Eternal Delay

Rosie dressed her children up that day
Dressed them to a tee
Freshly scrubbed and clean and kempt
And sweet as they could be.

Off they went to the station
Washed in camouflage and green
All the reunited lovers
All the years that it had been.

It would be a special day
He would say, “You got so tall.”
For Emma hadn’t seen her father in 3 years
And Charlotte not at all.

And on and on the three would wait
But his face they did not see
Rosie decided to play a game
She called it ‘Where’s Daddy?’

She felt their soft warm hands in hers
And told her self not to fear
Surely he would be there soon
He had to be somewhere.

But as minutes turned to hours
Her spirits would soon fall
And still she could not believe
He would not appear at all.

The crowd had finally thinned to naught
And the train pulled from the station
And by and by the broken family stood
Still waiting.

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A Sweet 16 Grows In Brooklyn

If you were a teenager living in Brooklyn in the year 1988, you probably heard wild stories of the Sweet 16 party my twin sister and I had that year. Hell, if you were a teenager living in Brooklyn in the year 1988, you probably went to the Sweet 16 party my twin sister and I had that year. It was a party of epic proportions, the stuff of myths and legends, and probably a few teenaged pregnancies.

But there was no My Super Sweet 16 for me; no pop stars and DJs, no prom dresses. Here’s how rocker chicks from Brooklyn get Sweet 16s done.

1.About 2 weeks out, start telling all your friends you’re having a huge party at your house and they can bring anyone they want.

2.Get a refrigerator full of beer.

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3. Add some hot rocker chicks

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Heh, heh! That was actually me and my sister. Don’t look too closely into our dilated pupils.

4. A little of this…

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5. And a whole lotta this…

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6. Some beer money for when the beer runs out…

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…this money actually ended up getting stolen…

7. And, of course, a kitten

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…because it is a great idea to bring a poor defenseless animal to a raucous party. But hey, we were 16 years old and I don’t think animal rights were invented yet.

I actually published these pictures, and many more from this party/era, on my Facebook page not too long ago. The photos came the closest to going viral as anything I have ever put on the internet. They also gave rise to the infamous rumors ‘Zack is Dead’, ‘Who Did Ira Make Out With That Night?’ and ‘Zack Is Alive and Well and Living In Brighton Beach’.

But the best thing about posting these pictures were some of the comments I received:

“That party is one of my first memories, literally. It’s like, my mother singing over the crib, seeing Pete’s Dragon at Radio City, and then this party…”

“All these are great blackmail shots…”

“you can tell we were real young…we’re drinking budwieser”

and, of course…

“Thanks for hanging on to these gems, Marissa!”

Awwwe…memories are awesome!

Moi? Blogger Of The Year?

So yesterday something wonderful happened to me…twice. I was nominated Blogger of the Year…twice!

I know when you get these nominations the protocol is to…well let’s just say it’s a bit complicated as apparently it involves cutting and pasting html, links that are actually supposed to work and look presentable, and nominating your own set of bloggers for the award.

As a woman over 40 years old (I know, I know, I don’t look it do I?) these things just don’t come naturally to me. I am simply not part of this technologically advanced generation. And as for making nominations of my own, equally as stressful, as I simply can not fathom who to put in, who to leave out, who needs the mention more than the others, and who simply would not care whether I mentioned them or not.

So the first thing I want to do is thank the two bloggers who nominated me. The first is Sparrow http://spacemonkeytwins.wordpress.com/. Sparrow’s blogs would be worth checking out for her amazing water colors alone, but what amazes me about Sparrow is that her subject manner and presentation can be so simple (a baby’s tooth, a walk in the park) yet she manages to bring her blogs to life in such vivid detail. I almost feel like I have held her darling Space Monkey Twins a thousand times.

You can also join my other nominator on her site One In A Million Baby, http://theoneinamillionbaby.wordpress.com/ and follow her through a journey which includes a pregnancy fraught with complications as well as all the other joys and obstacles of motherhood. Tessa speaks with a clear intelligent voice and presents smart opinions which make you laugh, cry and think.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank the followers who actually do follow and read my blog, the followers who no longer read my blog, but did not delete me, sparing me the depression of watching those numbers fall (cause kharmas a biatch, yo), my family who has put up with me making fun of them in so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so many blogs, and of course, more than anything, I would like to thank Satan without whom none of this would be possible.

I would also like to mention that since winning these awards, I will be answering only to the name Her Majesty Rock N’ Roll Supermom. Also, my appearance may change radically due to all the botox and plastic surgery my agent has advised me to get. Also, now that I will be so overwhelmed by feedback, bloggers that do not immediately get a response in my comment section may email me privately for an autographed picture. Thank you.

My Agent

My Agent

 

http://theoneinamillionbaby.wordpress.com/2014/03/07/they-love-me-they-really-love-me/

http://spacemonkeytwins.wordpress.com/2014/03/06/my-gosh-blog-of-the-year-award/

Crazy Little Sister

This blog was written by Marissa Bergen from, what she believes, is the perspective of her 11 year old son.

Hi I’m Jesse and I’m 11 years old. This is a picture of me when I was a baby. Cute little bugger wasn’t I? I guess it’s okay to say that because apparently everyone said that about me, plus they also commented on what a sweet, nice, well behaved baby I was.

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Those were the good old days, just me and the parental units, hanging out, going places, buying toys.

Then one day my parents said they had to talk to me. They said I was going to be a big brother and they were telling me how wonderful it would be and how I would have someone looking up to me and all that. Yeah, whatever. I’m going to my room now and I’m gonna stay there…for the rest of my life.

Anyway, time goes by and soon enough they’re bringing my sister home from the hospital.

This is a picture of us from the early days. You see I’m smiling but if you look closely it is more like one of those crying on the inside, laughing on the outside, call for help kind of smiles.

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Anyway, it didn’t take me long to figure out this chick was off her rocking horse.

For the first 3 years of her life all she would eat was macaroni and cheese and, oh yeah, dirt. Like she’s too good to put a carrot in her mouth but dirt is perfectly acceptable cuisine. I once saw her lick rain off a car.

And talk about drama queens. It’ s always whine, whine, whine, cry, cry, cry. I mean, like, you fall, you get hurt, you get up, you get over it, right? No need to make a federal case about it, you know what I mean?

But the worst of it is, she always wants to do everything I do and she likes to play with my toys and a lot of the time she breaks them.

I guess my mom kind of understands. She’s always saying stuff like, “Sorry we ruined your life but your sister loves you very much. She worships the ground you walk on.”

And I have to admit, she’s kind of right. Sometimes it is cool to be an older brother.

Just don’t tell THEM I said that.

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Exhibit A

I am writing this blog on the tail end of a particularly unpleasant encounter I had with a female acquaintance on Saturday afternoon. When I consider the relationship I have had with this woman, I think frenemies would be too nice of a word to describe it.

Just to preface this a bit, this woman seems to have volatile relationships with everyone, but has always been especially mean to me. Now, I understand that people like this may have deep seated mental problems, which may evoke sympathy from a bigger person than I. However, unless she is locked up in a mental ward, wearing a strait jacket, I see that as no excuse for the way she has treated me. There are psychiatrists for this sort of thing, after all.

Immediately upon returning home on Saturday afternoon, I did what every other person in the world does when they wish to take passive aggressive action in a situation such as this one. I deleted her from my Facebook.

After  waiting a few hours, and not receiving a sorrowful letter from her demanding to know why she had been deleted, and, in fact, not even knowing whether she noticed that her friend counter dropped from 375 to 374, I decided it simply wasn’t enough.

I tried to turn my negative energy in to creative energy by blogging about the incident, but nothing worthwhile was forthcoming. I even had a heart to heart with my mother. But when I woke up on Sunday morning, I was still feeling kind of sore about the whole thing.

That’s when it hit me. There was only one thing left to do.  Oh yes, a Strongly Worded Email was in order! Now, of course, I know all about being the bigger person and turning the other cheek and all that. Yet I thought it might just be therapeutic to get the whole thing out of my system. I mean I didn’t have to send the thing, did I?

But oh readers, thanks to my caustic wit, my deep sense of sarcasm, and my carefully honed writing skills, what ended up on my computer was a masterpiece, so subtly scathing, so subliminally insulting, there was just nothing else for it. I had to hit send.

And then readers, I felt so much better.

UNTIL…

Until I realized that I had just sent a not very pleasant email to a certifiable mad woman who is probably, as we speak, writing nasty letters to my employer, defaming my character all over the internet, and quite possibly putting a hit out on my life.

Readers, if you do not hear from me for a couple of days, please call the proper authorities and present them with this blog post haste. I have already taken the liberty of marking it as Exhibit A for your convenience. In the meantime, if a crazy woman shows up at your door inquiring to my whereabouts, you don’t know me, you’ve never seen me, I have fled the country.

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