Monday, March 25, 2013

Cue the Carpenters in 3, 2, 1...We've Only Just Begun

I recently "liked" and then, within about ten days, "un-liked" a group on Facebook.  

I liked them because they seemed a bit edgier than the typical Down syndrome page.  

I un-liked them because I was turned off by what I saw as disrespect towards those who had been fighting for years for our children with Down syndrome; a fight that many on the page had only entered into recently.  

I took it personally.  

I now realize that this is silly.  They are mad about how the world sees and treats people with Down syndrome and so am I.  The fight over whether blue nails or wacky socks is a better way to support World Down Syndrome Day is a silly one.  It's time to band together, even if we don't always agree.  It's time for full inclusion for our children, with no exceptions. It's not about making friends with everyone who has a kid with Down syndrome.

And so, the fight continues.

In my last post, I talked about Robert Ethan Saylor; a young man with Down syndrome who died at the hands of the police that he idolized.

Here is some more reaction to the verdict by the grand jury...

I wonder where we go from here.  Where can we go when even national Down syndrome groups are putting part of the blame for Ethan's death squarely on the shoulders of Down syndrome?

Self loathing, much?  How do we move forward in this climate?  How do we affect meaningful change when even those who should be on our side are making it harder?   And don't even get me started on some of the hateful comments from the general public.  I can't even begin to fathom the froth that some will whip up at the sight of differences, much less try and process it.  I just have to ignore it, for now.

I think I found part of the answer to moving forward in the movies and television shows that I have been drawn to, recently.  It's funny how the subconscious works. 

First, I re-watched Les Miserables, which is basically about fighting even when you will probably die a horrible death and never see the fruits of your labor; but at least you'll die fighting. 

Second, I watched part of the series "The Abolitionists" on PBS.  This one really got me thinking.  The parallels between the American slave and the American individual with Down syndrome became so clear; at least to me.  And then I thought, "god, I hope it doesn't take 300 years".  

So, drawing more parallels to slavery and the acceptance of blacks as first human, then free, then landowners and voters, then on to full fledged members of society no different than whites.  Um, yeah.  Do you see the problem here?  

The huge, glaring problem is that they are still fighting; along with women and gays and every other marginalized group out there.  Are we at the back of this line or are we a part of it?  I think we are a part of it, just not enough people realize it yet.  And the thing that scares me the most is that some people haven't even gotten to the "human" part as far as those with disabilities are concerned. Forget school and inclusion.  Forget cute campaigns and slogans and nail colors and socks.  There are some people who don't even see our kids as HUMAN BEINGS.  It's like slave culture 150 + years ago!

What do you do with that?!?

I guess the first step is to ignore the haters (because they will always be there, even 300 years later) and focus on those who are not so closed minded.   We need to become as vocal and well organized as the groups marching in pride parades and maybe (hopefully) join forces with some of them, because in the end, all any of us want is equality and inclusion and acceptance.  We have to fight for the first two and the last will come. 

This guy knows what I am talking about...

Lastly, I see a huge need to embrace Down syndrome as a part of the human condition.  Just like being born homosexual or female or black; Down syndrome is a part of life.  It's what we do with what we are born with that matters and the first part of moving forward has to be accepting ourselves and our children for what they are.  

For example, I've learned that my child really, really sucks at math.  He does.  Part of this has to do with the fact that I also really, really suck at math, but another part is that he has Down syndrome and that makes learning math even harder.  

I don't want to deny that my child has challenges.  I don't want him to feel that Down syndrome is something he should feel ashamed of, or that he needs to "pass" as typical to be accepted.  I'm ok with him learning at his own pace in a class that is compromised of other children who also learn at that pace.  It's not that I don't want him included with the "typical" (yeah, I am really starting to hate that term) children all the time, it's that I have learned that right now, for him, this is the placement that makes him feel the most successful.  I see it as the same as my oldest son being in a lower level Algebra class and A.P. History.  He learns best in an environment that is suited to his learning level and style.  

And seriously, screw math!  Who cares?  My kid is good at reading, telling jokes and is a warehouse of useless facts and movie quotes that he will gladly recite to anyone who will listen.  As long as he can count change at the grocery store, I don't see a lack of math skills as an impediment to his future.  I haven't used the algebra that it took me two semesters to learn (and forget immediately) ever.  

We need to embrace Down syndrome.  It is a part of us.  Regardless of what happens in the future, we need to fight for our kids today. No more back of the bus.  No more blaming the victim.  It's time to be loud and proud.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Robert Ethan Saylor

Robert Ethan Saylor

If you haven't heard of him, you need to read his story.  If you have, then I hope you are as outraged over his death as I am.

It is incomprehensible that a young man who, from stories of people who knew him well, loved the police could die at their hands.  It is the cruelest irony.  

My Charles has Down syndrome.  My Charles is a stocky, strong thirteen year old.  My Charles could be in Ethan's situation, one day.  I am terrified at that thought.  

We are told to teach our children independence.  They want and deserve as much freedom as possible.  But, how do you prepare your child for something like this?  How do I tell my boy that the good guys, the ones you need to go to if you need help, aren't always good?  Which of course, is the way of the world.  You can't tell by looking who are the good guys and who are the bad guys.  It would certainly make things easier if you could.  

But, surely, SURELY our children can trust those whose job it is to protect and serve.  Right? RIGHT?!?!

I am sick and sad and angry, so angry.  When I put myself in Ethan's mom's shoes for even a second, the grief is overwhelming.  Then, I realize that I am in her shoes.  We all are.  Ethan is our friend, our neighbor, our brother, our child.  He is US.  

If nothing else, I hope this is a spark.

I want this to be the Montgomery Bus Boycott.  

No more back of the bus for Ethan, or Charles or any other individual with intellectual disabilities.  It's about damn time that everyone wakes up to the fact, THE FACT, not the idea, but THE FACT that no one is better than anyone else.  No race, no religion, no income bracket, no IQ makes you worth more than my son.  He is you.

Monday, March 18, 2013


I don't know why I never learn my lesson.  

I join a group of like-minded people at work, or at school or online and at first, I am all "Whooo!!!  You people are so great!!! What did I do before I knew you?!?!?  I love you!!!" and then, I realize with great disappointment that they are, in fact, human and therefore I realize that I pretty much hate them.  

It's no one's fault but my own.  I have very high expectations and I get excited pretty easily.  

I also crave acceptance.  My own feeling of right and wrong is not enough.  I need someone telling me that it is ok to feel the way I do.  I am insecure and need someone to tell me that I am not crazy.  Even better, I need a whole group of people telling me that I am perfectly normal.  And cool.  Very, very cool.  I realize that this is something I need to work on.  The problem is that there is not much middle ground here for me to work with.  I'm usually either alone in my thinking, or I come to find out that I am not alone, but the people that think like me are fucking lunatics.  Neither scenario is attractive to me.

Let me give you an example:  Three years (and twenty pounds) ago, I went on a healthy eating retreat.  It was wonderful.  I learned a ton, I lost some weight, I came home full of energy and with a new group of similarly minded Facebook friends.  And then, a few weeks or months later, I started to realize who the crazies were.  Now, most of the people I met were in the same boat as me:  they loved the retreat, they took away many great ideas and lifestyle changes, but, it was a part of their lives, not THEIR LIVES.  

Then the crazies started haranguing the rest of us about wearing leather shoes and carrying leather bags and having a leather couch and on and on.  Did I mention that these were all people who were eating vegan?  But, that wasn't good enough.  We had to do all or nothing to be good enough for them.

The craziest part of all, is that the one's that I respected the most were the ones who admitted to eating a cheeseburger now and again.  They recycled and upcycled and wore their damned leather shoes for twenty years because they were comfortable and what was the sense of throwing them away, now?  Wouldn't that be a terrible waste?

And I love animals. Love them!  I have eaten and not eaten them for years.  Not eaten when I really thought about what I was eating; eaten when I became blinded by a craving, or was stressed or the million other reasons why I don't live on kale and chickpeas.  Mostly, because I am weak and food is an addiction.  I'm not saying it's right.  I'm just trying to be honest.

I guess I could have ignored the crazies except that they were always the loudest, the ones who typed in ALL! CAPS!  ALL THE TIME!  and had to HAD TO get the last word.  It was not enough that we agreed, mostly.  We had to accept it all or be berated for having a slightly different opinion.  

So, I defriended and unliked and stepped away from the whole thing, which is a shame, because I loved so much about it.  I just couldn't take the constant yelling.  I have three boys and a terrible mortgage company.  There is way more than enough yelling in my own house, thank you very much.

I think I am learning that finding those that will support you even when you sortof (but not really) disagree is really important.  Maybe we are nuts, but, we are nuts together.

Thursday, March 14, 2013


It was snowing hard that early December evening.  Your father drove his old Volkswagen beetle slowly through the dark, slippery streets.  The snow was heavy and wet and stuck to the wipers as they tried to keep up.

Thwack, thwack, thwack...

The hospital's lights loomed bright and your father smiled just as your mother let out a gasp of relief.  Four hours later, you arrived.

Your skin was smooth and soft.  Your hair was like a bit of dandelion fluff; so soft, barely visible, looking ready to fly off of your small head.  Your eyes were the slate color of the winter sky out the window.

Your mother reached for you and finally, lovingly, you were held.  She looked into your slate, gray eyes with her searching blue.  She saw only your loveliness, your sweetness; she did not see Down syndrome.  She saw her gorgeous, perfect child.

Your mother was so busy looking at your sweet face that she didn't see the doctor and your father leave the room.  We he returned, your father's mouth was a tight line and his eyes were troubled.  When he spoke, it was a choked whisper.  "He is broken.  He has Down syndrome.  We have to leave him here".  

Your mother clutched you tighter and angrily told your father that you were beautiful and perfect and definitely not broken and that you would most certainly be going home in the warm, blue snowsuit she had packed for you.

At that moment, the doctor returned with a nurse.  He was stern and the nurse insisted.  You were taken away as your mother cried.  The blue snowsuit went unworn.

The baby room was noisy and chilly.  With your big eyes and quick smile, you became a favorite of the nurses.  The held you for a moment or two.  They hummed while you drank your bottle.  But, with thirty other infants to care for, they had to be quick and you spent most of the time looking at the ceiling.  

You grew.

The nurses did their best.  Sometimes, you had a toy to keep you busy.  Sometimes, you just cooed to your fingers.  When you were two, you pulled yourself up to see all the other cribs like yours.  So many cribs.  So many babies like you.  It seemed you would stay in this room forever, but what does a baby know about forever?

On your fifth birthday, you had some ice cream.  You got into a car for only the second time in your life.  The day was snowy, like the day you were born.  The world was so big and bright that it scared you and you cried.  The tears dried and fear turned to curiosity as you arrived at your new "home".  

Your new room had green walls and just like in your baby home, there were many, many beds.  You cried the first night and for many nights after.  The blankets were itchy and you wanted your old room and your old crib.  You missed the sounds of babies.  Here, there were louder, uglier sounds.  It was scary.

Though you are surrounded by other children, you feel alone.  Sometimes, being in a crowd is the loneliest place to be. 

One year goes by, then two, then five and wonder if there is more to life than this.  Gray skies outside match the color of your eyes, but you fight to keep your heart full of sunshine.

You don't know it, but far away from your chilly bed, your mom is looking at your face on the computer.  This is not the mom who left you behind; this is the mom who won't stop until she is holding you.  Though she has never heard your cry, she cries for you.  

Though she's never held your hand, you hold her heart in yours.

This mom would cross any ocean to see your face and indeed, she will have to.

You don't know it yet, but today, your life has changed.

And so has your mom's.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Going Back in Time

I was in school in the 70's and 80's.  You would think that things then were not so different from things now, but they were.  For perspective, think about how things were in the 50's and 60's compared to when I was in school and you can see that things have really changed both from the 50's to the 80's and from the 80's until today.  Segregation, being sent to the corner, getting a rap on the knuckles; all things that were common when my mom was in school, less common when I was and are all but unheard of, now.

The change is no more apparent than when you look at the disability community.  My kids, all of whom have Individualized Education Programs (or, IEP's) and varying degrees of need are all welcomed, challenged and integrated into life at their school's.  It is still challenging, there is still work to be done, but, at least in our little corner of the world northwest of Chicago, they seem to be getting it (mostly) right. 

I imagine with horror, how life would be for my Charles, who has Down syndrome, if he were in junior high when I was.  He is a popular, thriving seventh grader alongside his tall and dark haired younger brother.  He probably would not have been in the early 80's.

I remember sitting in the cafeteria of my middle school in New Jersey.  My homeroom's table was at the top right corner of the room farthest from the lunch line.  The table at the bottom left was usually empty.  Every once in awhile, however, there would be seated at it five or six children with disabilities.  I remember that at least two had Down syndrome, but that is all I really remember about their looks. What I definitely remember is the feeling of revulsion I had when they walked in or out.  They moved funny.  Their gates were choppy and strange.  They were so different.  

They sat with their heads bowed, talking and gesturing quietly to each other.  I realize now that they kept their heads down so as not to see the ugly looks they were receiving from just about everyone else in that room.

What a sad and lonely feeling that must have been.  

Imagine being in a large group of people all talking loudly and too quickly in a dialect you have a hard time understanding and they are all looking at you.  None of them look friendly or happy to have you there.  You feel like you don't belong there AT ALL.

They were like carnival freaks, except no one was clamoring to see them.  No one was hawking about their strange abilities.  They were just there.

I cry now at this memory.  I cry because I wasn't sensitive enough at the time to realize that it was wrong to shun those kids; KIDS!  Kids just like me.  I cry because I wonder how it must have felt to them to sit in that room.  I cry because they had to deal with any of that at all.  I want to shake that dirty-blond haired girl and say "THEY HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE HERE!  THE SAME AS YOU DO!"  I want to shake the teacher's for not educating us in any way about those kids.  They were never mentioned, never at recess, never in the hall; to this day I have no idea where their classroom was or if it was even in that school at all.  Imagine, in a school of maybe 500 kids not knowing where an entire classroom full of kids was!  It seems unfathomable today, but it was a fact for me in 1981.

It is exquisitely painful to think about this now.  It breaks my heart into a million pieces thinking on how I could have made the days just a little bit better for those kids.  I could have smiled.  I could have stopped at their table and said hi.  I could have asked their teacher where their classroom was.  I didn't.  I regret it to this day.

So, now I wonder who they were and where they are now.  I wonder how many of them are still alive.  I wonder what their lives were like outside of school.  If they were truly cherished by someone, in hopes that it might have helped them get through those awful, awful days.  I find myself wanting to reach out to them, still, today, hopefully better late than never, to say "I see you.  I want to know you.  I am sorry".

Thursday, March 7, 2013

The r-word part deux or 247, but who's counting?

So, yesterday was the annual "Spread the Word to End the Word" day of awareness.  Many in the intellectual disabilities community celebrated by wearing different colored socks, event t-shirts and other things and some of us, many of us, got our thoughts down in a blog post.  This is the part where I need to apologize because, apparently, I cannot figure out how to take part correctly in a "blog hop" where all the same subject are linked together.  I tried, believe me, I did."

I spent a lot of time thinking about the word, yesterday.  I got really angry a number of times, exasperated that people JUST! DON'T! GET! IT!!! Even people who claim to be champions of people like my Charles were getting on my nerves.  It's enough to make you want to throw in the towel and say "Enough!  I just don't care anymore!  Say whatever you want, assholes!"

So, I stepped away from the keyboard.  I did a tough workout (my arms are killing me).  I walked on the treadmill.  I had a surprise visit from some friends and their baby and I forgot my anger for awhile.  Later on, after Charles' last Special Olympics basketball game of the season, I started thinking about what I would write today and I thought of this...

About 12 years ago, I had some friends who were a gay couple.  Their daughter was a few months older than my youngest, Evan and a few months younger than my middle, Charles.  We bonded over being pregnant and all that and they were just cool to be around, so we had a few play dates when the kids were really little.  

One afternoon, I was standing in their living room and I referred to something as being "so gay".  Mind you, I had my little toddler, Charles, with Down syndrome climbing all over me at the moment and still, this was the word I chose.  I was kind of wrapped up in whatever the kids were doing, so I did not see my one friend's face when I said the word.  I imagine, she showed some kind of disapproval, though.  

She didn't say anything this time, but let me continue saying whatever I was saying, probably feeling troubled and hurt, the way I do when I hear someone say "that's so retarded".

The day went on and I used the term again.  This time, she stopped me, looking very hurt.  I said all the things that people say "I didn't mean it that way!",   "you know what I mean!", etc., etc... I defended my word choice (sound familiar?).  I accused her of being overly sensitive (do you hate me, yet?).  I left that day a little troubled by her hurt and anger, but really not hearing what it was she was trying to tell me.
A few days later, or maybe a week, or maybe a month, I overheard someone say "that's so retarded".  They weren't talking to me or about my Charles, but my guts twisted.  I got that sick feeling that I get when I am upset about something.  I looked at Charles and I got it.  I just "got" it in that moment.  My next move was to call my friends.  I was glad when my friend, the one who had been hurt, picked up the phone.  I told her what had happened; that I now "got" what she was trying to tell me; that I knew I had been wrong and I was really, really sorry for hurting her.  We cried a little.  Maybe, a lot.  It was good.  It was cleansing.  I felt like a weight had been lifted.

As I think back on this, I tell myself that not everyone is going to get it.  No matter how much I beg, reason, cajole, cry and scream (mostly scream), there are going to be people that just don't get it.  I don't have to accept that, but if I don't, how crazy am I going to make myself?  It doesn't mean that I will stop trying to make people understand.  I will always do that.  But, it might mean giving people that truly matter time to process. Anyone whose kid has an IEP can relate to that term.  If I didn't get it, if I was so hard headed and ignorant and callous, why should I expect other people to read a blog and go "OH!!! HOW WRONG I HAVE BEEN" and start begging me for forgiveness?  I shouldn't.  If some do, great.  Maybe, though, we all just need a little time for processing.

Something else I was thinking about in reference to the r-word and all that it means, was movies and t.v. and it's use in those mediums.

It is used, a lot, still.  I have never seen Tropic Thunder and I won't.  I normally wouldn't speak to something I hadn't actually seen for myself, but, I have heard enough about it from people that I trust to know that it is one of the worst offenders.  I loved the movie "The Descendants", but that scene in the car hurt.  It really did.

It would probably in my top 20 favorite movies if that hadn't happened.

I loved the show The Office when Steve Carell was still on it. I can still remember a scene in which the words retard and retarded are used and I have thought about them many times, since.  

I love the movie "The Ringer".  I love it.  My whole family loves it.  It is crude and vulgar and yes, the r-word is in it, but here is the catch, I think it shows people with intellectual disabilities in a great light.  Tim Shriver, one of the biggest champions of the developmentally disabled was consulted heavily and is listed as the Executive Producer on the film.  He saw the good a movie like that could do for this community.  He saw what I see when I watch it, that you can laugh at it without laughing at the disabilities.  You see the Special Olympics athletes as human, as having feelings, as being funny and talented.  You don't laugh at them (maybe some do), you laugh with them.  It makes all the difference.

The difference with the r-word being used in "The Descendants" and in "The Ringer" is huge.  In the first, "The Descendants", it's the protagonist using it, you like him, he's the good guy and the victim.  He's still an asshole for using that word so casually.  It makes me like him much less than I would have otherwise.

In the second, "The Ringer" and in that episode of "The Office", the word is only used by the very, very clueless:  the jerkface uncle, the mob boss, and it's inferred by Lynn's icky boyfriend.  The unlikely hero in the movie, Steve (Jeffy), played wonderfully by Johnny Knoxville, tells his uncle off for using terms like "feeb".

He befriends his teammates.  He becomes one of us.  It's beautiful, really.

In "The Office", we all know that Michael Scott is clueless.  Does anyone really want to be a Michael Scott?

Of course not.  It still bugs me to hear the words in this scene, but if I think about it, it's a good thing.  It really is.  The genius of it, intentional or not (I'm thinking not, since Ricky Gervais has never exactly been a friend to our community), it makes you think "Wow.  That guy is really clueless".  At least, that's how I see it.  And if I see it that way, don't some others?  I can't worry about those who will never, ever get it and don't want to anymore than I can convince some truly heartless people that my son deserved a chance to be a part of our family.  There will always be the holdouts.  It's the same as with anything else.  There will always be cruel people with bad intentions, not just for my kid, but for animals, for women, for other races and ethnicity's.  Though I can't completely ignore these people, I can't focus on them, either.  It would make me crazy(er).  It would be a waste of time.

All I can do is spread awareness, spread love and give wait time for processing.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Spread the Word to End the Word 2013

My middle son is thirteen.

He is funny, he is silly, he is the physically strongest thirteen year old I have ever encountered.  He loves to take movies on his I-pod Touch.  He loves messing with the cats.  He calls his friends way too early on Saturday so he can spend the day beating them at Godzilla on XBox.

He laughs easily and makes other's laugh easily.  He can tell you in what movie he heard that song on the radio in about three may take you a bit longer than that to realize what it was that he said, though.  His speech is somewhat hard to understand, and he has only two volume levels:  Whisper and Shout.  We are working on that.  

My son, my Charles, has Down syndrome.  I won't say that it isn't a big part of his life, because it is.  It's become cliche to say that it doesn't matter that much, but it does.  Anyone who says differently is fooling themselves.  Down syndrome makes him look a little different, learn a little (with some things; a lot with other's) slower and makes him the object of ridicule for those who "don't get it".

The word "retard" makes me cringe, as it does most other people who love someone with an obvious disability.  My son's difference is painted on his face, in the hues of Down syndrome.  He cannot escape it.  He also cannot escape his tormentors.  You might think he doesn't hear you when you laugh at him, but he does.  You might think he does not notice that you exclude him, that you elbow your neighbor and smirk when you see him, that you are only nice when there are witnesses, but believe me, he does.  You might think it doesn't bother him.  You would be wrong about that.

You might think it is just a word.  You might say that you have a right to be as cruel and hurtful as you want, after all, free speech is protected under the Constitution.  You would be right about that.  But, is it right?  Really right as in okay?  Would you feel okay if people called you the word that meant the weakest part of you, day in and day out?  You probably wouldn't.  Then again, you probably couldn't think of a word that was worse than retard.

I guess that's the point.  You call your friend a retard as a joke, because it's the worst thing you can think of.  You call your friend a retard because it is funny to make fun of those whom you perceive as helpless.

Let me tell you something:  if you have any kind of humanity, one day you will have someone in your life that is affected by some kind of disability.  Your mom might have a stroke and talk funny for awhile.  Your dad might have a crippling injury and need to use a walker or a wheelchair.  Your friend might be in a car accident.  You might discover ( as I did with my oldest son) that your healthy, gorgeous, PERFECT three year old has autism.

Would you call any of them retard?  Would you want other's to?  Would you feel ashamed and sick that you had ever used that word casually, or otherwise?

As to the last, I hope so.

Winter Rant Number Seventeen

This post is really more about assholes.

Let me explain:  Winter in Northern Illinois is long...way longer than what it says on the calender.  In fact, Winter in the Chicagoland area lasts from Halloween until roughly May 15th, when you have to immediately turn on your air conditioning.  You would think that after living here for close to twenty years I would be used to this horror and in many ways, I am.  What I cannot get used to, however, are the assholes.

Let me explain...

The Circle Dropoff Asshole:  This person is a terrible driver under the best of conditions.  Throw in some snow, ice, a completely snow covered car and children trying to get to the school's front door and you have a recipe for disaster.  I've had these numbskulls pull up to the right of my car, in the bus lane, going 30 miles an hour as my kids are trying to exit my vehicle.  They then drive away so quickly, because they've seen the murderous look on my face, that all I have time to do is shout obscenities at their bumpers.

The Christmas Decorations Asshole:  I love Christmas.  I really do.  I love the lights, I love the Christmas movies, the cosy feeling of having a Christmas tree in the living room, Christmas vacation, all of it...except for... Those people that feel the need to not only leave their lights up through Memorial Day, but whom also leave them lit.  Glowing, half burnt out, sagging Christmas lights, how pretty!  Don't even get me started on the lit up crosses.  Seriously?  Are you going to crucify Santa on your front lawn?  What does a cross have to do with Christmas?!?!  Easter, maybe.  Christmas?  Just no.  I get leaving the lights on the house until you have a decent day to climb on the roof or whatever.  But, you can't pull the plug?  You can't remove the freaking wreath from your door?  Let me tell you, there is nothing less festive than a brown wreath, sadly drooping on your front door on Valentine's Day, unless it's the molding, uninflated blow up manger scene strewn across your dead grass.

The Snow Blower Asshole:  This one is by far, my favorite.  This is the guy that spends four hours making sure that there is not a speck of snow on their car or driveway but cannot be bothered to clean the sidewalks.  Even worse, sometimes the Snow Blower Asshole is also a Snow Plow Asshole who plows the snow across the sidewalk making a five or six foot hill directly on the sidewalk that kids trying to walk home from school or dog walkers have to navigate over or around.  Really, Asshole?  You can't clean your god damned sidewalk?  If my 80 year old neighbor can do it, so can you.

And, so I wait for Spring when all I have to deal with are the Lawnmower Assholes, the Blasting Country Music Assholes and the Blown Speaker Rap Assholes...