Adventures In Assembly

Put number 9 in right slot A
Slide left and turn around
But now the thing is backwards, loose
And somehow upside down

My husband’s cursed the parts, China
The less than fit construction
But still insists he doesn’t need
To look at the instructions

Now veins pop from his forehead an
alarming shade of blue
Since I don’t seem to know what thingee
He’s referring to

And righty tighty lefty loosey
For those who are deft
But somehow in there left was right
And then right became left

And then there is a crank, a turn and
One dubious crack
And there my husband stands somehow
With both fingers in tact

He gloats he grins he boasts to me
“I’d say it’s looking fine!”
Though on the floor lies parts 15
11 and A9

I smile blankly as he shifts
The table into place
And never tell him it was meant
To have been a bookcase.


For A Good Time Call

One day when Mother Nature summoned
Johnny was in the stall
When he saw words and numbers saying
For a good time call

And so he called the number and
Through giggles did request
If he might get some action and
So oddly she said yes

And so he went to meet her but
Imagine his surprise
She looked more like an angel he
Could not believe his eyes

And there would be romance that day
But of the sweetest kind
And Johnny loved her humor too
Her beauty and her mind

And in the years their love did grow
They made themselves a life
Which soon erased all memories
Of how he met his wife

Through thick and thin sickness and health
Poor Johnny never knew
That that was how Nick, Ned and Hal
Had met his dear wife too.

The Unfortunate Circumstances of A Rock N’ Roll Supermom

Dear reader please prepare this blog might be a bit upsetting
And I’m sure it isn’t quite at all what you’re expecting
But before I say the news, both tragic and exciting
I want to warn you it’s Marissa’s husband that is writing

I tell you of this incident that sadly did occur
(In a poetic verse that seems, suspiciously like hers)
Unfortunately we know very little at this time
But it seems my wife has gone off and killed a mime

One minute he was building an invisible enclosure
Next thing you know it’s black and white and it’s red all over
I’m sure she’ll be embarrassed, that dear woman of refinement
But now she is locked up in solitary confinement

Muttering his tug of war wasn’t very good
And how could he be eating when their wasn’t any food
An obvious result of this unfortunate new caper
They’ve deemed it dangerous that she be near a pen and paper

And until the day that her sentence be determined
I fear that her future as a blogger is uncertain
And if an urge to comment here may be your inclination
Be warned you may look dubious in the investigation

I suggest you clear your history and to do so posthaste
And remember that a mime is a terrible thing to waste.

<a href=””>Fool Me Once</a>

The S**t Eating Grin

Whenever I come home from work,
After a hard day’s done,
My husband’s the barometer,
For what is going on.

But if depressed or lamenting,
Over some random thing,
Nothing could be worse than the curse,
Of the shit eating grin.

Which is exactly what he wears,
When I come home today,
I fear as he blocks the bedroom door,
And stands in my way.

My mind thinks of the options,
My ears are blowing smoke,
As I consider a dreadful mess,
A valuable that he broke.

Do the children lie there bleeding?
Are there dog hairs on the sheets?
Is there a porn in the VCR,
That’s playing on repeat?

But time wears on and by some,
strange prompt he moves away,
I open the door to gaze upon,
What his nervousness betrayed.

But nothing could prepare me,
For what waits for me instead,
As I see the open window,
And the unmade bed.



Like my dear old grandmother
I find it difficult to budge,
From a negative viewpoint
created by a grudge.

But I can’t say my poor husband
didn’t try to warn me,
Knowing I’d soon see the object
of my hostility.

As he advised me to try
to be the bigger person,
When seeing she whose actions
caused me the aversion.

I smiled when I saw her
and tried to rise above,
But when alone with her in the bathroom, well,
who’d’ve thought there’d be so much blood?

Now I sit confined in these 4 walls
trying to seem repentant,
To this woman for whom I still harbor
quite a deep resentment.

For though they say I gave her
a bit more than she deserved,
Sometimes I still wonder
how she could have had the nerve.


Nobody Told Me I Would Have To Cook Too!

Looking for a little snack?
Perhaps a late night munchy?
Don’t look to me for spaghetti,
Unless you want it crunchy.

Even mac and cheese a dish,
That from me goes astray,
As my family runs for dinner,
But often the other way.

Frozen entrees are my friend,
They just never get old,
But even in these no guarantees,
The centers won’t be cold.

I scout out bargain bins and discount racks,
To supplement my family’s diet,
And once prepared we find out,
Why no one wants to try it.

I don’t discern much at grocery stores,
Look in my cart and you will see.
I’ll buy it if it’s cheap and easy,
(Just like me!!)

Which probably explains my husband,
And why for me his heart did plummet,
For somehow I won his affections,
But it wasn’t through his stomach!




The Kids Will All Write

Ever since I started blogging I’ve been driving my family crazy. I follow my husband around, iPhone in hand, reading him my poetry from the drafts in my email account. Often times this is when he is trying to get ready for work. Or in the shower. Or on the toilet. For some reason, unfathomable to me, he seems a bit annoyed by this.

My 11 year old son, on the other hand, is a much better sounding board. He listens attentively, and finds my poems just as hilarious as I do. Not only that, but he is genuinely concerned about the response my blogs get. And, if I follow your blog on a regular basis, chances are he’s read one or two of yours as well (age appropriate, of course).

But lest you think my son is some kind of goody two shoes who heads the Dean’s List and runs for school council, he is not. Although my son has above average intelligence, his grades often teeter on the wrong side of a B average, all due to a lack of passion and work ethic.

When I suggested my son do a guest blog for me, I thought it would be met with all the enthusiasm of reading a ‘Fun with Mathematics’ text book over the weekend. But I was wrong. Instead my son bombarded me with questions; what should he write? when should he write it? when would I publish it?

I am not much of one for participating in or suggesting challenges, or that a blog with my meager following will be able to sustain this, but if you have or know a kid who writes, and want to publish it, let me know about it, in comments or a link to any blog, and I will reblog it. Artwork is welcome too. This is about getting our kids writing and welcoming a new generation of bloggers.

I am publishing my sons guest blog, ‘Stupidity Is Infectious’,¬†in conjunction with this one. I ask you all, shamelessly, to please come out and support it. You won’t be disappointed. Thanks.


In the meantime, please enjoy my daughter’s artwork (A.B. age 7)

Directionally Challenged

Today I take advantage of Word Press’s Weekly Challenge,
To challenge my husbands allegations I’m directionally challenged.
For though there is some truth in this I think that I know best,
And surely I’m familiar with my north, south, east and west.

It’s merely just a matter that my heads so full of stuff,
I don’t get the opportunity to look around enough,
So all this is why yesterday afternoon found me,
Outside with specific purpose to notice what’s around me.

I noticed all the flowers, I noticed all the signs,
I looked down at the sidewalks and studied all the lines,
I noticed all the houses and I noticed all the trees,
I noticed all the birds and I noticed all the bees,
I noticed all the scenery and all the streets I crossed,
And after about an hour, I noticed I was lost.