My gynecologist is lucky. I wasn’t actually experiencing PMS on the day he told me that it didn’t exist.

I had scheduled my yearly appointment with hopes he could help me find some monthly relief. I wasn’t expecting miracles — or my pants to fit - I just wanted to still be married, raising children and have a job when I became human again.

My family should know I love them every single day, not just three weeks out of the month.

As I sat on the examination table, covered in a too-small drafty paper gown, the doc explained how recent studies showed PMS didn’t occur in happy women.

He said, “Women getting married didn’t experience the symptoms.”

Huh?

I guess brides’ hormones were over-powered by the joyous occasion and they felt nary a pain, twinge or cramp.

Well that made no sense on two fronts: Brides are stressed out — at least I was. If there was ever an occasion for PMS, my first wedding was it. I wasn’t happy until the honeymoon. Secondly, what the hell?

No such thing as PMS … as told to me by my male doctor. Oh really?

For an educated guy, and a gynecologist, you’d think he’d know to just lie for his own protection. Seriously, where he was sitting, I could’ve stabbed his eyes out with my big toes. It would’ve been a simple knee-jerk reaction.

At my trial, I could’ve claimed PMS - even the courts recognize that defense.

The judge would’ve shaken a finger at the doc and said, “Duuuddeee, what were you thinking?”

By chance, I do know one man that whole-heartedly believes in the affliction. When told the story, he scoffed in disbelief.

This guy has experienced the situation first hand. He’s a survivor - a dodger, soothsayer, child protector and a Midol buyer.

Wrestling an alligator and fighting a rabid porcupine at the same time would be nothing compared to what he handles every month.

Jimmy’s the reason I haven’t set my hair on fire (though I’m sure he’s thought about it once or twice), buried the dogs alive or strung the children up by their toes and muffled their complaints with duct-tape.

Every month he single-handedly saves the family, welcomes me back from the brink of destruction, accepts my apologies, forgives me and shows me where he stashed the kids.

I love you Jimmy.

I bet you wish you could marry me every month.

There should be a warning sticker on the RockBand game box. It should state: Persons 35 and older should play with caution. Play may result in addictive, grand delusions of rock god-ery, which may be harmful to your health.

That being said, I woke up yesterday morning with a hangover. My eyes felt like gravel had been pounded into them, my head wanted to split open and scream, and my muscles had the sharp tingly sensation of a thousand Ginsu knives being stabbed into them.

That was just the agony I felt when rolling over to look at the alarm clock.

Getting out of bed was an entirely different horror.

Mind you this wasn’t an alcohol hangover. There was nary a blended margarita, Jello shot or Guinness served the night before. My entire evening was comprised solely of playing guitar.

Well, not a real guitar.

A Wii guitar-controller.

That’s right. My agony was directly contributed to a night of playing RockBand.

Yes, I know. It wasn’t enough that I was addicted to Guitar Hero III. I had to pull the entire family into my madness.

It’s my job as a mom to make sure we’re participating in family activities. Right?

Well, it would be if Jimmy or I actually let one of the kids play.

Instead we created our own band, Jimavee.

And we rocked it.

All. Night. Long.

He sang (but don’t tell anyone, he gets embarrassed) and I played the guitar (naturally).

The crowd roared when we hit our notes in unison. They loved us so much the meter bar sparkled. With that kind of love and energy, who could stop?

My one weak moment was during the Ramones song ‘Blitzkrieg Bop.’ The notes were flying by fast.

Unfortunately, I was hitting only every third note. My strum thumb just couldn’t keep up. So instead I held the switch between the top knuckles of my index and middle finger.

Now I was thrashin’!

However, towards the middle of the song, I felt a burning sensation. I ignored it. The pain increased after each note. Finally, towards the end of the song, I quickly glanced at Jimmy and said, “Hey, I think I hurt my fingers.”

“What?”

“I might have skinned a knuckle.” I didn’t have time between the notes to actually look. I’d hoped Jimmy would suggest we’d put the game on pause.

Instead he said, “Stevie Ray Vaughn used to superglue his skin back on. Get over it.”

What?!?! No sympathy, no ‘oh we better stop and take a look, you poor baby?’

Of course not: This was the price of being a rock star.

If Stevie could do it … so could I. We played on.

At around midnight, after my hand was cramped and beyond feeling, Jimmy remembered we had work the next day and put the game to an end.

I begged for more, weakly. I could barely keep my eyes open, and stumbled around more than walked.

“Nope, we’re done.” He blinded me by turning on the living room light. “We’ll play again tomorrow night.”

Bummer.

I set down my guitar and squinted to look at my hand. Patches of skin on two fingers, above and below the top knuckles, had been scraped off. There wasn’t any anything to ‘glue’ back on.

I waved my bloody stumps at Jimmy. He grunted and headed to bed.

I followed, or rather, stumbled.

You’d think I learned my lesson. I’d have some sort of epiphany and either quit the band or learn to play responsibly.

That is not to be.

All I can think about today is RockBand. I should be working, but I daydream about playing.

I’ve texted Jimmy thrice already, confirming our plans for a repeat performance tonight.

Not only that, I have contacted my friends about a party for Saturday night. I bribed them with pizza and spirits.

All I have to say is that in about six hours, World, you better stand back: This mother is about to rock!

(This time with Band-Aids. Oh, and yes, we’ll actually include the kids too.)

There’s an epidemic in America. Today’s parents are labeling their brats as autistic and everyone’s buying it.

Instead of moms telling their kids to ‘cut the act out’ or dads telling their sons to ‘stop acting like a putz,’ these kids are getting diagnoses and extra support. Their sucking down the resources others could be using.

Guess what, I’ll admit it. I’m a part of that money racket. It took me 13 years and two separate diagnoses to get my son tossed on the autism train.

Now, instead of addressing my bad parenting skills, I’m raking in taxpayer’s money and gloating.

Oh yes, Michael Savage … I think you’re on to something here. You busted me, and thousands of others like me.

I know … I know… I’m lazy. I refuse to step up to the parenting plate and whack my kid into submission.

If I just tried harder, I could punish the autism right out of him. And then, only then, he’ll quit acting like a brat.

< /rant>

Watching and listening to the video of Savage spout off about 99% of children diagnosed with autism were really just brats … was the equivalent of poking myself in the eye with a fork.

Frankly, I was tempted to ignore the whole ordeal. I didn’t value the opinion of a guy paid to behave like a brat, lamenting about who he perceived to be a brat.

*shrugs shoulders*

That’s like one jackass calling someone else a jackass. Right?

Actually … with some further thought … no, it’s not. If Savage was simply one bad driver flipping the bird to another bad driver … I’d leave it be.

However, he’s attacking innocent families with false allegations and fabricating issues that don’t exist.

These are families that are already struggling for understanding and support. Why kick them while their down?

Ratings.

Unfortunately Savage has an incredibly loud voice that garners the attention of others on the national level. And — for whatever reason — many of his listeners will choose to soak up his prejudiced and angst-riddled statements and spew it, verbatim, back into their communities.

It sucks that he’s trying to make autism, or any of his special-needs issues du jour, Public Enemy Number One. It flames the existing prejudice and builds a steeper hill to hike towards awareness and tolerance.

So what can be done?

Ignore it was one suggestion. Focus the time and energy we would’ve put into this and spend it with our kids.

Hmmm, that may work for some and it would dampen his ratings spike — but that’s not a good enough answer for me. I don’t want this guy to be the loudest voice out there. I’m not going to look at my feet and shuffle by in silence and hope to blend in and avoid the situation. I’m not going to stifle my anger and keep my opinion to myself.

Not anymore that is.

There have been shout-outs to boycott Savage. That’s well and good. Hit him where it hurts, the pocketbook.

However, what about the damage that has already been done? What about the families who may shy away from assessment and support because they don’t want to be a lemming? What if they decide to avoid going out in public because of the stigma?

The autism community needs a Rosa Parks. We need someone who’s going to spark the civil rights movement for inclusion.

Maybe that someone is you.

Take your anger and turn it into action.

- Become an advocate in your community.

- Join a local autism organization or start your own.

- Create an ‘Autism Aware’ campaign and educate local businesses and people.

- Contact the Protection & Advocacy group (or an organization like them) and find how they can help.

- Connect with local families and exchange information about local services, supports and issues that need to be addressed.

- Start a listserv to share information to those who aren’t able to venture out often.

- Seek out families who are isolated and let them know they aren’t alone.

- Digg, kirtsy, stumble, blog, twitter, or plurk articles or sites like this, this, this, this, this, this, this or this.

There are a million ways you can use what you know to help.

So get out there and take a stand.

Be heard.

Act now.

And by all means, don’t let this Weiner be the strongest voice.

Drinking from the milk carton is rude. Hands down it’s the most offensive breach of manners in my book. It even trumps the elbows-off-the-table rule when eating.

Mind you, I’m fairly flexible in my parenting. I have some general guidelines I want the kids to recognize – mind your manners, be respectful to your elders, and try to be more generous than less in difficult situations. … Oh, and bathe regularly.

However, my view of appeasing your thirst from an open carton is ironclad – you don’t do it. You never pick up that jug and chug.

Never.

Ever.

That’s the law of the ‘fridge. It’s the mantle of knowledge you are granted upon opening the door and spying the milk. I don’t ever have to mention the rule, because it’s like gravity. You obey it, because you must.

So imagine my surprise last Saturday morning … when I noticed my 4-year-old son standing by the open refrigerator door, with his head tilted back, guzzling and gulping down milk directly from the container.

“Craig!” I blinked hard a few times fast to clear my eyes. I wasn’t really seeing him do that was I? “What are you doing?”

He lowered the gallon jug and with a milk-mustached smile said, “I firssy.” He then promptly swung the container back up and glugged some more.

“Craig …” I sputtered. I couldn’t really reprimand him, he didn’t know any better. It wasn’t like I had actually taught him the rule. “Craig … baby … we’ve have to talk.”

Milk dribbled down his chin. He lowered the jug, wiped his face and licked his lips. “Mama, you turn. Dweenk.”

What? “No, I use a glass. Where’s your cup? You should always use your cup.”

Craig let out a deep, contented sigh and patted his full, round belly. “Yummy. You dweenk mama.” He handed me the jug. “I share.”

I balked. Share? How many nasty germs and toast crumbs did he swish back into the carton? That was no longer milk. It was now evil, self-generating primordial ooze. By this time tomorrow we’d have a ten-eyed-one-eared alien living in our fridge … or worse.

“Um… no thanks.” My words landed with a thud.

Craig frowned, his shoulders drooped and his belly sagged. “I share with a you.” He lobbed the carton at me.

I had no choice but to grab it. Well … drinking out of the carton wouldn’t be … so bad would it? Really, didn’t I do it a few times as kid as well? I could ‘pretend’ to drink it and we’d go over the always–use-a-cup lesson later. We could talk about the reasons why we never, ever do this … later.

I put the container up to my lips.

And took a huge swig.

What the heck? My higher-functioning brain was short-circuited by impulse. I lifted the carton higher and glugged, chugged and gurgled until milk ran down my chin.

Oh yea, that cool rush down my throat felt like freedom. You know, the kind you feel when putting your feet up on the car dash and hang your hand out the window.

I drank until I had my fill, sighed with deep contentment, swiped my chin and licked my lips. Craig was on to something here.

In my milk daze, I railed against convention. Who ever died from drinking straight out of the bottle? How many people actually lost their hand because they rested it more than an inch out the car window? Why were we so uptight as adults and always on guard with our disinfectant lotions and potions? Did we really need a war against bed bugs and kitchen sponges?

I put the milk back in the ‘fridge and gave Craig a hug. “Thanks for sharing.”

It wasn’t until the next morning the horror of what I’d done hit me.

Jay sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal. … Next to him was the container of contaminated milk.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was Patient Zero in the Lactose Pandemic of 2008.