazenly decided to throw caution to the wind and stick with our plans to go on Carnival – you know, the “Fun Ships” (“fun” of course questionably translating into fiery engines and passengers hurling overboard) — only shows how committed we are to having stupendous stories to share at the end of our trip. Good God — can you even IMAGINE the blogs to follow should we spy poop floating on the Lido Deck due to scary sewage fiascos?

I’m fairly certain I would finally break into the International Blogosphere if something ridiculously newsworthy befalls our ship so, by all means, keep your fingers crossed and your eyes on the CNN ticker.

My family doesn’t do trips like this often but truthfully, lately my husband and I have been invoking a Live for Today attitude. A couple of sudden deaths in the family and a handful of kids unbelievably graduating in the blink of an eye will do that.

Time is whizzing by faster with each passing year and life certainly isn’t getting less complicated as we muddle through it so … this year at least … we’re acting a tad frivolous and going for broke.

I mean that literally. But I’m also banking on this bad boy boat clipping an iceberg or something and getting a lifetime of free cruising from our friends at Carnival so really, it’ll be fine.

Just fine.

Bon voyage!!!

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Eyerollingmom’s Christmas Letter: Nothing But Ho Ho Honesty

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I don’t send out Christmas cards anymore and if I’m being completely honest, I kinda sorta question why some people still do.

I’m not a Grinch. Hell no. I still partake in holiday cheer (ahhh, too much, some may say) but I guess I just feel that a lot of old traditions are rather redundant in today’s all-knowing-all-the-time existence.

I never planned to stop. It just sort of happened the year my mom passed away. Three months after she was gone I struggled to put up a Christmas tree, let alone send out a photo of my kids who weren’t looking much different than all the pictures I’d been throwing up on Facebook throughout the year. And of course anything good or eventful that went down in my life had already made it into a post, or text or blog. Really now, is anyone in need of a recap?

But I’ve always thought that if I did send out a Christmas letter it really wouldn’t be like everyone else’s. Here’s what I mean:

If I sent out a Christmas letter I’d say for sure, my year was just likes yours: full of happiness and thanks and blessings and joys and laughter and (hello, four perfect kids?) plenty of proud and boastful accomplishments. But then I’d feel compelled to add it was also a year filled with a whole bunch o’ family crap, a shitload of sadness, some bitter disappointments and (hello, four slightly imperfect kids?) too much embarrassment to mention.

I’d start by bragging about my oldest, my newly minted 21-year-old. He is my unchallenged sweetheart — mainly because he is hands down the most respectful of the tribe. To this day, he’d do anything I ask without so much as a sigh. I’d say how my heart swells with pride that he is a USAF Reservist and I am duly delighted that he’s going to school to become an EMT and paramedic. But then I’d have to admit that his lack of motivation to work at anything — ANY thing — full time makes my blood pressure surge. And worse, that when I see him playing video games for hours at a time I want to scream like a crazy person on a NYC street corner. Don’t even get me started on the beer cans in his room.

I’d then go on to gush about my daughter, who’s rocking her sophomore year at college and blossoming into a beautiful and engaging young woman right before my eyes. She’s really something else. I’m genuinely in awe of her compassion for the environment and her conviction to make it a better place. Though I’ll miss her like mad, I know one day soon her dreams and plans will take her away to some exotic place far, far away from me. Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit her staunch insistence that humanity is failing … troubles me greatly. Quite honestly, her woe is the world philosophy is a complete and total buzz kill at the dinner table and (sigh) an argument typically ensues when she really gets going. Truth be told, if I must nitpick, the toxic fumes festering in her room from the mess seem to be a blatant contradiction of the green earth she’s desperately seeking to save. (Apple cores: best placed in a compost heap rather than under that bra on the rug, no?)

I’d continue and blather on and on about my middle son, a high school sophomore, who is incredibly handsome and intelligent and easy going and popular and athletic and … and … so incredibly lazy I feel I should start researching boarding schools. Or wigs — since I’m dropping fistfuls of my own hair as I chase him around screaming about missing homeworks and vanishing assignments. I am convinced the sound of my voice is like a dog whistle to his immune ears and I fear he may fall out of bed one night and suffocate in the pile of wet towels next to his bed.

I’d then be forced to boast about his sidekick — my youngest — the king of the eighth grade and future president of the United States of America. Here is a fellow so incredibly beloved and kind and charming and funny … that his teachers and friends’ parents would be aghast at the shrill volume of his disrespectful back-talk to me. If he was heard by the masses on a particularly bad day he’d find himself one lonely little boy indeed — because parents wouldn’t let this Talented Mr. Ripley within earshot of their own children. If they only knew…

I’d tell about our loss this year of our infamous Grandpa Eggo, my stepdad, and only remaining grandparent on my side of the family tree. Just shy of his 92 birthday, he was one hell of a hot ticket – and — a bonus — had Carl Fredericksen from the movie UP as his celebrity doppelganger. He looked JUST like him and THAT was hilarious. We got a lot of laughs out of his couple of years without my mom as a buffer but man, I’d have to admit that the old guy drove us batshit crazy much of the time. What’s worse: his death leaves a distinct hole in the lives of my siblings, for we are now forced to reconcile our simmering differences without a neutral zone of connection. Being a grown-up becomes acutely harder when you’re left to deal with the messy family stuff without parental referees.

I’d close my Christmas letter with the unthinkable confession that some of my happiest moments are the rare occasions when I pull into my driveway after work and the house is completely – silently – empty. For a short time until the chaos begins again, I am blissful.

But then, then … as my final admission, I’d confess there are unexpected moments that catch me off guard … when the house is quiet and — to the contrary — I am consumed by a wordless panic. My thoughts drift to a time soon to come when I’ll finally be without the video games and the wet towels and the beer cans and the fighting and the back-talk.

And my dread is paralyzing.

Funny how life knows when to give you a swift kick in the ass when you need it.

In those minutes of solitude and fear I somehow understand my personal charade. Perhaps I bitch and squawk so much … only to mask how crazy I may become without them?

And that’s the truth.

So anywho, even though I don’t send out Christmas letters … or Christmas photos (please. No-shave November is killing any chance of that; who wants multiple Wolverines in their family photo?) I do always reflect on my passing year, only in a warts-and-all kind of way.

Wouldn’t it be great if more people did the same?

Merry Christmas, dear friends and readers!