No Man’s Land

 

This one, inspired by my son’s birthday today.

Creepy spiders, badger’s nest, perhaps dinner for two
A wizard and a warlock and of course a witch’s brew
An amulet, a cigarette, those keys you never found
Spare coins, the remote control, the pet you thought had drowned
The wallet years gone missing though you never knew to where
Amazing the things you will find while combing Jesse’s hair.

Happy Birthday Jesse!

P.S. Thank you to everyone who voted for my son’s band in the Metal Devastation Band of the Month poll. They actually won! They got a blog spot featured here and will be in heavy rotation on the station all month as well as being featured on their Facebook page. I’m sure my son would be overjoyed if, as a birthday gift, you would give his band a like on Facebook or follow them on Instagram.

https://www.facebook.com/diabologyband/

https://www.instagram.com/diabologyband/?hl=en


Passing The Torch

She picks among discarded frocks,
Old clothes found in the dress-up box,
And laughs at what may well provide,
Makings of a princess or bride.

Boas, sequins, a joyous game,
Of what hangs off her tiny frame,
As you look on quite bemused,
She clomps around in high heeled shoes.

You think of how it is so sweet,
Barely they stay on her feet,
‘Til that day that she walks in,
And so innocently grins.

Seeing that she has created,
An outfit so coordinated,
And incredulous you’re staring,
At attire you would not mind wearing.

Sexy, subtle, innovative,
Simple yet sophisticated,
Envy the look she put together,
And rue the day she wore it better.

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The Haunting of Edith Goldstein

Here lays Edith Goldstein,
Devoted mother and wife,
May she ever rest in peace,
After such a lovely life.

But after funeral bells tolled,
And coffin doors locked shut,
Despite wishes of peacefulness,
Edith was anything but.

For when the clock struck midnight,
Until the eerie dawn,
They heard Edith moaning,
From the great beyond.

Her cries rose to banshee wails,
Chains rattled, cold winds tore,
Even through warm and sunny days,
Till they could take no more.

So they called in a medium,
To make some sort of guess,
Of what Edith had to say,
And put her soul to rest.

Ouija boards were consulted,
And seances were made,
All in attempt to find what Edith,
Asked from beyond the grave.

But forever doomed to march the earth,
She would never rest in peace,
For worry her oven was left on,
Or if her son was brushing his teeth.

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That’s My Girl!

Oh, my sweet dear darling child,

Never could my imagination be so wild,

As to think heaven could bless me,

With a child quite so lovely as thee.

What wonderful thing did I do or say,

To have you as a gift for Mother’s Day,

And as I look at her and all her charms,

I long to hold her in my arms.

Her face so sweet, so little and cute,

But all she says is “I have to toot,”

And then produces an odor so foul,

All I can say is “That’s my gal!”

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Happy 7th To My Sweet Anjeli-cat!

My Son’s Gonna Be In A Rock N’ Roll Band

My son’s gonna be in a rock n roll band
Like I was many years before,
My son’s gonna be in a rock n roll band
So I know what he may be in for.

Maybe he and his band
Will go out on the road,
They’ll drive for miles and get flat tires
To find the club is closed.

Maybe they’ll play for empty rooms
Or fight over slutty honeys,
Or hook up with a sleezy manager
Who wants to take all their money.

Maybe the guitarist will decide
He wants to change direction,
And embark in a solo career
And take the rhythm section.

Maybe he’ll be out at a gig
And someone will steal his Fender,
Or the drummer won’t show up for recording
After an all night bender.

But maybe he’ll know how it feels
To give a million people one chord,
To give the crowd your heart and soul
And leave them wanting more.

Maybe he’ll tower over his fans
When he goes out on stage,
And play before people that just want
To catch a guitar pick or touch his legs.

Maybe he’ll sign a CD
For a fan who replies,
“You don’t know what this means to me.
Your music changed my life.”

He could be a doctor or lawyer
And he could play the part,
Something easier on the wallet
Not as straining to the heart.

My son’s gonna be in a rock n roll band
And somehow he’ll get through it.
My son’s gonna be in a rock n roll band
And I’m gonna watch him do it.

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My son and his band ‘Ignore the Symptoms’ at their first gig. (He’s the little guy in the middle). 3/27/14

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?”

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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.

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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?”

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photo credit: mommyish.com

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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They’ll Probably Kill Me (A Music Vlog Starring Moi)

A music vlog dedicated to all the women who feel like they have to be everything to everyone.

I ain’t gonna do the laundry so there
My husband will probably kill me
He won’t have no clean underwear
I know he’ll probably kill me

What do I care? Not a lot
I’ll just put on something hot
My husband will probably kill me today

I burnt the dinner again today
My kids will probably kill me
It was frozen pizza anyway
I know they’ll probably kill me

If they’re mad or if they’re hurt
I’ll just give them chocolate cake for dessert
I know they’ll probably kill me today

Wrote something dirty on Facebook today
My mom will probably kill me
I’m a big girl but anyway
I know she’ll probably kill me

I don’t know but I have a hunch
If I try to be nice and take her out to lunch
My mom will probably kill me anyway.