Did I mention that it is Red, Ribbon Week at the Bugsy’s school this week? I didn’t? Well, it is. It is the Just Say No Campaign, but they’ve added the color red for flair, perhaps. With this issue being so close to my heart, you can bet I’ve got a few things to say about it. Each day of the week has had a special activity along this theme: Tuesday they wore a red bracelet emblazoned with the phrase “Proud to be Drug Free,” Today they wore their favorite hat in an effort to say, “Hats off to Drugs,” Tomorrow it’s wacky socks the purpose of which says “Wacky Socks will Keep Me Off Drugs I can’t figure out, and Friday they cap it off with a costume parade. Because, clearly, costume parades are completely sober affairs. I know I said I wouldn’t talk about this subject all that much and this would be my second post in a row, but Holy Hell I can’t help myself.

The chances of my children being addicts are, oh let’s see, reallyreallyreally great. I wouldn’t wish this disease on my worst enemy, but I don’t want to be caught being a Patsy. Realistically speaking, the percentages aren’t in their favor. I think the only thing that will protect them from actively using is talking about addiction in real, age appropriate terms. Surely telling my son that to use is to die, is not going to work. One, he isn’t even quite sure what death is (and neither am I) and, two, death never really deterred me. Neither is it okay to say, “Don’t shoot dope,” nor “You can get AIDS or Hepatitis C from using needles, young man. So don’t use drugs!” Somehow, I think, he won’t really understand and that’s a good thing. But certainly there is a way to open a dialogue about this tricky subject with kids of all ages. Me included.

As we sat down to dinner last night, I started asking Bugs what his bracelet meant. Silence. “You mean they didn’t talk about it or tell you why you were wearing it?” More silence. This seriously grabs my gonads and twists in a way that is both irksome and painful. Grrr. So let’s just have this whole week devoted to saying No to Drugs and wearing Wacky Socks, but God forbid we actually talk about it. I mean, that would just be crazy.

More than that, however, the Just Say No campaign really chaps my hide. In part, addiction is the inability to say no despite negative consequences. If I could have said no, I would have. The fact the I, essentially, can’t say no really batters my self-confidence. It has taken me years to grasp the fact that addiction is an allergy. The body’s abnormal reaction to an ingested substance. When I introduce drugs or alcohol into my system, my body responds with a physical, mental, and spiritual answer. Usually something along the lines of, “More. Now. At whatever cost.”

I find it irresponsible of the school to bring up a subject so relevant to today’s society, but to say nothing about it. Not only do I wish that they would invite openly talking about it (or raising awareness of it), as we have done with out son, but I wish they would educate and inform. I realize that it is indeed inappropriate to talk about some of the consequences of drugs. In polite audiences, most people would cringe at the mention of death, they might roll their eyes or sigh at the hint of homelessness, and they may feel that none of it really applies to them. However, to talk about the fact that drugs take you away from your family, they separate you from your spiritual side, they destroy your creativity, and they dismantle your relationships is all very civilized. It was easy for my son to understand the allergy concept. He’s allergic to peanuts, to eat them would certainly require a trip to the hospital. He doesn’t even know what they taste like. Because, in all seriousness, he is very likely an addict and I would like to avoid his slipping into active using, we have spoken about his allergy to alcohol. Basically, we told him, it’s like peanut butter: don’t even try it.

Who knows, maybe our whole approach won’t even work. I pray that this isn’t the case, but I’m trying to keep my eyes open about the whole thing. We started the conversation, which is more than I can say his school has done. They’re certainly willing to bring the subject up, but they’re not willing to talk about anything. I know it can be a loaded subject, with people both for and against educating our children; however, they brought it up and by not explaining the topic it somehow makes it feel taboo. And, I believe, that’s the worst thing. I need to make sure my children always know that they won’t get in trouble for talking about things with me. After all, the More You Know, right? Ha! I kid! Sort of, anyway.

was the day my best friend chose to end her life. I say chose, but I’ll never really know if it was an accident or not. I’ll never really know if she deliberately took enough heroin to end her life or if she was of the assumption, “If some is good, more is better.” I’d like to think it was an accident. I’d like to believe she wouldn’t be so selfish as to chose to end her life before it really began. But, again, I’ll never really know. I do know that the previous 365 days were a living nightmare for her. I know that the pain was so great that at times it was difficult to breathe. I know that she consistently feared she’d never forget, never move on, never love again. Because it was precisely one year before she took her own life, that her fiancee died of an accidental overdose. I don know that in that moment, the pain must have been so great as to feel as if she would never get out from underneath it. If I had just one moment with her, I would tell her it would eventually pass. If you’re of the belief that addiction is just a moral issue, you might want to stop reading. If, however, your life has been touched by the disease of addiction, as has mine (obvs), continue with an open heart.

I used to bang my fists in a child-like fashion against the pillow, knowing this wouldn’t necessarily bring her back, but hoping that there would be relief in the eventual aching in my arms. It’s been exactly four years since Ashley died and while time has certainly eased the stabbing pain in my heart, it hasn’t exactly erased the need for her. The selfish need of mine to share my life with her, to talk of my feelings, my hopes, dreams, and fears. The childish desire of mine to experience her life isn’t really gone either.

I suppose what I fear the most is the line she crossed. The year after her fiancee’s death we spoke of times when we had felt like ending it all. Times when I’d push the plunger down, knowing there was just a little too much, but probably not enough. We both spoke of how when it came right down to it, we were both too scared. There, but not quite. What changed? When did she decide she wasn’t scared anymore? Could that ever happen to me? What makes us so different really anyway?

Ashley was a special person. She was witty, wise, intelligent, caring, and compassionate- all of those qualities one can call to mind upon thinking of a good friend. She was refreshingly honest, as only one can be when you’ve stared death in the face. She didn’t mind phone calls at 3AM, which were full of both tears and laughter. She always listened. She was the only non-family member present when Bugsy was born. She always had the best assvice regarding childcare, even though she was completely childless. She thought cloth diapers were startling hard work and had no problem telling me I was crazy for using them. I once had the brilliant idea to have my dark hair professionally dyed blond. She didn’t laugh (all that hard) or say, “I told you so” when I exited the salon with flaming orange locks. She immediately drove to the drugstore for bottle brown dye and fixed my hair that night. Incidentally, it was the best dye job I’ve had to date.

Her parents came down for the memorial this weekend. Being the chicken that I am, I did not go. Instead I opted for the far healthier behavior of holing up in my own house, taking care of my family, and ignoring the calls of current friends. Because, clearly, I’m awesome. In many ways, I fear opening up to someone again. All the history to tell, the possible judgment. Obviously, my friends don’t deserve this kind of treatment. And I don’t think I deserve to allow myself to miss out on opportunities for friendship.

I just miss her. I’m sad that she’s missed out on so much and that life has moved on. I’ll never forget her, in so many ways she helped shape the woman I have become. I know she’d be proud of all that I’ve accomplished in the last two years and I know that wherever she is now, she’s laughing. Because she never missed out on an opportunity to laugh at me.

Meet Wisen, the Owl:

Wisen was the result of a two hour break that the babysitter gave me in which I hired someone to care for my child whilst I went and did something for myself. No, I did not soak in the tub for hours while reading a book. While it appeals to me on a hygienic level, I really wanted to do something with all of the creativity I have been feeling as of late. Seriously. I look around my office and in piles of fabric and I see an elegant tote bag with which I can cart around my crap. I look at the rolls of felt and I see perfect elf clogs that would be totally useles, but completely adorable. I have rolls and rolls of yarn just waiting to be made into a scarf? Comfy Socks? A mouse? A Stripey Hat?

Unfortunately, Baby Moo becomes a downright spaz if I dare place him in the swing and it’s virtually impossible to use a sewing machine while wearing a sling. Ask me how I know. I decided to call in reinforcements in the form of a sweet lady with a sing-song voice that cared for Bugs when I decided to be all Academic and go back to school. (I know! What was I thinking? I still don’t even know.) I knew that Baby Moo would take to her right away for he loves anyone with big cans a chipper attitude and she has it in spades. While Baby Moo cooed, giggled, sat up, took his first steps, and smiled, I created this:

I know! I know! Almost as cute as this, no?

Excuse the outfit. It was a present and I was trying to write a thank you note in which I included a picture of Moo wearing the gift. Usually I don’t have the energy to dress my children in outfits that require such care.

It’s my first Owlie and I didn’t have a pattern to work with, so it was completely off the cuff. I’m proud of him. He’s soft and cuddly and just the right size for tiny hands. And he likes to play. Score!

• When you’re too afraid to return your two and a half year old recalled computer because you don’t want to be away from the internet for too long. And by you, I really mean me.
• When this same computer’s battery overheats and causes burn marks on your legs, but you still don’t take it in because you don’t want to spend too much time apart from your lover. And by lover, I mean computer.
• When in preparation for actually bringing in your computer to get these issues fixed, you buy a totally new computer so you don’t have to live without checking your email. But then you discover your new computer has an Internet Connectivity Problem, so you don’t bring either computer in so you don’t have to live with staying “connected.”
• You’re missing the letter ‘D’ on your keypad, but you don’t care because you can still jam your finger in the hole and force it to work. D D D D D D d d d d d d. See? Ouch.

I haven’t had this blog for all that long, but the terms people have used to find me are a hoot. Let’s visit some of the finer ones, shall we?

1. blonde baby boys

Well, that’s not so hard to imagine. I have a baby boy and he is blonde. Or is he blond? My spell check says he is blond.

2. “pretty” “hospital gowns”

I’d love to refer you here. Because that is where I spent too much money on “pretty” “hospital gowns” that A) the labor and delivery nurses wouldn’t actually let me wear to labor and deliver in and B) I didn’t have time to put one on anyway because I pushed that baby out within 25 minutes of actually arriving at the hospital. Although, knock yourself out and get one. Should your appendix rupture requiring immediate surgery, I’m sure the first thing you’ll be thinking is, “Gee, I’m so grateful I’m wearing my “pretty” “hospital gown” and it’s got all that “blood” and “gore” on it!”

3. ????????? family portrait

I’m sure you were referring to this:

I know. I know. Gorgeous family and all that. Thanks.

4. thumbnail breast reduction

Well, yes, I’ve had one. I just don’t know how comfortable I am showing you.

5. punched engorged boob

First of all, are you alright? Second of all, I’m not quite sure I’m all that qualified to diagnose such a condition or to know how to appropriately treat it. Third, are you going to press charges? I’m totally curious. Please come back and tell me.

6. ginormous jugs

I should have seen that coming. I really should have. And now I should see it coming again and welcome all you pervs. Hi, pervs! There are no actual pictures of the ginormous jugs in question, except maybe parts of a boob from a breastfeeding picture and I doubt you think that’s all that sexy anyway. Sorry!

7. husband and pregnant wife’s story on how to get the baby out

Seriously? Don’t you want to go to a hospital for that? What about a midwife? I mean, there has got to be someone a little more qualified than Guy Who Got His Information From Google, right? I mean, I guess I just wouldn’t want that guy to deliver my baby is all I’m saying.

8. magick stones inducing labor

Where are these magick stones and why didn’t I know about them at 39/40 weeks pregnant? Because this next search term was seriously doing me in at about 6 39 weeks.

9. pregnant non stop barfing

Ohhhh, I know all about this one. I had hyperemesis for nine months and it sucked. I feel for you. I do. I’m not going to bother suggesting crackers or small meals because I’m sure you’ve already learned that. Hearing those words come from the mouths of people who didn’t really get that I was throwing up for the 36th time that day made me want to punch kittens. Seriously.

10. have to pee can’t wait

This post, I’m guessing. In which case, clearly I can wait.

11. my teeth are in terrible condition

Ohhhh, so are mine! It’s horrible, isn’t it. I’ve had five root canals in the last two months. Feel my pain, bitches.

12. permanent magic marker out of cotton shirt

If it’s white, may I suggest bleach? Other than that, I’m thinking you’ve got a pretty, new rag on your hands.

13. behavior modification with frowny faces

I don’t know, man, but if you think of anything- let me know. I’ve been trying to modify my rampant Ice Cream Cookie Sandwich eating behavior with frowny faces in the mirror, but it’s not working out. If you come up with a treatment plan, I’d lurve to hear it.

Well, that trip down Recent Visitors by Referral Search Words was riveting, wasn’t it? Of course, I left out such beauties as: doesn’t realize face marker, picture of kid with marker on face, magic marker off door, and wife magic marker. I mean, those are just obvious, no? If I just read all of the search terms through, without stopping, it sort of feels like my life. Wait. Wait a minute. It is my life. Murrr.