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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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

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.

On The Off Chance I Offended You…

I am writing this in reference to the blog I wrote yesterday, ” Singing the Blues at the School Music Recital” and the lukewarm reception it received. (And also to thank the few brave souls that did actually like it.)

Of course no one really knows why a blog is ignored. In fact you could actually be thinking to yourself, “Did Marissa blog yesterday? I didn’t know that!” But I am going to work on the assumption that it was a bit harsh, especially for some of the mommies out there. And though I would have rather received hundreds of scathing comments, promoting my blog to the controversial masterpiece it deserves to be, I will have to settle with what I got. But maybe what I am about to say needs to be said anyway.

After I wrote that blog, I was unsure if I wanted to publish it because I thought it might come across as a bit insulting. So I did what any woman does when she is indecisive. I called my mother.

My mother grew up in a different time, when things were not as politically correct. Children did not get medals for losing, and sometimes they were told that they weren’t the best at everything, maybe if only in the hopes that they would then focus their attention on something more worthy of their time.

I know some of you have children that are younger than mine, some older, and some of you may not yet have kids. But I can guarantee you that if child rearing is, or ever was, or ever will be, a part of your life, you will find yourselves spending a weekend in a dank auditorium or a hot baseball field, where there will be screeching violins, a game prolonged because one player does not have a good understanding of the rules, or a recital practiced for months only to be ruined by a little girl with two left feet. You may react with a suppressed giggle or a discreet eye roll, and indeed this may be better etiquette than writing a blog to live forever on the pages of the internet or until such a time when you hit delete.

The point is, we all love our children, and we all make sacrifices for them. and not every weekend will go the way we want it to go; and sometimes the best thing we can do, is laugh.

Singing The Blues At The School Music Recital

So, as a musician, I am very passionate about encouraging performing arts programs for kids. What I am not passionate about is going to see these performances. My older child has just started Junior High, so while I am holding out hope to see some improvement with school orchestras in the future, so far, the best way I can describe the performances I’ve seen, is ‘plodding along tunelessly’.

Probably my least favorite performance so far was the one I saw this weekend which was comprised of everyone in the class getting up and doing solos. Yes they are adorable, but once they put bow to string it’s almost as if Satan has condemned me to a life of eternal damnation on earth.

And if there’s anything I’d rather see than my kid going up and butchering a classic in front of a hundred people, it’s someone else’s kid getting up and butchering a classic in front of a hundred people, oh yeah, times about 40.

Now I know you’re all thinking what a horrible person and mother I am for being down on kids who are trying to perform and learn art, but talk to me again after you’ve heard about 20 different kids butcher ‘Ode to Joy’, an excruciatingly slow version of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ played on stand up bass, some tuneless attempts at Jingle Bells (in February no less), and, oh yeah, a version of ‘Wrecking Ball’ on cello, which sounded nothing like the original but may have actually been an improvement.

Now I understand that many of these kids are just learning their instruments and to those I say, hang in there, don’t give up, it will get better. After all, I know how it was when I started out, believe me.

But there were some kids up there who, unfortunately, had no hope. I know it must be awfully upsetting to try to encourage a child to take up an instrument and then realize you have made a terrible, terrible mistake. I would persuade you to nip this in the bud as soon as possible before any further suffering is endured.

There are many approaches you can take with this. First there is the Simon Cowell method where, you very bluntly tell your child, “I know that you have practicing, and working very hard, but your father and I feel it would be a great service for violins, ears, and humans everywhere if you were never to go near a musical instrument ever again in your entire life.”

Or you could be a bit more subtle. For instance: “You know there are so many great musicians, but someone has to be a fan. How about you?”

Or just simply: “Wow that was a really great performance. How about next time we try origami?”

It’s an 8 Years Old’s Birthday Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To

Remember the good old days when, if your kid was invited to a birthday party it meant you had a chance to put your feet up, relax, and take the afternoon off? Well now, in the days of child predators, and when every bump on the head could mean a concussion, and don’t even get me started on food allergies, parents are required to sit with their children for the duration of the party (often a minimum of two hours) cutting a considerable chunk out of their weekends.

My husband and I used to go to parties thinking of any conceivable way to get out of staying, but the best we could do was having the host’s parents reluctantly agree that it was okay to be the ONLY PARENTS to leave our child. Some odd hours later, we would return to the judgmental looks of parents who feel we have done the unthinkable. Needless to say, we have since given up and resigned ourself for a good couple of hours of:

Getting To Know The Other Parents: I, for one, am terrible in social situations. Often I lurk on the fringes of these parties trying not to look like the miserable social leper I truly am. After a bit, I may glom on to one of the parents, more often than not because someone has taken pity on me and decided to introduce me to the poor woman. It is then up to us to try and fill (yikes!) two hours trying to come up with a topic of conversation when it turns out that the only thing we have in common is that we both have young children. Just imagine what happens when I try telling them I used to play in a rock band.

The Deathtrap That Is The Bouncy Castle: I can not tell you the amount of joy that will fill a child’s heart when they realize they will be spending the afternoon trapped inside the rubber walls of this Tower of Terror, bouncing against their out of control cronies. (Sounds a bit more like an insane asylum to me.) Usually, at some point during the course of the festivities, this inflatable holding cell will collapse much to the horror of the many screaming children that are trapped within. We watch in trepidation as a few brave parents escort the terrified children to safety and look on glumly until such a time that is determined whether or not the damn thing may be resurrected lest they be left with hordes of disappointed children.

The  Food: I don’t know about you, but I find it very difficult to enjoy the food at a child’s birthday party. No matter how appetizing the food may be, no matter what it is, no matter in what sort of a sanitary manner it is being served, once it has passed the lips of tens of young children, to me, it immediately becomes re-regurgitated vomit mixed with saliva.  Usually I have to decline the food so many times that I run the risk of offending the hosts and making everybody there think I have some kind of strange eating disorder, which may or may not be true.

Those of you who are looking forward to the inevitable deterioration of my sanity, will be pleased to know that my daughter had been invited to, not one, but two birthday parties this weekend. At best this inspire will me with material for my next Miserable Mom blog. However, if you don’t hear from me within a few days, you can bet I am bouncing around in a very small room with rubber walls.

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Cover Letter of A Dropout Musician Mom

Dear Mr. Big Fat Shithead,

My name is Marissa Bergen and I am very interested in the open position your company has available.

I see you are looking for someone with a college education. You will be pleased to know that I attended college for quite some time before I realized that it was a huge, boring waste of my time. After that I furthered my education by teaching myself to play the guitar, writing songs, and reading books because I actually wanted to read them, not because they were assigned to me.

I developed marketing and people skills by booking and promoting my own rock band. I also proved myself to be a self starter and entrepreneur when I opened my own candy store and coat check business inside a rock n’ roll night club where I made more money selling Blow Pops to stoners than I will ever make at your stinkin’ job.

Now I am a mother of 2 children. Every day I get them to school on time, make sure they are dressed, clean, fed, and that their homework is completed. So sorry if I am a bit insulted when you question my abilities to be hard working, prompt, reliable, organized and detail oriented.

Please see attached for my resume. Fuck you very much for your time and consideration.

-Marissa Bergen
323-555-1885

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The Modern Teenager’s Guide To Pissing Off Your Parents

Dear Children,

Pretty soon you will be teenagers. This is a time when, for some reason unfathomable to yourself, but more than likely due to an overwhelming amount of hormones coupled with an enormous lack of reason, you will want to rebel against your parents. Well, I have to tell you, it’s not going to be easy.

I mean, you could listen to really loud obnoxious rock music, but don’t mom and dad listen to that music themselves? You could dress inappropriately, but have you taken a look at mom’s hemlines on those mini skirts? I think that passed appropriate about 5 inches ago. And I somehow think all things proper and suitable took a two step out of dad’s closet when they got a look at that Venom shirt with the naked nun and the quote about Satan’s vomit. And remember that long haired, Catholic guy with the tattoos that wanted to make a living as a rock star that mom brought home to her Jewish parents? Well now he’s your dad. There is the occasional experimentation but, yep, been there, done that, and I wonder if the fact that marijuana is practically legal has somehow robbed the old wacky tobacky of some of it’s allure.

Well kids, other than eating the odd polyunsaturated fat every now and then, I came up with two things you could do to piss off the old parental units, but I must warn you that they are so heinous, so atrocious, they may well get you kicked out their house forever; and above all shhhh….don’t tell them I told you so!

1.Become a homophobic Republican

2. Listen to Justin Beiber
– A Concerned Adult
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