I Don’t Feel Like Blogging Today…

I don’t feel like blogging today,

Don’t feel like being witty,

I thought of the things that I might say,

And nothing’s sounding pretty.


I don’t feel like blogging today,

Not feeling inspiration,

I looked at the calendar and it said,

I’m due for a blog vacation.


I may just sit on the couch all day,

And pretend that I’m a queen,

Who has nothing better to do with her time,

Than watch Oprah and read magazines.


I may take the kids out to the park,

But whatever’s in my future,

I can guarantee that it won’t be,

Spent at some dumb computer.


You can’t get me to do it,

No matter what you say,

Nohow, no who, nowhere no way,

You’re gonna see me blog today.


Write! (Two Poems)


Wake up in the night feeling inspired,

Walk around the next day blissfully tired,

Release my thoughts to a sea of bloggers,

Only to find they are barely acknowledged.

But those thoughts couldn’t be kept in side of my head!

Sure as I’m alive, they needed to be said!

And this is a fact that is indisputable

Based on that one person that might say, “That’s beautiful.”



The Metamorphosis of A Writer

Who can I be today?
Maybe a child out to play?
Or maybe I’m a bit depressed
And you won’t see me at my best.

Maybe I’m a single girl
Breaking hearts around the world
Or will I make you think twice?
Like a prophet giving sage advice?

Scathing and bitter my words may strike
As you hesitate to comment much less like
Or attempts at humor that may be
Dismissed as nothing more than silly.

Maybe I’m a mother so filled with adoration
Or a fellow writer giving inspiration
Or maybe I hit on something real
That makes you say “That’s EXACTLY how I feel!”

And so Oz-like, the curtains part
And though you wait with beating heart
And steel yourself with bated breath…
You see a housewife at her desk.



Shel Silverstein, Where Have You Gone?

When I was in elementary school, there was a newsletter that came out called ‘The Headliner’ where children could submit poems. For me it was never a question of whether to submit, but rather what to submit.

Then a writer came along who validated everything I thought I knew about writing. He told me to create something no matter how crazy, he told me there could be magic in a puzzle piece lying on the sidewalk.

images-5If you Google Shel Silverstein’s ‘The Giving Tree’, you will find that countless people have tried to analyze it. There are religious connotations, environmental interpretations, and even some sickos who see the boy and the tree as having a sadomasochistic relationship. I think Shel Silverstein was just trying to show us love.

But, looking back on that book, after all these years, I think Shel Silverstein is The Giving Tree. His words, the fruits and branches that we delighted in as children, his books something we could give to our children when we get older, and the companionship of his literature, something we can take with us into old age.

Whenever my children choose this book as the one they want read to them, I’m always a little apprehensive. They look at each other in embarrassment and wonder why silly old mommy’s voice starts to catch in her throat, why tears are coming from her eyes.

Shel Silverstein has done so much for me, so much for the world, I feel like the least I can do is pay it forward, if only in a very, very small way.

Shel Silverstein, where have you gone?
Gone where the sidewalk ends?
Or in the sky polishing stars
With three headed Ann and her friends?

Shel Silverstein where are you now?
You were taken away too soon
Bored in the Land of Happy?
Or trying to catch the moon?

Your words like branches to play in,
I read them again and again,
And now that I have children of my own,
I’ll give the books to them.

And maybe when I’m old and gray,
And your books are torn with wear,
I’ll sit on an old tree stump and read them,
And pretend that you are there.

Cause there’s something whistling on the wind,
That let’s me know without a doubt,
That when I see that light in the attic shine,
You’re on the inside looking out.




Tips For Cyberstalking Your Ex-Boyfriend

Your mother might not know a zip disk from a memory stick, but there is one part of technology she most certainly is familiar with and that is cyberstalking. Not only might your mother want to cyber stalk you, but after all those years married to your dad, cyber stalking her ex-boyfriends is probably one of her favorite past times. Based on all my years of experience, I have done woman kind a great favor by compiling these words of wisdom for cyberstalking ex-girlfriends everywhere.

A great cyber-stalker is an outside the box thinker: Don’t be discouraged when a Google or Facebook search does not yield results. Think friends, family, work connections, web sites, pass words, band mates. Come on ladies, he’s out there somewhere!

Get Reacquainted: Now that you have found your ex, you want to know, is he bald, has he gained weight, did he finally get a good job or is he still the loser you dated, did he in fact leave the country like he told you he did, and, most importantly, is he in a relationship.

Keep Your Enemies Close: If he is not in a relationship, you might as well stop stalking now and revisit in a couple of months. However, if he is an a relationship, the search has just begun. It is now up to you to find out if SHE is attractive, if SHE is fat, if SHE has a good job, and most importantly, what she has on her that you don’t got on you. Think of how much closer to closure you will be after spending hours trying to figure out why SHE made him happy when you couldn’t.

Do Not Contact Him: I know in this cyber world, where contact is just a click away, it may be irresistible to go ahead and contact your ex. I strongly recommend you do not do this. It will not end well. As a matter of fact, you should really write a letter to yourself that says’

Dear Self,

No matter how drunk and desperate you are, do not contact (ex-boyfriend you are currently cyberstalking).

And hang it in front of your computer.

But If You Must: If you know yourself too well and feel that a mere piece of paper will be no deterrent for you, it is important that in these moments of drunken desperation, you sound neither drunk nor desperate. Here is what you SHOULD NOT be writing:

Dear (Ex-Boyfriend I am Currently Cyberstalking):

Why did you tell me you moved out of the country leaving me here to die alone? What did I ever do to you? I thought your parents said we made a cute couple.

The object is to make him feel you are a mature adult who has moved on. I would try something more along these lines:

Dear (Ex-Boyfriend I am Currently Cyberstalking):

Long time no speak! You look great! The receding hair line really becomes you!

I see you are in a relationship now. Good for you! She looks like a really nice person. You two seem like you really enjoy a good meal.

As for me, you will be pleased to know that I am now a successful (highly exaggerated job position here.) I also have a very cool blog.

By the way be sure to say hello to your brother for me. You do know I slept with him right?



Something I Forgot

Everything is nice and neat
But yet I keep on fretting
This nagging feeling in my mind
There’s something I’m forgetting

The dinner has been prepared
The dishes have been done
My glasses hang around my neck
The clothes have all been hung

I know I locked the door at work
But still my head it takes me
To summon up this vague notion
Of what surely must escape me

That familiar car door slamming
The footsteps coming near
For now it’s nearly 5 o’ clock
My husband must be here

He walks in through the doorway
And the first thing he says is,
“You’ve done a great job on the house but honey…
Where’s the kids?”


But You Doesn’t Hasta Call Me Victoria

I don’t think I really had a name until I was about 20. But I suppose that is the plight of an identical twin . Before that it was ‘hey you’, the cringe worthy ‘twin’ or a horrifying amalgamation of both of our names, ‘Marissa-Victoria Victoria-Marissa’. I  am just happy that we predated the Bennifers and Brangelinas or we would have surely been Vicrissa or, worse yet, Maroria.

Baffled friends regarded us, studying our faces before even saying a word, in a pathetic attempt at that Holy Grail of knowledge that would answer the question, “Which one is which?” My boyfriends scratched their heads in wonder before clumsily sticking their tongues down my sister’s throat.

Then, when I was in my 20s, something terrible happened. I fell in love.

People wondered why I chose Jon as the object of my affections. He was short, with unconventional looks, and, although he was in a semi cool rock band, he was only the drummer. The thing was, Jon was the first boy who was brave enough to call me by my name. Often. And with feeling. Like it was a term of endearment. I guess anyone might find that charming and flirtatious, but oh readers, if he knew what that did for me…

Well, as you can well imagine, that relationship quickly ended in disaster as most young relationships do. However, soon other boys would come along who called me by my name. And as I established my own identity, I found other people, in different situations, calling me by my name more and more often .

But alas, no sooner had my identity had been established, then I found it all too quickly taken away. I soon married and had children and, once again I was no longer Marissa but Mommy, Mrs. Bergen, or Anjelica’s and/or Jesse’s mom. In fact, it seems the only time I am addressed by my name nowadays, is when  I’m at work or when my order is ready at El Pollo Loco.

Even my husband rarely calls me by my name. With him it’s usually ‘Babe’ (equally cringe worthy). I think he’s still a bit afraid he will call me ‘Victoria’.

And if you’re wondering whether he ever ended up with his tongue down my sister’s throat…well…that is the story for another blog.

Play Dates From Hell Pt. 2

Oh, the play date! It’s always so nice when a mother arrives at my doorstep to drop off her adorable, sweet, freshly scrubbed, shiny, little child. At any given time after that, it is likely, said child will mutate into Linda Blair in The Exorcist complete with demonic possession, projectile vomiting, and joint defying head spins as my husband and I stay cowering in our bedroom, hoping that the children are having fun, and trying to have as little as possible to do with it, if they are not.


Hello! Can Anjelica come out to play?

I was thinking of creating an award for Worst Play Date Ever. One dilemma was whether to grant this award to the child for making the play date so especially horrific, or to the parent who had to endure it. Anyway, without further ado, I’d like to introduce the nominees:

Anthony: I am, what my husband calls, directionally challenged. The words Alternate Route hold no appeal for me. In fact, I’d rather go 10 miles out of my way then risk getting lost. It is especially nerve wracking when a passenger suggests a different path when I am en route. And it is even more nerve wracking when that someone is an 8 year old boy who has spent the better part of the afternoon explaining to me how my suggestions for fun and entertainment were neither fun nor entertaining.

After explaining to this boy that I would not be taking his route and why, he than suggested I drop him off at random corners, presumably in an attempt to have me arrested for child neglect. Oh, Reader, was I tempted!!

I finally blew up at Anthony right before depositing him at his door step. It’s alway nice when you send them home with tears in their eyes.

Hannah: I’m really great with a wrench. I mean, after getting through the hard part, which is actually getting the wrench to fit around the nut, it’s all righty tighty, lefty loosey from there. Of course there comes the part during turning when you realize that the left has become right and the right has become left and the damn thing doesn’t appear to be getting any tighter at all…but I digress!

So there I am, on the sidewalk, mini-skirt strategically arranged, sweating through my mascara, wrench in hand trying to tighten the training wheels on our Play Date’s bike. Her Royal Highness herself walks up, her 7 year old form towering above mine and says, “Uh…can I ride my bike already?”

Abbey: But it’s probably Abbey who absolutely takes the prize. This is a girl who decided her afternoon’s entertainment would be to extract my daughter’s loose tooth from her mouth in every nauseatingly disgusting, unsanitary manner possible. I finally asked the girls if they’d like to take a break from the afternoon’s festivities to go out for frozen yogurt, (you know, one of those places where you pay for yogurt BY THE OUNCE??).

I’m sure you know where this is going. Within seconds Abbey’s cup overfloweth with frozen yogurt and, much to my horror, she continued the atrocity by adding Sno-Caps by the shovelful. She then proceeded to sit down with her mountain of gluttony, take two bites, and ask “Can we go to Carl’s Jr. now?”


photo credit: mommyish.com

The Fart Trio

For my daughter it is long and low and can be almost fruitile,
From my son a toot from his boot can often become brutal,
When my husband’s at it, there’s such an awful smell,
You would think that Satan himself blessed him with the bowels or hell.
And when I give them all some beans, it almost sounds symphonic
All good and well although the smell’s catastrophically atomic.


The Sociopath At The High School Reunion

Quietly I sit in the back
And look at all of the bitches
Mental notes of their degeneration
The stuff I store like riches.

Tammy’s ass has got so fat
Gina turned into her mother
Yvette has all but lost her chin
Lisa showed up with her brother,

Christine hasn’t done her roots
And I can see her hair’s really grey
Evelyn should know all that Botox
Ain’t foolin’ no one anyway.

Ellen cashiers in a grocery store
And can you say the word boozer?
Jennifer hasn’t stepped away from the bar
And her husband is kind of a loser.

I leave with a smile on my face
For now it’s so easy to see
They should have known better than to tempt karma’s fate
When they decided to pick on me.


photo credit: someecards.com