Make Good Choices!

You remember the line, don't you? Jamie Lee Curtis' character in "Freaky Friday?" Her parting words to her moody teenage daughter, "Make good choices!" It became a joke in our family. Not that I said it, but the vocal inflection in which I used when I said it. My girls knew I meant the words, but I also meant to have them leave me in the morning with a smile.

Mornings are hard in our house. I am NOT a morning person. My husband isn't either, but he can be pretty chatty in the morning. He's learned over the years that I am not really the one to chat with in the a.m. My oldest daughter is like I am in the morning. Not chatty, kinda grumpy. My youngest daughter, on the other hand, apparently thinks she has been saving up all of the words she couldn't use while she was sleeping and share them ALL with us first thing in the morning. I have a look that evidently speaks to her. This look says, "Too. Many. Words. Too. Early."

But usually by the time everyone is ready to go out the door, we're all in a good enough mood to joke around. It used to be with me telling the girls to "make good choices!" For the last couple of years it's been a morning routine with my youngest, who is now 17, which goes like this:

Me: "Did you take your meds? (answer could go either way.) Do you have all your shit? (because I don't like driving to the high school at 7:30 a.m.) Do you have your phone? (same reason.) I love you."

JK: "I love you, too."

Me: "Have a good day."

JK: "Don't tell me what to do!"

I love it. Quality conversation with a 17 year old girl.

Today we had a different conversation. Today it did have to do with choices. Choices of how she can react to her Relationships teacher, an old-school FCS teacher who is on her way out. Retiring, thank goodness. I'm sure she's a lovely lady, but I'm also sure she has no idea how to use the grading program, since she had daily assignments listed in the assessment boxes (which carry a heavier percentage of the grade) and JK didn't give a quality effort on said daily assignments, and at conferences in February it appeared she was failing the class. She wasn't. She hates the class and really doesn't care for the teacher, but she knows she has to learn to get along with people of authority she doesn't like, so it's a learning experience.

I'm also pretty sure she didn't bother reading my daughter's 504 plan, or if she did she has no idea what those letters mean behind her name. Maybe she should look up what "ODD" stands for. Yes, JK can be odd, but that's not what it stands for. Oppositional Defiance Disorder. In a nutshell, it means if you back her in a corner using your position of authority, she's going to come out swinging. Plan accordingly.

But I digress (like I always do). Back to the "make good choices."

In Relationships, they are discussing psychological disorders, and Monday they discussed autism. They watched a video (which I'm tempted to say was a reel-to-reel given how I feel about the situation) about a boy and his severely autistic brother. During the discussion part of the class, the teacher showed her ignorance about the autism spectrum and lumped all individuals with autism in the severely autistic category. JK came home pretty upset, and the first thing she asked me was if autism was a disease. Not knowing where this was coming from, I explained to her that disease was a convenient term to use, but I wouldn't classify it as a disease. She then proceeded to inform me that her teacher talked about how "debilitating" the disease of autism was, and how some individuals with autism have a good chance of functioning in society someday.

Okay, now Mama Bear was beginning to emerge. I asked a few more questions about the discussion, which not only entailed the teacher discussing individuals with autism, but a few students trying to explain that autism was a spectrum, and not all individuals with autism are as severe as the boy in the video. These explanations were answered with a smug smile and a look of condescension and the discussion was moved along according to her lesson plans.

I asked if she wanted me to say something to the teacher or to her counselor, to which she immediately said no, for fear she would become a part of the next classroom discussion. I stored away my angry mother eyes and tamped down my feelings of anger in hopes the next day would be a better one.

Tuesday they discussed bi-polar disorder. JK isn't, but I'm sure she's seen a list of symptoms and has questioned it in her mind. I know I have. Pair that with the fact that her hackles were already up from the day before, and I'm sure JK was ready to pick apart what the teacher had to say. The part she chose to share with me was the teacher explaining how individuals with bi-polar disorder lead such debilitating lives on a daily basis. I took a deep breath.

I tried to explain to JK that this teacher was discussing the extremes of each of these diagnoses, and not the levels of severity they each can hold. JK gave me a look of understanding, but no words. I felt defeated by her expression.

Back to this morning and our discussion; I called her in my room and told her that she had two choices when she went into Relationships today. 1) She could be offended by the obvious ignorance of her teacher's explanations, or 2) she could take them for what they were worth:  the simple explanations of someone who doesn't know any better. (Okay, I added another part in there about it being a bitter old woman whose career was about to end, but that was more of a pep talk.)

Those choices are hard ones to make. The choice of how you react to someone's ignorance or misunderstanding of an issue. There comes a point where you have to figure out if what you say is going to make a difference to the person you're trying to explain it to. There are just some people that just don't get it. And by "it" I mean any other point of view besides their own. It doesn't matter if you present facts to them that contradict what they believe, they just don't care. They have an idea in their head and that's that. End of story. 

So over the years you learn to smile and nod and let them think whatever it is they want to think, no matter how incorrect or inaccurate or ignorant it may be. It might be that what they think is written in ink on their lesson plans and there is no room for discussion or alternate ways of thinking. It might be that they read it somewhere and if it's in writing, then it must be true. It might be how they were taught or how they were brought up, and they just don't know any better, and they don't have the ability to entertain other opinions. Or it could just be that they're ignorant assholes and there is just no way you are ever going to change their minds.

So tell me: what good choices did you make today?

What's WRONG with YOU?

Today is World Autism Awareness Day. Too bad we can't educate the world in one day. To try to educate some people I know might take all year. (As well as some 2x4 therapy) Some people just don't get it. Some people want to know "what's wrong with her?" Here's the deal: nothing is wrong with her. Everything is wrong with you. Maybe not everything, but everything as it relates to her. 

I have a child who falls on the autism spectrum, so I've got a dog in this fight. I'm the dog, and I'm fighting. Fighting to educate people about what they consider "different." We're all different. What a boring world it would be if we were all the same. I've often jokingly said "Well things would be better if everyone were just like ME!" But I really don't mean that. I mean, driving would be exponentially better, but that's about where it would stop. I don't want everyone to like the exact same things I like. Then there wouldn't be enough for me! What makes us different is what makes us unique. 

Ah, unique. If I had a dollar for every time a teacher started a parent-teacher conference with, "She's very unique," I might not be working right now. Yes, I know she's unique. I'm her mother. And don't try to substitute the word unique with "quirky," "unusual," "peculiar," "idiosyncratic," or "eccentric." They all mean the same thing. They mean my child is non-conformist and won't fit inside the tiny little box you want all students to fit into. They mean my child is one-of-a-kind. They mean my child is an individual. I get that. I understand that. Does it interfere with her ability to learn? Does it interfere with your ability to teach? 

There are three main diagnoses that fall under the autism spectrum. "Autistic," "Asperger syndrome," and "PDD-NOS." (pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified) These disorders are typically characterized by social deficits, communication difficulties, stereotyped or repetitive behaviors and interests, and in some cases, cognitive delays. You will notice I have underlined the word typically. That means there are exceptions. Don't question me if I state that my child falls on the autism spectrum by saying that she doesn't ____, or she's never ____ . I said "spectrum." Look it up if you have to, but here's a hint: a rainbow is a spectrum of colors. I hope that helps.

And there isn't a damn thing wrong with her. 

I'm a "fixer." What I finally figured out is that my child didn't need fixed, everyone else needed fixed. She may have a whole string of letters (ADHD, ODD, OCD), as well as severe anxiety issues, but she's not broken. You fix what is broken, and she isn't. I've never thought of her as different, but incredibly advanced. I had to explain the electoral college to her when she was seven, and she understood it. She's wise beyond her years and absolutely hysterically funny. But so many people are so incredibly uncomfortable around her that it affects me as a mother in ways I can't understand. Some of them are close members of our own family.

Sarcasm is an odd component in her life. She uses it like a second language, but most of the time when it is directed AT her, she doesn't get it. She takes it as literal. I explained it to a teacher once like this: "You might be using sarcasm with her, but she doesn't know you're being sarcastic. She just thinks you're a bitch." (She was a bitch, but pointing out to her that she was a bitch regardless of her use of sarcasm wasn't going to help out my cause, so I just left it at that.) 

She has NO tolerance for the intolerant. Because she's always been "different," she relates with the minority. She stands up for the little guy (or girl). She roots for the underdog. When you generalize about an entire group of people, she's going to be offended. When you use derogatory terms, she is going to be outraged. (I do too, but I know that those people in my life who do this are shallow, superficial assholes. I've come to terms with it.)

I guess my point is, there is nothing wrong with people who are autistic. They might process things differently than you do. They might respond to outside stimuli differently than you do. They might view what is important in life as something totally different that what you do. 

What is wrong is how you respond to them. Don't stare and frown. Don't laugh and giggle and point. Most importantly, don't judge. Don't talk about someone who is autistic behind their back. Or behind their family's backs. Chances are, it will get back to us, and then we will pity you for being so small-minded. Try to understand. (Honestly, I try to understand why some people are such assholes, why can't you try to understand?)

There's nothing wrong with her; what's wrong with you?

"Mauled by a Bear and Lived to Tell the Tale" or "When I First Realized that Wisconsin Hates Me."

Since before I can remember, and even before that, our family has visited Pembine, Wisconsin to visit relatives on my mom's side of the family. They are a fun, down-to-earth, rowdy bunch of folks, and usually a good time is had by all. Pembine is a "don't blink or you'll miss the town" place north of Green Bay on Highway 141, almost to Iron Mountain, Michigan. Three families (my mom's mom's mom's siblings, if you can follow that) moved to northeastern Wisconsin in the 1930s and 1940s when times were hard everywhere. Some of them went to Minnesota as well, but three siblings moved to the Pembine-Dunbar-Beecher Wisconsin area. 

Since I was a little girl, I've always wanted to walk from highway 141 out the long and twisty road to my cousin's home. I didn't act on it until 2003 when I traveled to Wisconsin with my parents. We stayed at a motel that sits at the corner of Highways US 8 and US 141, and the first morning I started out bright and early for my long walk to their house. I guess it's about 6 miles or so.  It was a crappy morning, not sunny, not warm, spitting rain. I had walked almost half way when my parents drove up on their way there. It was yucky out so I jumped in the back seat and decided I'd try again the next morning.

The next morning I got up even earlier and started on my way. I had taken along my dad's red hooded sweatshirt since it was a little chilly in the morning, and I jokingly called it my bear-attracting sweatshirt. So I was on my way out Cemetery Road on a bright and sunshiny day, and even had to tie the sweatshirt around my waist because I was a little too warm. I was over half way when Mom and Dad drove by me, and I said I was going to do it that day but did toss my sweatshirt in their back seat. I just knew I would make my goal that day!

I was between 2/3 and 3/4 of the way there, and had been looking down on the side of the road for interesting rocks to take home to the girls when I heard some rustling in front of me. I looked up and there, about 50 yards in front of me walked a black bear, from one side of the road into the timber on the other side. It wasn't a small bear, not a cub or anything, but a full-grown adult. It was a black bear, but to me it looked as big as a grizzly. 

I wasn't sure what to do. I was afraid that maybe it was a mama bear and her cubs were on the side of the road she had just come from, and I knew you didn't get between a mama bear and her cubs. So I stood there. Panicking, not knowing what to do.

Well I decided the first thing I'd do is say every swear word I know (later I said it was because I wasn't sure if I'd ever get the chance to say them again) and that didn't help. (at this point in the telling of the story, my brother Tom says that me saying every swear word I know took about 20 minutes) That was plan A.

Plan B then went into action. I tried calling up to my cousin's house, but I was standing in an area with very tall trees, so I didn't get very good reception. I could hear them, but they could not hear me.  

Well, (expletive)! What now? If I only had a ride! Well despite having just taken the Lord's name in vain several time (and in three languages), the Almighty answered my prayers in the form of a very, very small car with a boat strapped to the top and four fishermen inside. I flagged them down (I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman, and I don't think they would have stopped had I not jumped out in front of them, and they probably thought I'd dent their car too much) and they stopped and rolled down the window. I told them that I was only going a little farther down the road to my cousin's but there was a bear up ahead and I didn't want to cross her path. 

They kindly opened the back door for me (or maybe they didn't? maybe I just opened the door and got in, I'm not sure. there was a bear involved in this!) and I got in. There were four guys, all in their late 20s or early 30s. Fishing poles were inside the little car from the back of the hatch up through to the windshield. Needless to say the poor sap who had to move over for me and sit in the middle had his neck all twisted because of said fishing poles. To be honest, I really didn't care about his comfort, only my safety. 

In the meantime, my parents had arrived safely and bear-free at our cousin's house, and Mom, Dad and Betty were settled in on the front porch with cups of coffee. My mother had just commented to Betty about a car that was coming down the road with a boat on top, "Look, there are some fishermen, heading down to the river! Oh, wait. They are stopping! Do you know them, Betty?" To which a bewildered Betty started to answer "No," but was interrupted when the back door opened up and out I jumped! My mother said, "Well! That's Barbara! I taught her better than to take rides with strangers! What does she think she's doing?" 

Well out I popped and ran into the house, first to the bathroom (because I was never at the point that I wet my pants, thank goodness!) and then out onto the porch with Mom, Dad and Betty. Betty was still laughing at this point, and my dad was chuckling, and my mother was demanding to know why I would ride with strangers and asking what happened. Don't get me wrong, she was laughing at the situation as well. 

I explained the entire situation to them all and Betty told me that bear was more scared of me than I was of it. That may have been true, but sometimes when I am scared I lash out, and what's to say the bear didn't react the same way? When Betty's son, Ken heard the story he told me I was in more danger from those four strange men than I was from the bear. Everyone had a wonderful laugh at my expense. 

That night I called home to talk to my husband and daughters and experienced the same laughter from my husband, but when I told the girls, the conversation took a little different turn. When I finished the story, I experienced dead silence on the other end of the line. Then someone spoke. One of the girls.

"Mom! You HITCHHIKED?" 

Me: "Yes, there was a bear!"

"Mom! You HITCHHIKED?"

Me: "Only because there was a bear."

"Mom! You HITCHHIKED?"

Me: "Did you miss the part of this story that involved a BEAR?"

"Officer Friendly tells us to NEVER take rides with strangers!"

We DROVE back to our motel room that night, but the next day Betty informed us that late that night, after dark, a little car zoomed down the road with a boat on the top of it, and honked on the way by. See? Friendly guys.

I am sure it won't surprise you to hear that every time I told the story it got better. The bear was closer and closer and bigger and bigger. Eventually it got to the point where the bear did charge me and I had to play dead and it knocked me around a bit. Probably at some point in telling the story, I was actually mauled or something. Anyway.

So the next March my husband and I took the girls to see the movie "Big Fish" with Ewan MacGregor and Albert Finney. On the way home, my youngest said "I still don't understand why the movie was called Big Fish." So my husband told her that the man was trying to sort out the stories his dad told him over the years and separate the truth from the exaggeration. Kind of like when a fisherman tells about the fish that got away, and it gets bigger and bigger each time he tells it.

That explained it for her. She piped up and said, "Kinda like Mom and the bear story?"

To which my loving husband answered, "EXACTLY like Mom and the bear story!"

And THAT, my friends, was when I first realized that Wisconsin hated me. 

I'm SO Ornamental

By definition, "ornament" means something that lends grace or beauty. "Ornamental" is defined as "of, relating to, or serving as an ornament." So "ornamental" means something relating to grace or beauty. So why is one of the antonyms of ornamental "functional?" Something that lends grace or beauty isn't functional?

Bullshit.

There is a reason this word is stuck in my mind today. I have tried for the past 20 years to keep organized track of what ornaments we have that adorn our tree each Christmas. (TRY being the operative word in that last sentence!) The ornaments were mine from before I was married, they were Rob's before we were married, they are ours from the past 21+ years of our married life, they belong to Brett, and they belong to J. Kay. A couple of them actually belong to Nic. I acquired a few this year that previously belonged to my mom and dad. Some are ones that my Grandma Newbury made. She beaded several bells and a couple of Eastern Star stars. 

Before everything goes away until next December, I'm going to give one last shot at my organization. I'm going to know to whom each of these ornaments belong. Maybe even from where they came. I'm going to try my hardest, anyway. I'll be taking photos and writing on ornaments for the rest of the day. 

So this brings me back to my original question: Something that lends grace or beauty isn't functional? The definition of functional is something that is "used to contribute to the development or maintenance of a larger whole." 

The ornaments we have for our tree aren't all beautiful by the dictionary definition. They aren't what most people would consider beautiful. But nearly every ornament we own helps to tell a story of our lives. To tell a story about our likes and interests, our ages and capabilities, our pasts and our futures. They are an extension of each of us as individuals and as members of our family. 

THAT is beautiful. Our family is beautiful. Our family might not be like your family. We're unique. We're quirky. We function well as individuals and pretty well as a whole. 

So those ornaments, that are an extension of us as individuals and an extension of us as a family, are functional. Each tells something different from a different time. Each helps us relive a time of our lives we may only relive once a year. Some make us laugh. Some make us cry. All tell stories of our lives, which are beautiful. 

The English language is a funny thing that doesn't always make sense. This happens to be one of those times where it doesn't make sense. Especially if you couple this with the fact that another word for "ornament" is "decoration." Because the definition of decoration "something which adorns, enriches or beautifies." 

Maybe we should come up with a different word to signify those items with which we festoon our trees at Christmas time. Any ideas? Maybe "life markers." That's what they seem to be, at least in our case. They are the markers of our lives at that particular time and place. 

Which makes me smile, laugh even, because my next question was going to be, "How in the world did four (or five) people get so many Christmas ornaments?" I've answered my own questions. Our lives are full to overflowing. We have so many things to mark our lives over the past 16, 19, 20, 21, or 44 years. 

Our lives are full. Our lives are good. Our lives are rich. Our lives are beautiful.

Every Parent's Nightmare

I'd be lying if I said what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary isn't something that every parent has nightmares about. Not just parents like the parents of the 20 innocent children who died that day. Parents like those of Adam Lanza, the shooter. Parents like those of Nancy Lanza, the shooter's mother. Parents like those of Rachel D'Avino, behavioral therapist; Dawn Hochsprung, principal; Anne Marie Murphy, special education teacher; Lauren Rousseau, teacher's aide; Mary Sherlach, school psychologist; and Victoria Soto, first grade teacher.

We all have hopes and dreams for our children. Those hopes and dreams evolve over time, and don't always end up the same as they start off. You look at the innocent babe lying in your arms and dream for her to be happy and healthy and bring joy and love to your home. You look at your active and curious toddler and dream for him to be smart and athletic and make you proud to be his parent. You look at your scared, yet excited young child entering preschool or kindergarten and dream for her to find friends and for her to be a good friend to others. You look into your child's eyes and just know that her teacher will find her just as incredible and fascinating and special as you do.

Sometimes those things happen, and sometimes they don't. When they don't, your hopes and dreams for your child change. Hopefully there is a positive spin on those changes. Like the day I realized that the qualities that drove me the craziest in my youngest child would be the qualities that would take her far in life. Not quite so endearing in a 3 year old, but as a 23 year old she was going to rule the world. So while I tried to curb those qualities to help her with day to day living, I still fostered and encouraged them.

Sometimes you have to keep your dreams for your child quiet, or your child will rebel against those dreams and do something totally different. I have known since my oldest daughter was 3 years old that she would be a teacher. I didn't know what age level or in what subject matter she would excel, but as a mother, I knew. She had many interests over the years, ones that I knew would be wonderful hobbies and pastimes for her to enjoy as an adult. Soccer, cross country and other sports would keep her active and healthy. Photography would be an outlet for her creative side. But I knew neither of those were her destiny. As a freshman in high school, she had to formulate a "4-year plan" that would help her toward her eventual career path. She had to state what she wished to go to college for and what classes would help her along the way. She said she wanted to be a photo-journalist, so art, photography and English classes would help her toward her goal.

Due to a less-than-pleasant experience showing livestock at the state fair as a 4-H member, she reluctantly joined FFA in hopes of a more organized livestock show. Joining FFA was the catalyst for her eventual career path change. After meeting some people who have become long-term friends, as well as enjoying herself in FFA activities and showing a natural aptitude toward many of the areas of FFA, she made the decision that she wanted to become an Agriculture Education teacher and an FFA instructor. It was a proud moment as a mom, knowing that my gut feeling when she was a 3-year-old was right; she was a born teacher! 

Had my daughter never come to this decision on her own, I would still have been proud of whatever she would become. My dream was for her to become a teacher, but if she had been flying across the globe to take photos in beautiful or dangerous or solitary surroundings, I would still have been proud of her. Proud of her for doing what she loved. 

What do we do if we find out there is a medical issue with our child that will probably alter their life path and change our hopes and dreams all together? We roll with it. There is a reason for it, whether we know what that reason is or not. We may never know that reason. It honestly doesn't matter if you find out your child has cystic fibrosis or is diagnosed on the autism spectrum. You still love your children and you still have hopes and dreams for them. 

Too often I hear about parents who are overly dramatic about a curve in the road of their children's lives. They receive a diagnosis and say, "All of my hopes and dreams for my child are completely shattered!" My first thought is, "Really? Shattered? At most there might be a crack or two, but shattered?" To me that indicates that a parent's hopes and dreams were too specific and too self-centered for that child. Hope differently! Change the outcome of your dream! 

Or there are parents of children who come out to their families as gay or lesbian, and those parents shut that child out of their lives. Sometimes not totally, but it is obvious that they have shut that child out of their hearts. How heartbreaking for that child! Each comment from those parents is like another knife in the heart! "It isn't what I dreamed for him." "I always hoped for my daughter to marry the man of her dreams and settle down to give me grandchildren." "I wanted him to become a great and successful businessman." "Since she is living with another woman she will never know the joy of being pregnant, being a mother."

I hear these hurtful and completely thoughtless comments and I am amazed humans seem to live in such a black and white world. No, it might not be what you dreamed for him, but didn't you ever dream he would be happy? No, your daughter might not settle down with the man of her dreams, but couldn't it be the woman of her dreams? Your son can be a great and successful businessman no matter his sexual orientation. Many women living as a couple or as spouses know the joys of pregnancy and the joy of being a mother. 

Which brings me to my original point; there are parents of 20 children in Connecticut whose hopes and dreams for their children are truly shattered. There are gifts under a tree that will not be opened as planned. There are closets full of clothing that will no longer be worn. There are toy chests full of toys that won't be played with anymore. And there are hopes and dreams that will never come true. They won't ever have the joy of watching their children grow up. Those children will forever be six and seven years old. 


Think about those parents when you overreact to something your child tells you. The conversation your child will have with you about their latest issue or problem (being pregnant, dropping out of college, dating someone of a different race, getting in a car wreck, failing a class, not making the honor roll, telling you about his/her sexual orientation) is nothing compared to the conversation 27 sets of parents had with the police last week in Connecticut. 

Merry Christmas and Bah Humbug!

I do enjoy Christmas, I really do. I also get pretty crabby because real trees can be messy and sometimes smelly and not everyone can agree on one all the time. And no matter how small it looks out on the tree farm, it usually covers half of my living room. 

Gift-giving can be a little stressful, too. I don’t know what to tell people I want, and unless I’m given a list, I usually don’t know what to get others. I think you should be grateful for what you’re given, no matter what it is. I don’t think you should post pictures of horrible presents or call in to a radio show with what the worst-ever Christmas present was you received. Because you know what? The worst present you could get is nothing. And if what I have given is considered your worst, then it might just get worse next year. 

I don’t even mind the shopping, because I really do enjoy shopping. No matter the time of year. Rude people are rude people no matter what time of year it is. 

Here’s what really gripes my ass: Christmas music playing at the stores and malls. First, they start playing it in September or October when they start putting out the Christmas items to sell, and that is just wrong. Back to school items and Christmas items should not pass each other in the retail aisles. Second, there are very few Christmas songs that don’t sound like nails on a chalkboard to me. Really.

I was shopping with my daughter earlier this week and I heard a song and I commented that I hated that song. Later, I heard another that I hated just as much. She gave me a look and I said, “Yes. There are a lot of Christmas songs I hate. I think I will let you know when there is one that I like, okay?”

I will attempt to run down a few for you, citing reasons. Feel free to discuss or refute.

“Santa, Baby” – Eartha Kitt is the only human being in the history of the world who can pull off this song. It’s whiney and greedy. Eartha Kitt can pull it off because she’s Eartha Kitt. Nobody else is, so don’t try. Okay?

“Last Christmas” – Do I even need to explain why this song is inane? It’s been a year. Quit pining. It wasn’t meant to be so let it go. Move on and take that damn song with you when you go.

NOTHING sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks belongs anywhere outside of a preschool or elementary school. I know my 18 year old daughter will disagree, but it is nothing that should be played on an adult radio station. How do they even know what chipmunks sound like, anyway?  

“Little Saint Nick” – Let’s just start off by saying that nobody in the last four decades has been a “cool cat.” And there is no lyric out there that is more stupid than "Christmas comes this time each year." Really? Duh. Too many drugs, I'd say. And obviously not good ones if that's all the better you can come up with, Boys. 

"Carol of the Bells" - As an instrumental, strictly a large orchestra instrumental, this is a wonderful piece. When you put words to it, it sounds like either an unmedicated child with ADHD or someone on crack. 

"Feliz Navidad" - Sorry. Taco John's ruined this for me. Jose Feliciano should sue them. 

"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" - This WAS a cute song. It should never be sung by an adult. And I think the Jackson 5 should have been fined millions of dollars for singing this song. Don't add stupid lyrics. "I did! I did see mommy kissing Santa Claus!" Don't be ignorant. It didn't make the song any better. Less is more, Michael. 

"Jingle Bell Rock" - oh. my. goodness. Very cute in 1957, I'm sure. There should be no song, about Christmas or otherwise, that includes the word "swell." 

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" - Very sweet song. Unfortunately, too many people have turned it into a dirge. I CAN'T have a merry anything after I hear this song! It depresses me!

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" - This has the potential for being a very nice song. Sadly, Andy Williams confused Halloween and Christmas in this song. I do not, and have never, on any of my 43 Christmases, told a scary ghost story. Never. Not once. 

"Winter Wonderland" - No song that contains lyrics about conspiring by the fire can be a good one. And why would you include in your song that the other kids are going to knock down your snowman/circus clown? And I think it's pretty racist, too. Just how exactly DO Eskimos frolic and play? Is it different than how other people frolic and play?

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" - My apologies to Mr. Bing Crosby, but this song is pretty damn sad. If someone sang it to me like that, I wouldn't be there when he got there. It would just make me depressed! Speed it up!

"Little Drummer Boy" - this has got to be the most overrated Christmas song ever. Too slow. Too sad. Too pa-rum-pa-pum-pummy. 

All that being said, there are Christmas songs I do like. 

"The Christmas Song" (Chestnuts Roasting) is my favorite. As long as it's not sung too slow and sappy. Except the whole thing about Eskimos. I just think it's racist to lump all people who live in cold climates together as Eskimos.

"Holly Jolly Christmas" is a good one. I would have a cup of cheer if it were offered to me. I like that song.

"Sleigh Ride" is a good one, too. Nobody covered it as well as Whitney Houston and Mary Katherine Gallagher on SNL, but I do like the song. It's fast-paced and peppy. But not the instrumental-only version. Then it just sounds like a horse on crack.

I could listen to the entire album of John Denver and the Muppets, A Christmas Together. "The Peace Carol" is probably the most beautiful song I can think of. And "Christmas is Coming" is fun to hear anyone sing, but it's the best when it's led by Miss Piggy. I'm sorry, but it can't get much better than Kermit and Miss Piggy. "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" is only enhanced by Miss Piggy interrupting the song because she thinks they are calling for "piggy pudding" and not "figgy pudding." I don't think I'd eat either, but it makes me laugh, every time.

I know there are other songs I like. I know there are other songs I hate. If I think of them, I'll add to this. But all I have to say is THANK GOODNESS it is December 23. I don't think I could handle much more of the Christmas songs on the radio and in the stores.

How Lipitor and Dr. RW Killed my Dad

I've never been known to mince words. I say it like it is. If Dr. RW were standing in front of me, I'd tell him that I think he, with a combination of medicines and his own ineptitude killed my dad. If there were a way for me to sue him for every penny he has, I would. It wouldn't bring my dad back, but maybe it would stop him from "practicing" medicine on anyone else.

The guy was seriously a joke. You know the joke: "what do you call a doctor that finishes last in his class? Doctor." That's him. And besides that, he looks like Beaker from the Muppets. Beady eyes, long neck, red hair, skinny pointy head. Yep, that's Dr. RW.

He put my dad on some medicine for his arthritis many years ago. Didn't do any of the monitoring of bodily organs that he should have, but one day just told my dad that he couldn't take the drug anymore. No explanation, nothing. Come to find out, one of the serious side effects of this drug was that it destroyed his kidneys. It could have been stopped sooner if Dr. Inept had monitored it more closely. But he didn't. Dad found out from another doctor the reason why he couldn't take the arthritis medication any longer and what effect it had on his body.

Later he put Dad on Lipitor to lower his cholesterol. You know in the commercials where it says "Lipitor can have rare, but serious side effects. Contact your doctor immediately if you experience one of these side effects." If you ever do suspect or experience one of them, don't stop contacting your doctor until they have researched it and conducted enough tests to completely rule that out.

From that point on, Dr. RW kept prescribing more medications to counteract the side effects of the previous medication. He prescribed Neurontin (gabapentin) to alleviate the leg cramps and muscle fatigue in his lower leg, which was actually a side effect of the Lipitor (atorvistatin). Abrupt withdrawl from Neurontin nearly killed him in May of 2009. That was another doctor, though. He was not nearly as inept, but had an ego the size of Texas and did not appreciate being questioned over his medical practices.

But back to Dr. RW/Beaker/Inept/Idiot. He had a way of raising my dad's blood pressure. It was always "one more test" or "one more night in the hospital" or something. Finally we'd had enough. Dad was scheduled to have open heart surgery in March of 2005. We took that time to contact Dr. RW's office and let them know that Dr. RW was not to visit Dad in the hospital because he would no longer be Dad's doctor. But true to Dr. RW, he showed up in intensive care anyway. Less than 24 hours after his surgery, he came to the ICU to review Dad's chart with the excuse that he had to sign off on his progress.

Well this is what happened: One of my brothers and I were in with Dad and a nurse, and suddenly the blood pressure monitor started making sounds like it was going to take off or something. Another nurse rushed in the room and asked what was wrong, that his blood pressure was through the roof. Dad just pointed through the window to the desk, to the back of a tall, gangly, red-headed man in a long white coat. I told the nurse, "that's his FORMER doctor. We released him today. He tends to get Dad's ire up." The nurse pulled the curtain and Dad's blood pressure started going back down. The other nurse went to the desk to ensure Dr. RW would not try to go in and see Dad or speak to him.

That was the last we saw of Beaker. To the best of my knowledge, he did not ever try to make contact with my dad again. It seems so simple and seems like that would be it and things would get better. Unfortunately, there was 19 years worth of incompetence and ineptitude from Dr. RW building up inside Dad's body. 19 years of damage that could not be undone. I'm not blaming all of my dad's health issues on Dr. RW. There were things Dad could have done differently that would not have put his body in the condition it was in. Like 45 years of smoking, for starters. 

I guess I have two points I'd like anyone who reads this to take away from here. 

1) You are your own best medical advocate. You are the best medical advocate for your family members. Ask questions. Do research. No, do informative, intelligent research. Know what you're taking and what the side effects are. Question your doctor if he or she tries to put you on additional medication to alleviate the side effects of a current medication. Know the difference between generic and name brand medications. Know the consequences of abruptly stopping a medication. Ask questions, ask questions, ask questions. Doctors DON'T know everything. My brother says there is a reason they call it "practicing" medicine. Everybody is different. Just because your doctor has 12 patients who take this medicine or that medicine and they tolerate it quite well doesn't mean you will tolerate it well. Know your body and know what things your body is trying to tell you. Speak up for yourself and don't ever hesitate to tell your doctor no. If you refuse a medication or a test and they say they have to put in your chart that you refused something, make damn sure they put your reasons for refusing in the chart as well. 

2) Love your family. Love your dad, love your mom, love your siblings, love your spouse, love your children. Love them all because you never know when will be the last time you are able to tell them you love them. And if you have a family member who is taking medication or having medical tests done, ask them how they are and how they are feeling. Don't accept "fine" as an answer. We all know that F.I.N.E. stands for "f*ed up, insecure, neurotic and emotional." Ask specific questions and ask what you can do to help them. 

Just because someone has a medical degree (or a juris doctorate or a higher degree of any sort!) does not mean that they know more than you do. Some knowledge does not come from a book. Some knowledge comes from your heart.