Tag Archives: Seth Rogen

A Momoir, Chapter 4: A Mom’s Plea to Seth Rogen: Enough with the Masturbation Already

rogen

I first realized my teenaged son was looking at porn when I innocently picked up his Ipod.  It wasn’t a cell phone.  It was – I thought – just a music player.  Remember those blissful days when you just didn’t know things?  I had no idea his shiny new birthday gadget connected to the internet.  At all.  I only became aware of its mystical powers when I moved it off the bathroom counter (that’s right:  in the bathroom.  Sigh.) and it suddenly turned on.  Well I’ll be, I thought, this isn’t Nickleback.  Just kidding. Of course I did the Mom Screech when I stumbled onto it but looking back all these years later, I guess it was more than a little amusing.

He was my firstborn son and thankfully, was pretty discreet about all things adolescence.  Trust me, I’d heard plenty of horror stories from friends about crunchy socks strewn on the floor and apocalyptic sheets stuffed into bottoms of hampers.  Really now, save for that wee bit o’ porn, I’d managed to get through the grossest stage of his young male development relatively unscathed.

But fast forward a few years.  Now my youngest two sons are teenagers and I’m about to lose it.  Don’t get me wrong.  They’re not heathens or sexual sociopaths or Jared Fogle wannabes.  They’re fine.  They’re just… well, I’ll say very comfortable in their almost-men skin.  And by this I mean sometimes-naked-almost-men skin … usually viewed as a blur …  running down a hallway … after a shower … because (naturally) … all the towels are still in their rooms.

At first I wanted to blame rap music.  You know, all those songs about so many hos, so little respect (you feel me, dog?).  Thanks to crude lyrics and really (really) bad swear words in every other line that they insist on belting out in my car, it’s clear my sons have become desensitized to offending their mom.  I resist the urge to constantly complain about their taste in music because (a) I know sounding like John Lithgow’s Reverend in Footloose would color me crazy and (b) looking back at some of the stuff I sang back in the 80s (um… Cocaine… Touch Me… White Lines… I Might Like You Better if We Slept Together… just to name a few off the top of my head) doesn’t really give me a steady leg to stand on.  But man, oh man, they are far from embarrassed in front of me.

Worse than the music they prefer are the movies they find hilarious.  It might be just a coincidence of scenes I’ve happened to walk in on, but I’ll be damned if Seth Rogen and his friends aren’t – you know (cough) releasing energy —  on any given weekend in my home.  And smoking (don’t say pot, Mom, it’s) weed.   Oftentimes in the same scene.

Gaaaack.  How are they not embarrassed to watch this in front of me?

What’s a mom to do?  Apparently (*shrugs) gather together for Sunday night family viewing of Game of Thrones.  When in Rome (or rather … Westeros…)

I appreciate the openness of our relationship, I really do.  It’s just colossally different than the relationship I shared with my own mom.  Good lord, like it was yesterday I can flash back to when she took us to see Jaws.  It was a double feature – and immediately after we were duly scarred for life of ever entering ocean waters again, the Deluxe Theater in Queens was showing the (at the time) risqué flick Lifeguard (ahem, for the young’uns:  a sexy, Baywatch-esque summer sleeper).  My sister and I sat like church mice, hoping my mom didn’t realize we were still there when the movie began.  Fat chance.  The steamy opening shot of suntanned boobies wasn’t on the screen a minute before she was yanking us out of our seats.

Dayum.  Different times for sure.

Ah well.  I suppose as parents we have to take the good with the mortifying, right?  While I’ve seen my share of blurry, hairy asses to last me a lifetime, my kids are also un-embarrassed to talk to me.  And I do love the ease in which conversations flow between my he-men and me.  I didn’t talk to my mom about anything R-rated, let alone which 8th grade girls were doing less-than-ladylike things in the back of a school bus.  Gawd, would you ever?  So I do try to keep an open mind (and my face from scrunching too tightly) when we do talk.  Our open dialogue isn’t always a laugh a minute and we’re far from yukking it up over condoms and opioid use.  Some of our chats see blips of discomfort (the school bus detail — good lord) but there’s never been a rock-paper-scissors shootout between my husband and me to see who’s Going There This Time.  I imagine if your kids are comfortable talking, any conversation’s a pretty damn good one, even a squirmy one.  It’s all good.

I’m still not a fan of those masturbation flicks (hell, maybe my inner fear of millennials living in my basement is at the root of that psychosis) but I guess it could be worse.  So, I’m sorry for the judgement, Seth Rogen, and really, no hard feelings.  I hope you’ll accept my olive branch (but seriously, can we talk about all those bongs…?)

 

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. 

 

 

 

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The Good, The Bad & the “Girls”

Girls_HBO_Poster

 

In my perpetual quest to remain hip I try to keep my eyes and ears open.  I sniff out emerging trends (Red jeans?  Of course!  Tucked into black boots? Hell no – Santa Alert) and admittedly, jump on a lot of late bandwagons (thank you, HBO OnDemand, for the perfection that is True Detective).

That said, after hearing my 17-year-old daughter gush over the HBO series “Girls,” a show about modern-day 20-something female friends trying to make their way in the world after college, I decided to give it a whirl.

I really didn’t care for it but she nudged me on.

I tried a few more episodes yet still got a weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach.  I told her I just wasn’t that into it.

“Maybe you’re just too old” she shrugged.

What?  Pffffft.  I think not.

Bolstered by a slew of Golden Globe nominations, I gave it yet another shot.  Still nothing.  Nary a chuckle.

I got through all 10 episodes of the entire first season and numbly thought of all the miles I could’ve clocked on my treadmill had I just gotten off the couch once in those five hours…

But I believe I’ve figured out why an undeniably hip show is eluding my undeniably hip sense of humor.

The female characters are crude.  Not in the Sex-and-the-City-Samantha-Jones cheeky kind of way but in a crass, Good-God-I-hope-my-daughter-doesn’t-do-that kind of way.

I get it.  It’s a comedy.  And I love comedy.  But the whole desensitization of really (really) private things seriously gives me the heebie jeebies.

Also, I’m not entirely convinced college educated young women are so  … I don’t know … self-loathing.  Their flippant banter about oral sex and office harassment left me wondering if young women really do talk like this. (I’m kinda hoping to hear from a few after this …   and I’m really hoping to be told I’m out to lunch.  If you’re young and hip and reading this – please check in!)

I remember feeling the exact same way when my oldest son (now a semi-grown man at 19) used to watch those man-cave scratching movies like “Knocked Up” and “Pineapple Express.”  Those movies made masturbation and getting stoned look like the epitome of hilarity.  And (worse) normalcy.  Poor, poor Seth Rogen’s mother …..

It finally dawned on me why these types of movies grate on my nerves and polarize me:  seeing these “characters” puts a face on my very vision of parental failing.  These larger than life portrayals of such flawed and unfazed youth are the stuff of my nightmares:  kids with no direction, no money, no motivation, and the worst:  no apartment of their own – Jesus Christ, they’re the scarlet letter symbolizing my utter failure as a mom.

No, no, NO!

I don’t want my kid spending his meager paycheck on weed.

And I’d rather die a thousand deaths than know my daughter was tolerating her boss’ hand on her skirt.

I honestly don’t know what I’d do – in real life – if these situations in these comedies were playing out in real time in my kids’ lives.   What I do know is that I would find it decidedly Unfunny.  (Quick aside:  for an EXTREMELY funny look at flawed — yet SUCCESSFUL — Generation X, Y, whatevers ….  check out “The Mindy Project” on FOX.  She just rocks, is all.)

So yeah, maybe I’m not as hip as I used to be.

Maybe I’m simply more scared.

Damn this parenting thing.

Signed,

Stifler’s Mother

 

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