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Kids, In Case of Emergency Um, Find a Printer?

I recently went on vacation out of the country. As if the stress of wrapping up work, packing, losing 15 pounds and organizing international paperwork wasn’t bad enough, I found panic and anxiety creeping in as the days ticked off to departure.

It was unavoidable: God Forbid mode was setting in.

Now, I’m not typically a person concerned with planes nosediving into the ocean. Quite the contrary. Despite being a fangirl of Lost I keep my faith firmly rooted in engineering and science and pilots. I choose fascination over fear when it comes to air travel (window seats always!) and feel flying generally works out for the majority of us. So it definitely wasn’t that. But reality and what ifs loomed heavy in my racing mind: being in a foreign land – with the time difference a half day ahead in the future from any point – I started to worry. I’ve seen many a Dateline. I suppose a lot could happen. Damn you, Keith Morrison.

I realized quite terrifyingly that – God forbid – if anything ever happened to my husband and me my adult kids would have zero idea about anything. I mean absolutely nothing. Face it. Their generation has lived primarily paper-free, with all their immediate needs and necessities accessible right in their pockets. They’ve barely touched paper money. The idea of a master file of, I don’t know, important documents, might likely be incomprehensible to them.

I needed to get my act together before that passport got stamped.

I shudder at the memory of cleaning out my mother’s house when she was dying. There was stuff everywhere. Papers tucked into nightstands; stacks of mail bound by brittle rubber bands in shoeboxes piled high in the closet; important deeds sprinkled in with toaster oven instructions and my grandfather’s army discharge papers. If her bedroom was her hidden-in-plain-sight salt mine, her filing cabinet was a Narnia wardrobe to decades gone by. Day after day of shredding every phone bill from 1991 and squinting to decipher handwritten notes and faded ink left me adamant: never would my children ever have to go through this nightmare.

So I started off hot. As soon as I returned home from her funeral I went through my own files and tossed out all the junk and nonsense. I have four kids; there was a lot of nonsense. I managed to collect everything of importance into one lone box, hauled my own filing cabinet to the dump and felt pretty good. Then I forgot all about it.

As my trip neared, it dawned on me that none of my kids knew this box existed, let alone that there might be fairly crucial things to glean from its contents. Good grief, they didn’t even know my trusty hiding spot for the spare house key. Ohmygod, I panicked, we might be fkkkkked. I sat down and started frantically typing out account numbers and insurance policies and contacts and listings of bills on autopay and – right??? Who’s kicking herself for never having done this?

I debated who to send my missive, aptly titled, Important Information. Should it be my eldest son? I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t paid his parking tickets from three years ago. He might be a fugitive. He was out. My daughter? She still calls her dad when the check engine light comes on and she’s across the country. Let me think about that one. The youngest? He’s finishing college so is technically the only one still living home … but he’s literally in the emergency room getting stitched up from stupidity every few months so that’s a hard no. Forget the middle son. I think he still keeps his social security number written on a tiny scrap of paper in his wallet.

My daughter won the short straw and let me be clear, she was not amused. She reacted to the email immediately.

Why are you sending me this? was her curt response.

Just in case, I replied, adding in a fingers-crossed emoji.

I felt better. My husband asked if I’d also sent any of them our flight information. Bless his heart. As if any would ever track our departure or even have a clue what day we’d return. I finished my doomsday to-do list by writing farewell love texts to all my loved ones, took a deep breath and went far, far away with a little peace of mind.

Spoiler alert, we returned home safe and sound. I have every bit of confidence my daughter never even glanced at the contents of the hot potato email but that’s okay. It was hastily thrown together and (rubs hands together) I know I can make it better.

No doubt my kids will be super excited at the idea of more paper.

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!)

In Memoriam: Waving Goodbye to Resolutions

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I overheard an *expert (of what I couldn’t say) on a morning show the other day. This being the week between Christmas and New Year’s, the program was filled with pre-recorded, blathery end-of-year stuff. Round-ups, Best-Ofs, Top-Grossings blah-blah blah. But I did hear one statement and it’s stuck with me. The mystery expert said focusing so much on a new year and making grand resolutions only indicates that you’re considering the previous year a failure, essentially listing all the things, goals and good intentions that weren’t done.

I liked that.

I think it’s fairly common to do a personal year in review assessment and get a little bummed out at all the negative things that sprung up. I was definitely headed in that direction.

So many amazing and wonderful and awesome and fun times happen throughout the year yet we get to December and only focus on the weight gain or the people that don’t like us anymore or an unfulfilling job or the books we didn’t read. Why is it easier to cling to the bad stuff? Maybe because it’s the ugly stuff that keeps us up at night. It’s so, so wrong.

We’ve got to allow the good stuff to linger longer. Keep that dopamine flowing, people!

I’m going to start here. I’m turning my resolutions into respect.

My resolution of I’m going to write more this year (I only wrote five original pieces this year; for a creative soul, this is crushingly disappointing) is changing to Girl, you only wrote five things this year and one of those was nationally published! That’s 20% of all your shttttt! You go!

My resolution of I’m going to get to the gym more is changing to Girl, the weather was so great this week you hit your 10k steps every day without ever having to walk into that sweaty nasty-ass building! Boom!

My resolution of I’m going to eat healthier this year is changing to Girl, look at you! You tossed out way less from that produce bin than you did last week! Ca-ching!

Things like that.

And instead of bemoaning all the sad things that got me down this year I’ll give a beautiful eulogy to all the things that left me:

Gone: Another Kid to Adulting

I know I yapped up a big storm when my next kid was flying the coop this summer. I was looking forward to his new adventure as well as my own. The update on that humble brag is that most days life is actually super quiet and tedious as an empty nester. So many things are different: cooking, not running the dishwasher, sleeping with the bedroom door open. It really kinda sucks. But those days pale in comparison to the moments when I see the pictures of the roommate Sunday dinners and the visiting friends hiking together and all the adulting at work that NEVER happened under my roof. It’s making our upcoming family vacation all the more special since we’re all coming from our different corners to be isolated together for a whole week. CanNOT wait.

Gone: A Zillion Friends

It’s all good, we’re all throwing dirt on this coffin. This was my year for going from Being Friends to Being Friendly with a lot of people. Maybe it has something to do with the Slo-Mo Death of Facebook, something our kids have known all along, but which adults are a little slower on the uptick. To quote a friend, “Ugh, my Facebook feed is super boring now.” Yep. Gal, that is universal. Now that we’ve all deleted our once-submerged-but-now-surfaced political kook friends, and multi-level-marketer pals and the randos we only connected with after our high school reunion, we’ve all come to the realization we really do prefer an intimate circle of people who genuinely care about us. We are all in good company on this one. Being friendly can never be considered a bad thing.

Gone: My Self Respect

I became a fangirl of the show Sex Lives of College Girls this year, which is funny because I am neither a college girl nor even a mom to one. I boldly do not care. My husband, who will watch eight uninterrupted hours of football or Steely Dan documentaries, expressed concern but I still don’t care. The show, having zero to do with my actual life, cracks me up and that’s that. This has subsequently rekindled my obsession with Mindy Kaling (you know her from The Office but I know her as Girl Boss of All the Things). I listen to her books while walking and binge The Mindy Project reruns every night because I laugh out loud. My biggest absurdist dream is that one day Mindy Kaling stumbles onto my work and discovers I’m almost as funny as she is, so every now and then I tag her in a tweet and pray that she notices. Shame, out the window.

But my devotion to Mindy has unwittingly brought me a gift. As the days turned darker (damn, New England, you be grey!) I’m laughing more now. I’ve switched from true-crime podcasts to humor memoirs (laughing aloud while all alone keeps people at a distance-another bonus!) And I’ve found that laughter does indeed boost my spirits. So when I miss my kids or the air outside is frigid or I’m sad about my sister I turn to the funny to turn things around. My husband now joins and we sit, bingeing and laughing together and momentarily forgetting it’s just the two of us. It’s nice.

So while I won’t be making any resolutions, I’ll try to be more mindful of the bad takes I could definitely kick to the curb, not because it’s a new year but because I’ve realized some habits are draining me (looking at you, SCROLLING). Really, how necessary are the endless stoooooooooopid video reels of people cleaning toilets and throwing blocks of cream cheese into crock pots and folding sweaters the right way gahhhhhhhhhhh! Just. Stop. It. Getting sucked into the vortex of wasted time is one major habit I am definitely going to work on.

So Happy New Year friends, but more importantly, Happy Old Year! We’ve had 365 days of smiles, tears, hellos and goodbyes. How lucky we are to experience all of it!

(And Mindy, if you’re reading this … call me!)

The Holy Grail of Happiness (or The Best Thing About (Maybe) Moving)

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My husband & I decided to put our house on the market.

We don’t have to sell it but there was a time not too long ago that we almost did. Our beloved perfect home came with a hefty price tag all those years ago and frankly, the mortgage is a big nut each month. Always has been. When my husband lost his job for a bit of time a couple of years ago, we watched in trepidation as that nut grew into an entire tree, leaning and inching closer to our heads and blocking out the sun with every week of a missing paycheck. Going through financial duress while your kids are all going through college is not for the weak, trust me.

Things eventually turned around but that murky fear of what if they don’t really never has been forgotten. It’s always simmering, bubbling beneath even the happiest of times. So, while we’re in a stable place right now we decided to test the real estate waters and see if anyone else thinks this place is the bomb, too. Besides, who doesn’t dream about downsizing?

We’ll soon see how that goes but that really isn’t my point in divulging this news. Hell no. Instead I am here to publicly proclaim that, because of this experience, I have discovered the Holy Grail of Happiness. Are you ready? Have you gathered ‘round closer? Got your readers on?

I implore you to heed my next four words:

Throw. Out. Your. Shit.

I’m not even kidding; the results will astound you.

When we decided to unload our adored albatross we set up a five-month plan for ourselves:

Month 1: Purge.

We scheduled Goodwill pickups every month and got to work decluttering. Heavenly gods of garbage, we had no idea how bad it was (truth: one never does). We emptied out cabinets that were filled with glassware from our 1990 engagement party, plastic cups from every concert venue on the eastern seaboard and beer cozies from every pub giveaway ever grabbed (my gawd, there’s been a lot of beer in our lives and apparently it’s very important to keep it chilled at all times). We gathered all the rarely used kitchen gadgets and duplicate cookware (sorry, five friends who once left behind a long-forgotten Pyrex pie plate, all have found another home) and threw them in the pile, too. Banished were the bridal shower bedsheets and boxed up were the dusty dorm duvets. It was a start.

Month 2: (Purge and) Patch.

We kept purging (sayonara, stacks of children’s books and outdated leather trench coats) but we also started repairing all the yuck. You know yuck. Yuck is all the nasty-ass things around your home that have become part of the scenery you’ve been ignoring for years. We fixed the crack in in the ceiling we’ve stared at for more than a decade. We patched up walls where little elbows had crashed through the years and smoothed plaster where ninja noggins had bounced. We cleaned up the scuffs where tiny karate kicks had landed and continued to shell out piles of money to fix things no one would ever notice. No lie, this sucked. Like fixing your muffler.

Month 3: (Purge and Patch and) Paint.

Yes, of course we kept purging. It became a Marie Kondo challenge of epic proportions, getting rid of cheerleading trophies and participation ribbons for any spelling bee, geography bee and instructional swim class my kids ever experienced. Seriously, it was absolutely ridiculous. (You too, right? WHYYYYYY???) But now it was time to spruce things up. We repainted the tired walls of handprints going up each staircase and touched up the bannisters to their original regal state. We spiffed up the porch, the doors, the treads and the trim. My husband then tossed together every forgotten partial gallon of paint that had been neglected in the basement and created a new color. He rolled it onto the basement floor and gave it a crisp, clean facade. My friend/realtor was impressed (a clean and organized basement tells potential buyers you take care of your things—who knew?) but my husband was merely on a mission to get those paint cans gone.

Month 4: (Purge and Patch and Paint and) Pack.

HELL YESSSSS we kept purging. Why did I save every single report card from every single semester for every single kid? Because we all do, that’s why. While not as bad as some of my friends (I did not, like one, save baby teeth #gag), I duly saved everything else like most moms. I carefully sorted through a filing cabinet of homemade Mother’s Day cards, second grade artwork, pediatrician growth forms, prom mementos and a plethora of keepsakes my now-adult children wouldn’t care to look at twice. No joke: it was incredibly hard tossing away all those sentiments of time flown but most of it was silly, even by mom standards. We packed our most-cherished memories (no teeth) into meticulously labeled rubber totes and stacked them neatly in the basement (you know, on the nice painted floor).

Month 5: (Purge and Patch and Paint and Pack and) Prepare.

When all that was done (ahead of schedule – it really is amazing how addicted you become to Throwing. Shit. Out.) we started staging the house. In simpler terms this means eradicating all evidence that you ever actually lived there. Spoiler alert: this was the toughest part. Amazing and happy framed photos of my whole family adorn walls in every room of our home. Even the bathroom. To remove each one and carefully encase it in bubble wrap, not knowing when — or where — it would come back out, was torture. And it screamed of finality. Wait. Are we really doing this? Are we sure? Really?

Man, I hated that.

So now we wait. We have no idea where we’ll go or what we’ll do if it does sell but I will say, the whole endeavor has given my better half & me a lot of opportunity to chat … and muse … and dream … and ponder what our next life adventure will be. We’re in the second act of our sitcom life and it’s not such a bad thing having another common interest after 30-plus years together. We spend weekends creeping at Open Houses and put homes on our Please Wait for Us List … only to dutifully cross them out when they get snatched up and move to our Ones That Got Away List.

It’s all good.

Even better, should others somehow not find our organized basement so appealing, we’ve already committed to a Plan B: unpacking some bubble wrap and staying put for a little while longer in our spit-shined, shit-free home. With this view. Definitely not so bad.

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.

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A friend shot me a note the other day which read simply, “Can you please write a blog about boys pissing on the toilet seat? To which I immediately replied:

“No, but I can write one about boys pissing into cups and Gatorade bottles and leaving them in their bedrooms … and then hurling them out the window when their mom loses her shit over finding them.”

(My friends know: this is 100% truth and the reason my husband will not drink out of plastic cups anymore.)

Honestly. So many stories still untold. It’s like the Naked City – only there’s usually actual nakedness (because boys step over all the wet towels already on the floors).

There’s a reason why all these gems float around my head and never make it to the page. I’ve found myself in that interesting yet ironic state of Perpetually Pissed and Profoundly Proud Parenting: when my entire emotional state fluctuates between one extreme and the other.

Kids cause that.

I don’t know what to write about half the time because by the time I’m done revealing reasons of happiness or reflection I usually want to throat punch someone.

If you think about it, it’s a pretty remarkable paradox. And no matter the ages of my kids, and despite how many times I remind myself that much of what now happens in life is out of my hands, these kids still have complete control over which way that pendulum swings.

My 3^rd kid just graduated high school and of course, it was the momentous, magnificent whirlwind of ceremony it should have been. (Disclaimer: this coming from a mom who has repeatedly deemed graduating high school No Big Deal). But the Kid did alright. Acceptance into a damn good school, a couple of nice scholarships and a bona fide bang-up senior year chock full of awesome memories. My heart’s been full for seemingly months at a go and I will not lie, it’s been a fine, fine time for us.

Welp. My boast balloon burst as soon as I got the text message at work asking if I’d left him a template for the Thank You cards he was writing following his grad party. A template. Followed by his query, “How do I address an envelope?” Good God. Off to college he goes?

To quote a very agitated tween, I just can’t even.

Bringing up the adolescence rear in our household, my youngest, too, turned his sophomore year into an impressive array of academic and athletic accolades. Really, he’s the Mayor. So adored. So praised. But it is astounding that he hasn’t yet choked on the ridiculously short leash we have him on due to all the stupid choices he keeps making. He seems to keep forgetting he is our fourth child and we have seen this movie. And we know how it ends. Lather, rinse, repeat.

To quote another very agitated tween, SMH.

But wait — the Jeckyll and Hyde of emotions isn’t just limited to the confines of my home anymore either, for even chicks that have flown my coop (some states may refer to them as “adults”) are adept at keeping my angst ablaze.

Like … my oldest, off in his first apartment (yay!), carrying a full-time job AND full-time school course load (hooray!), excitedly bragging about booking flights for his first “grown-up vacation” (wow!) … which he planned … on the very weekend of his sister’s college graduation. Are you kidding me?

Or … my daughter (she of the above reference) … announcing upon said graduation (pride!) that to begin her first job (congrats!) she would be driving cross country (what?) … to Utah (ummmmmmm) … alone (whaaaaaat???) … and … not to worry .. because everything will be fine…

(End note: in the end, she did not. Only due to sheer logistics, not parental pleas. Naturally.)

Sigh. Remember when we thought baby colic and constipation were a thing?

A very wise friend once declared “Little kids, little problems.”

These aren’t problems, I know. Merely slices of life that keep that damn pendulum swinging.

Parents already know: life is pretty damn amazing (and hilarious and heartbreaking and unmatched) dodging that damn thing.

My wrinkles (and wine bloat and grey hair) notwithstanding, I know wouldn’t trade a day of it. I mean, come on, they are kinda funny.

# # #

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in HuffPost. She appeared in the 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 & @Eyerollingmom on Instagram. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here

Happiness Is Doing What Your Mama Says (even after she’s gone)

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My mom died five years ago today.

I’ve spent the past four anniversaries of her passing confounded by the shock and awe that goes into the passage of time. I wrote about it last year, and the year before that, and so on. I’ve always focused on my kids because – truly — nothing is a greater catalyst for maternal awareness than grief and loss. It halts us: little boys sprouting facial hair and muscled man-limbs in the blink of an eye, teenage girls blossoming into fascinating young women (with – eek! – boyfriends) and the dizzying commitments on calendar pages that keep us busier and busier (and busier…) with each passing year. If only we had a dollar for every friend to lament, “Where did the time go?” on a post or picture. It happens every day.

I think this year, though, I’m feeling different. I’m certainly still amazed by the quickness of time (and yes, I am still in disbelief that I can now legally grab a beer with 50% of my children). But I’m finding as time moves on, I am less paralyzed by the passage of it and more accepting of the presence – and present — of it. I like it. I really, really like knowing – and even not knowing – something’s coming ahead. This slight shift in my personal paradigm keeps me excited and hopeful for the future, even on the down days.

Graduations. Colleges. Engagements. Professions. A stubborn boy’s long hair FINALLY getting chopped … There is so much greatness going on at every turn of our lives, and so much promise, it’s almost unfair not to be happy. I have to be honest: if my mom ever caught wind that there was anything other than joy where her grandkids are concerned, she would be one pissed chick.

So while I miss her like crazy, I can’t often stay sad for more than a moment or two. That’s just not how she rolled.

I’ve no doubt part of my mind shift came with turning 50 this year.

50.

Holymutherfkkingsh*t, right? How the effing hell did that happen? I’m pretty sure I can still dig up my tee-shirt that boasts “We work less and party more, cuz we’re the class of ’84.” Seriously, this is something. A lot of reflection comes with that magic number. I remember planning my mom’s 50^th surprise party. We crammed all her friends into my tiny newlywed apartment and basically threw her a keg party. She didn’t drink beer but we did, and as far as entertaining, okay, we knew little else. It worked. She was elated – and equally annoyed: she had just become a grandmother and was none too happy that her little baby Jesus didn’t make it to her kegger. Still, she was surrounded by love. And was until the end.

On these anniversaries I think of the friends my mom left behind and I am so, so sad for them to be going on without her. I know profoundly the void they feel.

She taught me well. Like her, I’ve become adept at insulating myself with friends who care deeply for me, friends I would do anything for in return. Most are a phone call away. Others, a car ride. One, a plane ride taken on a moment’s notice.

Growing up, I used to read Erma Bombeck all the time. I loved the stuffing out of her. During winter break of my senior year of college I came across her column in the New York Daily News entitled “No Greater Friend Than a Best Friend.” I clipped it and held onto it for a couple of months and then mailed it in a birthday card to Kristi, my best friend since 5^th grade. There was rarely a time we were ever living in the same state together for very long. Kristi held onto it for almost a decade, then sent it back to me in a card for my 30^th birthday. I framed the yellow newsprint and sent it back her way when she turned 40.

Naturally it made its way back to me a few months ago.

It’ll hang on my wall for another ten years until, well, you get it.

How unfathomably fortunate that I have a 40-year friendship going strong?

How impossibly amazing for my mom to be the subject of such beautiful memories for so many?

How ridiculously wrong that my own children didn’t plan my 50^th festivities??? (I kid, I kid. I masterfully controlled every detail.)

I think about her every day but I honor her today.

You’re on so, so many minds today, Mom.

Cheers and love.

xoxo

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.

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

Home Sweet Hope

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I have loved every place I have ever lived, which is a little weird because I probably really (really) shouldn’t have.

In college, weeks before the start of my junior year, I got word that my two-bedroom apartment – my first foray out of the juvenile dormitories and into supersonic (yet perceived) adulthood — had burned to the ground. Room mates scrambled to find housing and I ended up sharing a dismal studio apartment where — for an entire semester — I shared equal time on a couch or the floor. Dormitories be damned: it was awesome. For real. My friend Betsy and I bonded like sisters, mastered extremely covert one-night stands and politely replenished the communal TV Guide and pack of Parliaments that adorned the coffee table. It was bliss.

After I’d gotten married I was equally excited about my newlywed apartment and why not? I had a queen-sized mattress for the first time in my life and my beauty needs always trumped those of my newest room mate. That tiny bathroom was mine. The apartment was so small I don’t believe I even noticed that my shiny new toaster oven took up the only patch of counter space I had in the walk-in kitchen (not to be confused with the dimensions of a spacious walk-in closet. A walk-in kitchen is precisely that: once you walk in, you can’t walk out if a person has come in after you).

My first house was right out of the book (the book of course being entitled You Might Want to Keep Looking). Gaudy, garish and situated between a junk yard and a train station that — professionally enough — had been bypassed by our savvy realtor every time we visited. Didn’t matter; it was our little slice o’ heaven. We embraced the avocado green appliances and did what every other first homeowner did: filled it with cheap furniture (bought on credit, twelve months no interest), pretended to really (really) like the 80s-inspired mauve-and-sage green color scheme and painted a nursery in pastel colors. There were slugs in the basement (to this day I cannot comprehend how they were getting in), there was paneling on the walls and we were happy.

When we said farewell to our families and fled to the beauty of New England, we fell under the enchantment of the (cue in heralding angels singing) New Construction. There was no garage (not unusual in these parts), there was only one full bathroom and it was blindingly vanilla. Cheap (white) Formica, cheap (white) linoleum, cheap (kinda white) walls and we barely even noticed the poor quality of construction. It was our own little Cape Cod castle and we were thrilled. We dumped a pool into the ground, threw up some outdoor speakers, invited friends up the entire summer long and partied like rock stars. It was our fun house. The house that found TV stardom on a makeover show. “Don’t touch our tile floor,” we pleaded. But they did. And we didn’t care. Our home was brimming with laughter and babies and milestones and debt and I thought we’d stay in it forever.

Alas, life beckoned. We needed to keep paying the bills so off we went again, only this time into a whole new world. We got a true taste of luxury when life directed us to a beautiful college town outside of Charlotte, North Carolina. Fate found us riding the real estate wave full-throttle into a lush golf course community and ginormous brick home. We went from having no garage to three. There were hardwood floors and media rooms and bathrooms for every person old enough to wield a Lysol disinfecting wipe. There were pools and socials and Bunco and chardonnay on the deck through November and it was nice. Really nice. But somehow it didn’t feel like home. Something was missing. We jumped at the first opportunity to transfer back and were heading home within ten months; amidst all the grandeur and greenery we didn’t even last a year.

So back to New England we came. And once again I love my house. There’s no rockin’ pool and there’s no drinking wine outside after say, August, and man, oh man, we are forever with plumbing issues (because there is never going to be a septic system big enough for the things that unfathomably exit boys-to-men bodies) but I just love it. It’s a pretty house. And it’s big enough for our family of six and all of our out-of-state visitors and it’s felt like home ever since our first night on air mattresses. That we’ve been here ten years still catches my breath some days.

I’m not the first person to realize that a house with crowds of friends beats out a house with crown moldings every time. And I know I’m not the only daughter who decided that an airplane ride back to her own mother was entirely too much distance. And I certainly won’t be the last homeowner to express indigestion over an albatross of a mortgage.

But I do know that, without question, at this particular moment in my life, I am in my favorite home. Ever.

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

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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.

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. 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!

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was just featured in the 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. –

Forever & Always: an 80s Kinda Gal

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I have to admit (though if my kids were to miraculously start reading my blog I’d feign dementia) that as hip as I am (that’s right) I am, at times, well, a little lame. In fact, I’m actually all sorts of lame for a variety of reasons.

For starters, I totally fake my way through the French words in “Lady Marmalade.” I know….seriously. (Hypocrite lame?)

I am vain to a fault, having worn lipstick through four childbirths (a subtle mauve) and also popped every blood vessel in my eyes because I made sure my contacts were in, too. (Insecure lame?)

I have never seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” (Uncool lame?)

I think tattoos are a really bad idea on most body parts (unless you’re planning on being perpetually nineteen and skinny … then I stand corrected). (Judgemental — or jealous — lame?)

I can’t text without using proper punctuation (naturally it takes me five times longer because finding the apostrophes is always troublesome). (Grammar Nazi lame?)

I loathe baking. The only reason I even own a rolling pin is because one holiday season a neighbor creatively attached one to an invitation to a cookie swap and stuck it in my mailbox (of course prompting my immediate response What the hell is a cookie swap?) (Lazy lame?)

But perhaps my lamest admission is that I really (really) heart the 80s. (Aqua Net lame?) I spent my adolescence, my college years and my Melanie-Griffith-Working-Girl stage in that decade so who can blame me? John Hughes movies, white zinfandel pinkish-pretend wine, grocery shopping in track suits … (oh wait, maybe that last thing was just Long Island …). It was just a funny time – so big and brash and booming. The best.

Lately my friend Theresa and I have been debating the Worst. Song. Ever. Whenever we think of one we text it to each other (properly punctuated on my end). So, while I’m sitting at the Macaroni Grill and my phone beeps, I’ll look down and all I’ll see is “Raspberry Beret.”

I crack up.

And when she’s waiting at a practice field, her phone lights up and displays “99 Luftballoons.”

It’s been going on for a couple of months now and I’ve just realized that all of the songs we’ve been using are 80s tunes.

“Eye of the Tiger”

“China Girl”

“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” (my God, I think I just threw up a little in mouth just typing that one)

“(I’m Only) Human” (man, I hate that one)

“Shy, Shy” (funny: just texting the name Kajagoogoo alone is worth sending…)

Still good stuff.

Just some really (really) lame music.

And it was all played a couple of weeks ago at my high school reunion (I can’t even begin to go there yet because I’m still processing the visuals from it).

Maybe soon though.