Humanity and I are having a difference of opinion today as my faith has been tested this morning and the week has grown long with overtime, illness, theft and exhaustion. Add in all of the drama and PJ alternately being fed up with me and sad that I have faced such derision over my memorials. I'm done. Is it Saturday yet? Is it Sunday? Can I go back to bed? Can I just cry now?
No, I think I'll laugh. We've reached those levels of ridiculousness here.
Some guard dog Bonham is too, by the way. Snoring away on the floor at the foot of our bed, failing to alert us to the two stupid teenage boys breaking into my yard. Well, guess what, boys? That expensive jacket you dropped as you took off with my stuff? I have it and fuck you, hell no, you can't ever have it back. And it's worth more than the things you took so perhaps the joke is on you.
And when you grow up and some kid steals your stuff, consider it full circle. And it will happen. Ask me how I know. Good luck to you.
In other news, half a bottle of Advil and a pot of coffee and I'm almost human again. The ice pack helped, as did a mini-neck massage and a magnificent, concentrated effort to distract from the pain in my head. My headache that started on Sunday is almost gone. Finally. I can uncurl my toes and roll my flesh back down over the tips of my fingers where I slid the tips along the rack of knives so that something besides my head would hurt for a change.
I didn't actually do that, but I considered it very seriously for quite a while.
If I could paint a picture for you today it would be in shades of grey, moving away from what began as total blackness, hopeful that when we reach the other side of the canvas the world will be colored in a hint of turquoise and blush and the work will evoke a sense of peace instead of one of dread and foreboding. I don't know though, we're not there yet.
All in a day's work. There's nothing remarkable about my day. The children are home sick from school getting over their colds, I am attempting to run completely out of groceries because I haven't found time to shop yet and Caleb is still singing. All week long which is new and not all that bad really. As long as he isn't picking fights he isn't horrible.
Ben is wonderful but invisible. Head down, ears closed, focused as he works his magic because that's what he does and I may wind up horribly depleted in Ben-stores for the next several weeks but I will see him at bedtime and for toast in the mornings and otherwise thank God for cell phones and dreams. At least this time he doesn't have to go to work on an airplane and only get home every month or so. He'll be home every night, but distracted and consumed and oh I really hate these parts but after twelve years or so I'm getting used to deadlines and clients with changes and how things look when you don't have any breathing room. All of the boys have shown me that side of life and I believe I could write a book on it, if I wanted to write one but maybe instead I'll just write some other things instead. I'm sending some things out early next week, it's been a long time since I even felt like dealing with submissions but I am because life is about moving forward in some strange meandering road of self-improvement and then self-reliance.
Somewhere I became lost and some days I don't think this is my road, but someone else's and they must know the turns and the landmarks to watch for while nothing looks familiar to me but I'm hoping eventually to come to an exit and I can get off and circle back and find the right road. Or doze my own. I don't even think I have a road, proper. I think my path is dirt, softened grass and mud baked into a marked footpath, wide enough for two and then one and then two and then one and it goes along like that and every now and then the bottom drops out and you fall down a steep embankment and then you climb up the next hill, scratched and dirty and look out over the valley, the sunrise blinding you until you exclaim out loud and promptly trip over a rock and land on your ass.
Oh yeah. That's Bridget's path right there.
(If you own a MEC Tango Belay, come and get your coat, you stupid punk. And bring my things back with you.)
