Jimmy and The Twins

Jimmy wore a big smile when he left that night
Sure the fun was about to begin
Not only did he have a girl on each arm
Imagine his luck-they were twins!

But when he got into his humble abode
He felt his heart begin sinking
When he realized he knew not what to do with the two
His smile wasn’t all that was shrinking.

He thought he’d lay back while the two girls attacked
But since they weren’t into each other
He awkwardly sat in between the two girls
Wishing that he had a brother.

He decided to give the girls back rubs
A task that would prove so demanding
He found himself almost grateful to find
The evening not quite what he’d been planning.

It was at this point that Jimmy gave up
And let us agree not to speak
Of a night spent playing Monopoly
Paired with a peck on the cheek.

But Jimmy’s not one to be down on his luck
He returned to that same bar to spin
Sordid tales of that wild night
He totally banged the twins.

 

Napowrimo Entry #3

 

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.

image credit: babygaga.com

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/17/writing-challenge-names/

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.

3. Add some hot rocker chicks

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

4. A little of this…

5. And a whole lotta this…

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

…this money actually ended up getting stolen…

7. And, of course, a kitten

…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!

My Song

It takes a lot of guts to blog. I mean, you throw your feelings, art, and/or opinions into cyber space and wait to see who will like, dislike, follow, unfollow, get completely pissed off, or, perhaps worst of all, ignore.

Personally, my blogging process goes something like this:

Step 1. Write blog

Step 2. Read and reread, cursor hovering over the Publish button

Step 3. Read blog to my family while giving them a third degree interrogation of what they think about the blog, why they think that, whether this part’s stupid and whether that part’s funny, until they all refuse to talk to me

Step 4.Finally hit Publish

Step 5. Spend the next 10 minutes ringing my hands and saying “Oh God, what have I done?”

Step 6. Spend as long as humanly possible avoiding going back on the internet certain that whatever I have just published has caused all of cyberspace to implode

Step 7.Finally ‘man-up’ and go to the computer to deal with whatever response I’ve gotten

Step 8.Spend the next 24 hours hitting refresh

Now, I may not be an expert on blogging, but I have ascertained a couple of things:

1. If your bloggers like you, they will not abandon you so easily.

2. The more I obsess about who I may piss off with my blog, the better it seems to go over.

Yet despite my deductions, it still does not prevent from going through this ritual before each and every blog.

I know there are plenty of super confident bloggers out there who just post and post and don’t seem to care what anyone thinks of them, and to those bloggers I say, “Hell yeah, good for you!” But to those of you who might feel even the littlest bit like I do, there’s a song, called ‘My Song’, that my sister wrote a long time ago when we were in a rock band together and it often goes through my mind when I am trying to build my confidence and I am writing the lyrics here:

Is it okay

If I sing my song

If it’s out of key

If the words are wrong

It’s just my song, it’s just my song it’s just my song.

Is it okay

The things that I wear

The way that I look

How I comb my hair

It’s just what I wear, it’s just what I wear, it’s just what I wear

Cause sometimes I get so confused

And I don’t know what I should choose

And I don’t know what I should say

Is it okay?

Is it okay

The things that I eat

If they’re too sour

If they’re too sweet

It’s just what I eat, it’s just what I eat, it’s just what I eat

Is it okay

The way that I feel

It’s not a big deal

I just know it’s real

It’s just how I feel,it’s just how I feel, it’s just how I feel

Cause sometimes I wake up at night

And I can’t tell my left from my right

And I don’t know what chords I should play

Is it okay

(Big bombastic guitar solo here)

Is it okay

If I sing my song

If it’s out of key

If the words are wrong

It’s just my song, it’s just my song it’s just my song.

Pic: My sister and I back in the days when we were fab

Growing Up Twin

Well if there was one question I got a lot of growing up, it was ‘what’s it like being a twin?” I thought I was pretty clever when I came up with the equally rhetorical answer, “What’s it like NOT to be a twin?” 40 years into it, I’m not sure if I have a better answer, but I guess if so many people want to know, it must be a blog worthy subject. Here are some other FAQs that brought my sister and I to eye rolling exhaustion, and the best answers I can provide.

How do I tell you guys apart?

Sibling rivalry. It’s probably right up there with the Oedipal Complex as far as things that will surely f*** you up later in life. Yet it was this question that caused people to dissect our features as we stood side by side smiling blankly. They looked at our hair, eyes, noses, weight, height, temperament. Each comparison fell upon us like some kind of victory or defeat… your nose turns up more, your hair is curlier, you smile more, you’re a little heavier… until, as my sister said, we wanted to disappear.

Do you know it’s every guys sexual fantasy to do it with twins?

Apparently this is a thing. However, I have sexual fantasies too and none of these involve my twin sister, thank you very much. But guys would try, oh how they would try, leading more often than not, to their own embarrassment, no matter what they may have told their friends. It’s okay. I give them an A for effort. Wasn’t there a punk song where the lyrics were ‘What Would You Do If I Said Yes’ about what would happen if a guy doled out one of his lame pickup lines and a girl actually took him up on it? Maybe these guys should have listened to that song.

But the truth was, despite all the male attention we got, dating was very difficult. After all, the guys all knew I already had a date for Saturday night…. my sister. And breaking that date would definitely lead to hurt feelings. And that was only for the boys who got through the first obstacle which was to dare to tell us apart, a rare feat not achieved by many people in general and I don’t think many even cared to try.

And there are so, so many more. If I hit her, will you feel it? Have you ever dated the same guy? Do you ever play tricks on people? (Why bother? No one knows us apart anyway.) Are you left handed and her right? (An odd phenomenon called mirror twins which we are not.) Are you identical or … (enter hear the word more than half the population can’t recall, FRATERNAL, and by the way, the answer was so obvious!!) All equally inane questions linking my sister and I together in a way that can never be altered. (Oh, and by the way, it’s a set of twins, not two twins which would then be four people.)

So yes, being a twin robs you or your individuality. Being a twin puts you in a spotlight, when there are times you just want to hide. But while I can go on and on about the negative aspects of being a twin, it only takes a few words to tell you what it’s like to have someone who is always there for you, someone who completely gets you, someone who knows what you’re thinking to the point where speech is not necessary. If you had someone like that, they would be your soul mate. If you had someone like that, they would be the love of your life. And in so many ways, that is what my sister is to me.