3 to 1.

I thought that I'd follow up my over-medication of women with anti-depressants with this:

And what do parents with hyperactive young boys do? They stuff them with Ritalin. They drug them so they’ll sit still and behave. The last time I read a number, Ritalin prescriptions were at least 3 to 1, boys to girls. But I don’t like to look at the numbers because it makes me too sad. It appalls me that parents would feed their kids pharmaceuticals. People managed rambunctious kids for centuries—just take them out to do stuff.

I'm looking forward to reading Kiley's article, even though I don't particularly care for his journalism.

Having just spent the past weekend with Matt's kids and Jinny's son: four young boys, ages 9 to 13, and one girl aged 6. Yep, boys sure do get nutty and bothersome when you keep them inside for hours on a nice -- or not so nice -- day. Enough to drive you mad.

We took them out and let them run around the park for an hour.

Problem solved! Went back, ate lunch, chilled out. It was a great time.

Parents are dumb.

Kissing disease.

The Kiss show went well, although I wasn't there very long. I stayed through the first set and then Dan drove me home; I'd been feeling under the weather and had to work the next day anyway. But the boys did a great job and I'd love to see the whole set sometime.

Earlier on Halloween, I took my nephew trick-or-treating for the first time. He's three. He was a fire chief! Not just a fireman, a fire chief. We went down to Magnolia Village where all the businesses prep for a big community trick-or-treat. I think we got through about ten places before his eyes started to glaze and Caitlin and I decided that it was dinner time for everyone. On the way home, Roscoe said from the back, "Tired Mama. Tired Auntie." We agreed that, yes, Mama and Auntie were very tired.

The Rock Star promptly got sick the day after Halloween, though, and I came over Saturday to make soup and a pie for him. I'm still working out this recipe for Apple Gruyere Pie. It turned out okay, but it needs more cheese. I did, however, work out a fantastic gluten-free pie crust that tastes like real pie crust and doesn't fall apart if you look at it sideways. Take that, Flying Apron Bakery!

So of course I woke up sick on Sunday after cooking all day Saturday. The Rock Star made me some eggs (I tried to make them myself but he kept me on the couch instead). After he took me home I spent the rest of the day shivering in bed and playing Final Fantasy XII. Fevers always kick my ass; once I'm over them, I'm fine with sniffles and all, but I get awful, hallucinatory fevers. I'm glad I took all kinds of vitamins and supplements this week in preparation of getting sick; things have been so bad that I knew my body would give out at some point. And it did. Hopefully I'll mostly be up and running again by tomorrow or the next day.

Pins.

Last night I went to Krysztof Nemeth's art opening at Derby Salon. I don't mind saying that I have a minor (okay, pretty major) crush on him, because he's a gigantic sweetheart and a fantastic artist, and I enjoy his company though I don't know him very well. The show was fun, mellow, with lots of free wine, which is too bad since I've been mostly dry (barely even damp!) for the last few months. When I walked up I heard a scooter fire up and pull away. I went in Krysztof gave me a big hug and said, "Wait, [Mr. VNRS's name redacted] just left! Literally, just now." Oh, well. So I spent some time with the man of the hour and his art, and Ava showed up with her friend Angel, a sultry, voluptuous burlesque girl.

People kept bringing their kids in, and Krysztof and I chatted about children together and with a few other people. Most of the little ones were around the same age, between a year and two years, running around or reaching up to the Halloween lights strung about the salon.

"You okay?"

I had been zoning out on a gorgeous tow-headed 16-month-old boy wearing a shirt with George W. Bush's picture and a caption that said President Poopy.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Fine."

Krysztof asks me if I like kids. I tell him, honestly, that I love them, and that I'm a proud auntie. He tells me a little about his two, but there's a distance in his obvious joy.

"Do they live with you?" I ask, a little cautiously.

He smiles sadly, and tells me they don't. "I don't really want to go into it, I'm tired of talking about it, but you can ask Ava. I don't mind you knowing...just tell her that Krysztof said it was okay."

I smile and thank him, and think about telling him about my miscarriage. I wonder if he read it on me earlier, but decide that it was unlikely. It's just that it's not the first time this week that someone has asked me if I was all right when I was staring at a baby. I hope I'm not too obvious.

Later, I chatted with a sweet guy named Johann (the other mostly sober person) until Ava, Angel, and I booked it out to the Comet to see Devon's band, Junk Mail. Mr. VNRS showed up to that, so I guess I didn't miss him after all.