Domestically Challenged

Tears of frustration filled my eyes
So home I went in tatters
And up to her soft bosom curled
Tell mama what’ the matter

I told her of food particles
That would not go away
White blankets that went in the wash
Emerge a dusky grey

Grilled cheese now forever stuck
Inside a frying pan
Wrinkled clothing that come out
Worse off than they began

Iron imprints, buttons melt
Mops dragged forth and back
My once was white linoleum
A deeper shade of black

And despite my best efforts still
The mold and mildew grows
You probably don’t even want
To ask me if I sew

Oh mother am I cursed? diseased?
Or am I just plain odd?
And so my mother fixed me with
A deep and knowing nod

Though I was 30 if a day
She sat me on her knee
And told me of the curse that runs
Deep in our ancestry

A handicap a deficit
A quite sad situation
A seeming lack of household skills
Passed on through generations

From dust on the log cabin walls
To sticky no wax floors
Unfortunate condition that
Appears to have no cure

It seems a lousy hand was dealt
I ask you where’s the fairness
Of this genetic defect which
I write to raise awareness

So as you come into my house
I ask you not to judge
The dirt that lingers on my fridge
The mirror that is smudged

Though no donations will be asked
Don’t say I did not warn ya
But if you truly want to help
The broom is in the corner


I’m So Cool

When my temps at 89 it’s like I got a fever
I’m so cool Andre 3000 keeps me in his freezer
I’m so cool in 1968 you’d call me groovy
I’m so cool that I wear my sunglasses at the movies

I’m so cool that I think that everything is lame
I’m so cool that Irony is my middle name
Deleted me on Facebook now that it’s run by The Man
I had to put it back up due to popular demand

I’m so cool that even Kanye has to say I’m great
I’m so cool I’m banned in 29 of 50 states
I’m so cool that recently I’ve had to lay to rest
Rumors of my pregnancy, my marriage and my death

I’m so cool I never break a sweat during the summer
I’m so cool Verizon doesn’t even have my number
I’m so cool I have a section reserved at the Met
But it’s always unoccupied since I ain’t been there yet

I’m so cool that Arthur Fonzarelli thinks I’m gifted
And I give to charities you never knew existed
And I’m so cool I have been known to call my mother ‘Man’.
I’m so cool that I don’t even know how cool I am


The Table

My mother loved that table which
She cleaned religiously
I do believe my mother loved
That table more than me

She kept it out of sunlight and
She kept it free from stains
And she would crank that heater up
Every time it rained

So that it’s wood face would not warp
And so we were not able
To take our dinners anywhere
But at the coffee table

And when we had some company
My mother she would hover
Putting coasters under drinks
A too attentive lover

And when they begged of her to sit
She would simply scoff
And stood above them as they ate
Holding dear her cloth

Although the table double wrapped
As if it was embalmed
And highly likely to survive
The next nuclear bomb

And days and years they did pass by
And I would soon discover
That table with care did hold up
Much better than my mother

One day we all did come around
By her bedside we’d stand
She summoned me up to her and
Pressed something in my hand

I looked down at the object there
I was somewhat astonished
To see she had bequeathed me with
Holy furniture polish

She said “Care for my baby please
The rags are in the drawer.”
And so she exhaled her last breath
And then she was no more

And so with intent to preserve
My mother’s memory
I thought I’d celebrate her with
An act of charity

I took a stroll on down the block
Into the unkempt digs
Of the woman living there
With 5 grubby faced kids

I saw one child’s dirty hands
Another eating glue
And told them all I have a gift
Especially for you.


A Fairly True Account Of Last Friday Night

Twas cold and cloudy so outside
Interminable wait
All for my child to perform
The hour it grew late

As I stood there shivering
So slowly passed the time
Suffering untuned guitars
Young children’s off key whines

When suddenly in front of me
My eyes would become locked
The women there before me had
A big bakery box

Which she promptly opened up
Before me she sat down
I saw it boasted the brand name
Of the best place in town

And when my eyes did catch the sight
I broke out in cold sweat
To see colossal layers dripping
In rich chocolate

My mind sped into over drive
With thoughts that would not cease
Of how I would insinuate
Myself to get a piece

But there was nothing I could say
And soon it became clear
That it would be my fate to watch
The whole cake disappear

With such eyerolls of pleasure from
Those who enjoyed it well
So suddenly I realized that
I must have gone to hell

So I dropped down to my knees
With great sorrow and grief
I promised God above I would
Turn over a new leaf

And asked him please to let this night
All just be a bad dream
And ask forgiveness for my sins
My soul to be redeemed

And somehow by some miracle
Damnation was prevented
Though some half eaten pieces left
(Don’t think I wasn’t tempted!!)

So now I try to just do good
And keep myself on track
For I have seen what hell is like
And I ain’t going back

A cold and dreary waiting room
With whining children plenty
And women who eat chocolate cake
And will not give you any

I would like to dedicate this post to Maida at Traversing Lines. I know you were trying to be optimistic but here is what my hellish Friday night was really like!! All for the kids, right?


Beauty Pageant Saboteur

I gave Ms. Texas dark chocolates
Til she broke out in zits
I told them that Ms. Washington
Had fake silicone tits

I hid Ms. Indiana’s weave
Under the floorboards buried
I sold out poor Ms. Idaho
And told them she was married

I gave Ms. Ohio wheat bread
So she broke out in hives
I told them all Ms. Illinois
Was really 25

I stained Ms. Texas’ evening gown
With red and orange spots
I ratted out Ms. Nebraska
Cause she was smoking pot

I hugged and kissed Ms. Florida
Until her make up smudged
I told them that Ms. Oregon
Was sleeping with a judge

I threw out Ms. Connecticut’s
Found pics of poor Ms. Michigan
Doing pornography

Told Georgia that her talent show
Jokes just weren’t funny
Decapitated Ms. Kentucky’s
Ventriloquist dummy

Went over judge’s questions and
I told them it was clear
That world peace and human rights
Just weren’t in this year

And so it came to judging time
I beat out all the rest
As they became disqualified
I won the whole contest

They talked about my victory
And what would be expected
I was to be a role model
Looked up to and respected

Give uplifting speeches and
Give help to charities
So maybe this whole pageant thing
Just isnt for me


Stupid of the Shrapnel Elevator

I say now wouldn’t it be grand
If we all could form band
Think of what they’ll say in school
They’ll probably think we’re really cool

We’ll go on all kinds of dates
And maybe get to second base
All we need is a cool foursome
And I’ll sing because I’m awesome

No one’s volunteered so far
So you can play the lead guitar
For our rockin’ entourage
If we can jam in your garage

And, what’s that? Can you say ew?
Stephen wants to join up too?
I hear he’s weird and he eats paste
Okay he can play the bass

My little bro rounds out the band
He cries and beats on pots and pans
And besides I’m pretty sure
That he can even count to four

And we’re soon to achieve fame
Once we have a cool band name
Straight from Band Name Generator
‘Stupid of the Shrapnel Elevator’

And now that we’re official rockers
We’ll graffiti the school lockers
Hang in halls without our passes
Refuse to remove our sunglasses

Wear all black and act like rebels
Say that we worship the devil
Bug our moms till they relent
And buy expensive instruments

That will all look really cute
We’ll pose with them in photo shoots
And we’ll be well prepared the day
We actually learn how to play.


Bubbe Madge

I’ve decided I should get
More in touch with my roots
To visit with my ancestors
In wild days of youth

And capture some of that good old
Inherited black magic
Digging through the boxes that are
Lying in my attic

Perhaps it was delirium
Maybe the mothball smell
But soon standing before me there
My Bubbe Madge herself

No waxing sentimental, no
From that she did refrain
And did what Jewish grandmas do
She started to complain

She asked if I was married yet
She asked me what he did
She asked me whether I had wed
A goyem or a yid

She asked me why it was I wore
Those short skirts like a shiksa
She asked me was I planning to
Get my son Bar Mitzvahed

She talked about her daughters and
She told me that truth
Was that she never really liked
Our poor old Aunt Ruth

She talked about her death and how
They thought it was a schtick
How her tombstone should really say
“I told you I was sick!”

And as she complained on and on
My vision became waves
And right before my very eyes
My Bubbe seemed to fade

And with relief I thought about
What I had heard and seen
And thankfully soon realized that
It had been a bad dream

Until I smelled a distinct smell
I sniffed until I found
A great big pan of kugel there
Upon my looking down

I saw the note she left and knew
My dream was much too real
It read, “Darling you look like you
Could use a decent meal.”