Tag Archives: house parties

Party On, Dude! Some Risky Business Happened at My House

tom cruise

You did it.  You got caught.


Your best friend did it.  She got caught.


My kid did it.  Oh, he totally got caught.




We left our house overnight and The Party happened.  You know, the pull-the-drapes-so-the-neighbors-don’t-see, call-in-the-masses and take-advantage-of-an-unsupervised- 24-hours kind of Party.


(I’m sure right about now Kristi and Schnidt are flashing back a few decades and howling with laughter.  Quite possibly Nancy is flashbacking to throwing up in my mother’s washing machine.  But I digress.)


Man, oh, man, these stories are so much more entertaining when someone else is telling them.


Naturally I became aware of The Party by the next morning.  The kids were duly distributed at friends’ homes and the house was supposed to be empty.  My oldest was leaving within hours after us for a work commitment.


Wouldn’t you know that work commitment had been cancelled?  Um, as a matter of fact, no, we didn’t know.  Because my son neglected to mention that.


Fortunately, my husband and I swing on opposite sides of the rage pendulum.  That’s a good thing.  We’d be on the DCF watch list for sure if we were both crazy pissed at the exact same time.  So while his fingers gripped the steering wheel during the two-and-a-half hour drive home and a steady mist of steam exited his ears, I naturally tried to offer perspective.


Didn’t we do it, too (because… doesn’t everybody)?  Didn’t we laugh, laugh, laugh when my sister walked in on teen Beer Pong in her own basement? Didn’t we kinda sorta expect this someday?


He seethed.


I reached.  Didn’t we have friends who would be relieved, even thrilled if their less-than-social kid threw a party?


He gripped the wheel tighter.


When we walked in, the house was empty.  The Guilty stayed away.


I expected to return to an immaculate home.


I did not.


Funny what make that rage pendulum swung back in my direction.


Apparently I’d shown my cards too soon with my litany of text messages to The Guilty (beginning with “REALLY?????”) because once The Guilty realized the jig was up ….  Apparently so was his attempt to cover up.


I found the curtains still closed.


I found the beer pong balls (that cackling you hear is coming straight from my sister’s house in Jersey).


I found the one (because hello, there’s always ONE) lone bottle cap wedged under the counter stool.


I found that every one of my towels was used for the hot tub.  (This ticked me off immeasurably since a few of my luxurious — cough, borrowed —  Carnival Cruise Lines beach towels have gone missing.)


I found the Red Solo cups neatly stacked … yet still sitting on the counter.


I found the bag of empties, smartly collected, yet (stupidly) placed in full view with the recycling.


I found toast still in the toaster, egg shells in the sink and overflowing dirty dishes.  (I’m fairly certain these have nothing to do with The Party but seriously.)


I found that The Guilty is either the dumbest kid in the stratosphere … or the laziest.


And I can’t for the life of me decide which is worse.


I tried to pin the coincidental breakdown of the washing machine on him. While the repairman worked, I sipped my coffee and told him my story, fully disclosing that I was anxious to see if the awful grinding sound was a haphazard load of hot tub towels gone awry.  When he handed me a sock that had lodged in the pump, my dreams of a magic bullet were squashed.


So I was steamed.  And there were consequences.  And it is very (VERY) unlikely that it will happen again (she says with fingers crossed and sister laughing).


But there were no damages.


And no police helicopters ala Project X.


And no Guido the killer pimp.


And nobody went running naked through my neighborhood (surely they would have been covered in fluffy cruise line towels).


And well, clichés happen.



I do love how stories like these bring out even greater ones.  On the Monday morning following The Party I went into work still reeling a little.


My laughing co-worker immediately told me her best story (for we all have one) of her brother and herself throwing ridiculous parties all throughout high school — until the one time it got completely out of control.  They met in the bathroom and made the decision to call the cops on their own party.



Called the cops on themselves.   How great is that?


See?  There is always a better story out there somewhere.








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Read any good books lately?  Start one here:  A Collection Of Eyerolls:  A Momoir




Chapter 1, Click here:   https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/07/29/a-collection-of-eyerolls-chapter-1-yes-billy-joel-we-will-all-go-down-together/


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/



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. 


You Should Never Argue with a Crazy Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma, You Ought to Know By Now…




I had four kids in seven years and right about now’s the time when that little stroke of brilliant timing (or lack thereof) is kicking me in the ass.   My youngest is 13 (I just watched him eat twice since dinner ended.  No.  Wait.  He here comes again…) and my oldest will be 21 in a few weeks (he believes that anything in the ballpark of that number gives him the green light to crack open beers in his room. Then throw the empties under his bed.  Yeah.  I may be down to three kids soon.  I  digress…).  Throw in a 15-year-old (who spends more time grooming himself than his five family members combined) and a free-your-mind, what’s-the-big-deal, 19-year-old college sophomore (who has yet to meet a house rule that “makes sense” to her) and you can see why I’ve gotten a bit testy this summer.


In a nutshell, I’ve got a crew of kids coming and going at all hours, eating incessantly and displaying less-than-favorable teenage behavior, all while leaving a trail of clothes-dishes-wrappers-towels-slop in their wake.  It’s making me see a shade of red which far surpasses the sunburn on my side boob (because really, isn’t there always that one spot you miss?).


Eventually though, somewhere in the dog days of summer (like now), when I have tripped over my final straw of strewn sneakers, my testiness turns into rage.


When my good nature is taken advantage of – I won’t sugarcoat – I get pissed.  I start to reflect on the good life I provide for them.  Then I think about all the cooking and cleaning I do, as if I’m running on some sort of masochistic hamster wheel.  Then I begin to fixate on all the things they don’t do (if only that damn dog didn’t don his invisibility fur all summer maybe, just maybe they would know he’s here!).  Then, finally, when I realize my simple house rules are broken to the point of parental ridicule, well then I become incensed.


Psycho Mom used to make an appearance during times like these.  She’d rant and rave and carry on like a crazy woman and take away electronics and ground any kid in her peripheral and maybe in time she’d regain control for a little while longer. These tactics still work for the teens; I’ve duly hidden my boys’ X-box until their summer reading is finished and one kid’s already lost his phone for the entire summer for being a dum-dum.  But as kids become older sometimes the game rules have to change.  If you’re raising your young adults like I am (see my 5 tips from an earlier post), your kids are already making financial contributions to your household.   It’s hard to ground a kid who’s driving around in his own car that’s insured by his own dollars.  Tricky indeed.


So now Ball-Buster Mom pops by instead to take over the disciplinary reins.  Example:


My husband and I recently took our two youngest away for the weekend, leaving the two young adults at home to proceed with their employment obligations, take care of the invisible dog and well, act like responsible young adults.  Left behind with them was a litany of clear (VERY clear) instructions and expectations.

About that…


I won’t bore with the details (hell, I’ve already been to this rodeo and have written about it here) but let’s just say that within six seconds of entering my home upon our return, the young adults were busted.


Friends staying over without our knowledge, approval or consent?  Check.  Partying like it was 1999?  (Despite your insistence to the contrary, that one little bottle cap under the toaster oven screams otherwise, so…again) Check.



So the guilty were charged accordingly.  Since they both used my home like a hotel room, they were each made to ante up the cost of one: $125 a piece.


As a receipt for their weekend play, they were given full disclosure and sage advice:  Should it ever happen again they’d likely be charged quadruple that amount and would find themselves on the needy side of some pretty hefty finances.  Last I checked, those student loans had co-signers on them.  Just sayin’.



So Ball-Buster Mom made $250.


She’s probably going to put it aside and use it to get to Long Island in September when her high school reunion takes place.  Then she’ll tell everyone this story and yuk it up with all her old friends who did the exact same thing back in the day.





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” first on her list of achievements.  She takes on cyberspace @Eyerollingmom  and Eyerollingmom.