Charades, while we wait.

And all her friends tell her she's so pretty
But she'd be a whole lot prettier
If she smiled once in a while
Because even her smile looks like a frown
She's seen her share of devils in this angel town

Today's tally so far is three phone calls, two emails including two pictures, one of the wing of the plane and the other an upnose shot from Benjamin, and sixty-eight text messages.

So far. Snort.

He's being really sweet and massively accommodating to my incredible, debilitating fears of abandonment, let me tell you.

I told her I ain't so sure
about this place
It's hard to play a gig in this town
And keep a straight face

In return, I am projecting my bravery onto the meek little girl who would rather scowl from the corner and throw dishes and bricks at all who approach. I'm wearing my courage like a superhero suit, hiding behind it with the sure knowledge that if anyone asked me in just the wrong way I might rip your face right off and eat it. Luckily so far everyone has asked in just the right way and been greeted with Bridget's half-bitten pout and big green quavery eyes obviously attempting to make it sound like everything is just fine. Going through the motions, as Sam instructs and Lochlan insists on. Ben travels. A lot. This is what he does, princess. Fuckfuckfuck.

Everything will be fine, just give me thirty-six more hours, okay?

Everything's gonna be all right

Tough as a wet noodle, I am.

In trying to remain positive about tomorrow evening and beyond I'm noticing I get more and more tense as we get closer to Ben leaving. There's something about him, I don't know but the second he takes one step out of the front door I'm already waiting for him to come home. Even when he goes for the day or for an hour or for a minute I begin to anticipate his return. Trading hearts was never such an obvious choice as it has been with him and I don't regret it, it's just difficult. Difficult to never be independent of my thoughts of him and difficult to deal with short or long term separations, regardless of how necessary they may be.

We locked the weekend down, mindful of the busy week to come. We've spent every waking and sleeping moment together like we can't get enough, as if it couldn't possibly make up for time apart and all it seems to do is make things harder.

He holds my hand as we walk, kisses my forehead every time he turns to me, squeezes me up tight into his arms as I stand in front of him and it's not enough. I want to grab him and pull him down the hill and into the shed and push him inside, barring the door with a heavy board and then I'll run around the shed until I am out of breath, chains in hand, wrapping the tin walls in links of iron that I'll then affix a huge and heavy rusted padlock to and then I'll sink to the grass with a laugh because no one can take him from me then.

I somehow don't think he would mind, sometimes. But maybe sometimes he would and maybe sometimes I have wished that I didn't love him so goddamned much because then I could go about my life selfishly and independent but I can't because I do and he knows and it's alright because sometimes life hands you your other half and says here, try this one on, I think this is it and it is and then you can't see the seams or the beginning or end and you just feel like you're a single entity instead of a million fragments anymore and that's what the hard pill to swallow is. It's supposed to make life easier but it just means the sweet parts give you cavities and the hard parts, well, they give you bruises.

Kung Fu Kisses.

There was nothing in sight, the memories left abandoned
There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow
And the ground gave in between where we were standing
And your voice was all I heard, and I get what I deserve

The thunder rumbled and the wind blew through the trees last night, lashing rain against the windows with a fury once again, rattling the glass looking for a way in. Inside I was locked in Ben's arms, my arms pinned against his chest, our skin slick in the flickering light. I felt feverish, exhausted and he held me out and then pulled me back when he saw that I had no strength left so he became the strength for both of us. I remember kissing his earlobe and underneath his chin and he sighed harshly against the top of my head and held me that much harder, increasing pressure until I flinched away from him and then he smiled and eased back into the rhythm that I adore, pressed there against his beating heart, not being able to get any closer than I was right at that moment. The next time I didn't flinch at all. The last thing I remember is my heavy eyelids closing as Ben pulled me in against his chest one again, spoons this time. He was so warm. So warm.

We woke up to a freezing cold, cloudy morning, raindrops still making their way down the panes of glass, clearing quickly to sun but remaining cold. He wrapped me in yesterday's flannel shirt, felt my forehead and then headed downstairs to make a fire. He was back up in a flash and went to the shower while I found some pajama pants and buttoned his shirt, rolling the sleeves up over my hands as I headed down to start the coffee and feed the cats and to evaluate if I was actually feeling better. I am, I had sleep last night and yesterday I took so slowly I think I managed to evade the worst of this.

When Ben came out of the shower he laughed to find me still in his shirt with my pants with Pucca all over them, coffee cup in hand. We have extensive plans for more nights of the same, right through the weekend, because after the weekend he heads off for a couple of days of meetings far away from here and we're just going to duck our heads and distract, predict, comply until at least Wednesday. Under the radar we'll fly, you won't even know we're here.

Like the cartoon ninjas on my tv screen.

Silver chairs and spruce tops.

Open fire on the needs designed on my knees for you
Open fire on my knees desires what I need from you

Nevermind me, I threw up all morning and now that I feel better and am on my feet officially, the plan is to continue to listen to Silverchair at top volume while simultaneously practicing Vivaldi's Winter. I'm not sure if I can pull any of it off but I feel like making some noise.

Too much coffee and I can't get the tangle out of this sentence anyway.

Not even fifteen minutes later
I'm still walking down the street,
When I saw a shadow of a man creep out of sight.
Then he walks up from behind
And puts a gun up to my head,
He made it clear he wasn't looking for a fight.
He said "Give me all you've got
I want your money not your life,
But if you try to make a move I won't think twice."

Here's your morning music video. Now, what in the heck was the plan again? Oh yes, eat well, sleep well, run well and STAY BUSY, Bridget.

Pfft. Fine, Henry wants me to make him an explorer/treehouse bag out of his old camouflage shorts that are too small. I also have to mend Ruthie's quilt. And a billion other things I'm about to put off while I wait out some bigger anxiety-causing issues. I'm learning very slowly I can do this and it's not a bad thing. Mostly. Or is it? I don't know for sure.

It's days like this I think I really should be medicated to remove the edge, calm me down, bliss me out just a little bit.

But I can't do that, so onward and upward we go.

There is no fake cheese either so my whole day is screwed. I like fake cheese in my grilled sandwiches, not slices of actual, real cheese. It's just too Heidi. If I do that I may as well add a big glass of goat's milk and then braid my hair to keep it out of my face while I'm sewing.

Well, crap. I just described my actual morning. Now you know how thrilling life can be here at the formerly-Reilly household now ruled by the dark emo one. Which is...me. Hahahaha.

P.S. I'll share this morning's email round robin if you're as morbid as I am. Don't email me if you're not. Describe three ways the person in the list below you will die. Here are mine as imagined by Christian:

#1 Scientists discover lip gloss causes cancer.

#2 Drowning via excessive pomegranate ice tea ingestion, aka teaboarding.

#3 Like that girl in Goldfinger, except instead of paint she'll be covered with tattoos.

Bridget McFly, time traveler.

Something did get in the way.
Something finally did break.
When I tried to find my place in the diary of Jane.
And I've burned every single page,
And I still look the other way.
And I still try to find my place in the diary of Jane.

I think I'll spend the rest of my life bouncing back and forth between present, past and future like a confused astronaut, a person with no permanent place in any dimension, simply a visitor from another time, sent to teach something briefly or to learn something to fold into the next incarnation of Bridget as she wings here way through time and space, never daring to stop long in any one place lest she explode in a shower of tiny white lights and utter elation at being able to light up the universe for the first time ever, visible for miles.

I think I'd rather be a fly on the wall because it drives me crazy when three doors get closed between me and the boys, who have taken their argument down to the den because it means they can shut the den door, shut the hall door and shut the foyer door and I won't hear a thing while they holler at each other all morning. Because Lochlan was supposed to come yesterday and keep me company but he ran into some work delays and never made it and I finally gave up and made dinner and then called him for the ninth time, when he picked up and admitted he didn't want me replacing him with someone else so he tried to wait me out, even though being alone and not being all that impressed with all the storm warnings had set me seriously on point.

He was selfish and I paid the price for it. And that isn't allowed, or so they always like to tell Ben when HE fucks up. Except he doesn't fuck up anymore and he's going to kick Lochlan's ass because Lochlan is supposed to be the perfect one and oh hell I can't wrap my brain him not being that way. It's almost like finding out the stars are artificial or hearts don't beat, they flex. Just shut up, because I don't want to know. I liked it better before.

Just for this there will be no room for him on Bridget's Groovy Space Adventure Bus, departing in t-minus fifteen minutes. No room at all. Lochlan, you can walk. Or you can apologize and follow the caravan. Your choice.

I didn't mean to kill anybody.

Relax, it's just a quote from The Wizard of Oz.

Honestly, you people...

So it's Monday night, a typical Monday in which you've spent the day waiting patiently for it to end, because Mondays just...suck.

And then the evening's entertainment begins scrolling across my blackberry screen:

THIS IS A WARNING THAT SEVERE THUNDERSTORMS ARE IMMINENT OR OCCURRING IN THESE REGIONS. REMEMBER THAT SOME SEVERE THUNDERSTORMS PRODUCE TORNADOES. LISTEN FOR UPDATED WARNINGS.

I am still getting over the nagging psychological effects of fretting over the flood just three short weeks ago. God, could you knock it off just for a little while? Please?

RSVP.

Summer has sent her regrets.

I'm sitting on the floor in the sun porch eating noodles out of a bowl with chopsticks, reading a book and plotting to use the rest of the beads in the bead jar to make some more mandalas for my windows. They're very pretty and they double as Christmas ornaments. There's your Household tips from Bridget for the day.

Now, unrelated:

We went to see Up last night. What I thought was going to be a $50 so-so movie because what if my children have finally outgrown Pixar? became Bridget sobbing quietly in the dark every single time they picked up Ellie's adventure book. Because it was profound and it was sad and it was so incredibly beautiful that you couldn't help but cry through all the hard parts. And fuck, here I am trying to describe it and I'm all teary-eyed agan.

Pft. I'm going back to my book. It was hard to come here and write today knowing yesterday's timeline is just sitting there on top of the pile of wasted words. And so I may write a whole lot of nothing for just a little bit. Just so we're cool. Me and my journal, I mean.

Too much time and then too little.

(Alternately titled Goldilocks and the 3 Husbands because it's funny.)

Someone sent me an email recently asking me what my deal is. That was it. One line. What's your deal?

If that wasn't a rude demand for something for nothing I don't know what is.

And then it occurred to me that I've removed all of the archives that would have led readers back to oh, 2004. Even though nothing much happened until 2006. That was the year I think the world as I know it exploded.

Here's a really truncated look back because I can barely do this but it's been demanded of me and who am I to ignore a direct command, ever? To match, it's staccato, and just as rude. There will be no poetry today.

In April of 2006, I left my husband, Cole. We had been married for 12 years. We had two small kids, Ruth, who was 6 at the time, and Henry, who was 4. Cole was sexually abusive. I was submissive and already incredibly fragile.

I left Cole for Jacob, one of Cole's best friends, one of mine, too. Jacob and I had fought our feelings for years. Maybe I was never one to play very fairly. I tried hard to be a good wife, though. The separation began amicably enough but stopped the night Cole broke into the house when I was there alone and hurt me. He broke a lot of bones, I'm five feet tall and 95 pounds, fighting back was a fool's game. Jacob saved my life that night like he had several times before and Cole went to jail. Two months later Cole suffered a massive heart attack and died. He was 37. We were not yet divorced.

That was when something in my head broke and I was never the same again.

This was also when I learned to stop waiting.

In August, Jacob took me for a hot air balloon ride. He proposed. I said yes. We were married two days later in his church. He was a Unitarian Christian minister. Someone else performed the ceremony. In September we got pregnant and in October we learned that the pregnancy was ectopic. My head got a lot worse after that, but so did Jacob's and we struggled mightily through the next full year trying to stay afloat. He was trying to fix everything and I kept trying to break it, too busy to notice things that were going on around me. Trying to keep normal going when normal had packed up and moved away.

We tried to embark on the romance of the century and you got to go along for that ride and that's one of the reasons I have taken off those entries. It hurts, you will never understand how much it hurts.

In October of 2007, Jacob left me. Left us. Just up and said he was already gone. That he wasn't a good person, that he needed to leave. I broke a little more. The resiliency of this one little human must be positively outstanding. I foundered around numb for a week and then on Jacob's birthday, my friends came and told me that he was dead, having taken his own life the night before, leaving behind some incredibly detailed instructions, provided to ensure that I would understand exactly what had happened to him and to us. Sometimes, to this day, I do understand and sometimes I don't get it at all.

This was when my head went on vacation completely. I did a lot of very self-destructive things and then I went away to a lovely place where they fix heads like mine. I came home weeks later, too soon, incapable of being any better off but loathe to abandon my children the way that Jacob had abandoned us. I continued to be self-destructive for a long time after coming home. Honestly I still am sometimes.

The winter I came home when Ben began to show me who he really was. I liked that person. And Bridget doesn't wait anymore. There is no point.

Honestly, I knew what he felt for me. Those of you who have read here for years have witnessed almost first hand our comment wars online and real-life difficulties we've both written about extensively but we've never had a dealbreaker, he's my boomerang boy. He always came back. Ben has an unconventional job that I don't talk about much and he may or may not be on the road or in the studio for a good three-quarters of most years but if you ask me I will tell you he's a door-to-door tattoo machine salesman. Hell, we have enough tattoos between us to make a stab at the truth with that one. He is none of your business in that respect so don't ask me what our last name is or if he's famous because that is the only time you will ever catch me in a lie anymore. I'm fine with that.

So I stopped playing and started looking at him a lot different in January of 2008 and by April we were married and oh, here she goes just like Elizabeth Taylor but really, Ben and I bicker just enough to pass for normal, married people and so far so good. He went to rehab this past winter and is currently celebrating seventy-nine days sober. He's been through more than I have, but that's for another day, again. I'm just trying to get through this.

When I'm not sharing too much information with the readers who wander in and out and number in the thousands now (thank you for the daily collection of outraged emails) I write short stories and novels too and I look after my friends and my two not-so-little kids (Ruth will be 10 this summer, Henry will be 8 and yes, they were named for candy bars but it could have been worse if I liked Kit-Kats and 3 Musketeers) and I cook dinner for a crowd every night. Friends that I write about include Lochlan, PJ, Christian, August, Joel, Sam, Duncan, Andrew, Daniel, Schuyler, Dalton, Dylan, Corey, Robin, Mark, Caleb and Chris. Some are awesome, some are evil. Who is which depends on the day. Some are very reluctant to be written about. Others, not so much. Some come and go. Others never budge. I am lucky to have them and lucky they love us so much.

I like to snowboard and climb rocks (very low rocks because I'm afraid of heights) and slow-dance and lap-dance and eat cake and cotton candy and draw cartoons and make up words and listen to music and play music on my violin and my piano.

I read music lyrics like other people read the newspaper because I have a degenerative hearing loss that someday not so far off in my future will leave me with only the music in my head and I'll be damned if I'm going to forget the words when the time comes.

That's my deal, in a nutshell. What's yours?

Manufactured by Westeel Stelco.

I'll pick up your hand and slowly blow your little mind
'Cause I made my mind up you're going to be mine
I'll tell you right now
Any trick in the book now, baby, all that I can find

In my grandparent's old house the furnace was on pull-chains and the stove ate big split-wood logs by the hour to cook all-day weekend dinners like pot roast with fresh peas and boiled potatoes. Here things aren't much different except that my twenty-year old furnace swallows natural gas and my oven plugs into the wall. I still cook all-day dinners sometimes.

Today was a cool and breezy day. Managed to get the groceries this morning. Bringing home string-tied celery, baskets of vegetables, paper-wrapped meats and a big jar of honey always makes me feel kitschy, vintage. Fifties, early sixties maybe. Makes me want to put on my apron and hum aloud while I scrub floss away from fresh ears of corn, the radio on the counter belting out Donovan or The Shangri-las. Ben would come in, muck dirt all over my freshly-mopped kitchen floor, one single lock of black hair falling onto his forehead, his clean-shaven, hungry grin huge and wide for me and kiss me with one hand while he changed the radio with the other to the talk-station for the news and weather. The kids would be upstairs, playing quietly in the sun on the upstairs porch floor, Lego bricks spread all over the place in their bid to recreate the diner we like to stop at for milkshakes and french fries on hot summer evenings after a cruise around town to see the magnolia trees in bloom.

But not tonight, because tonight we're having the roast I've had simmering in the oven all day, and even though my grandmother's radio would have been tuned to the hymns, I think she might approve of my efforts to pick and chose what I need and want to keep from the memories I have inside my head. I hope so anyway.

There are more memories to sort through. I just can't quite reach those yet. Some idiot built a wall in front of them and it looks like I'm going to have to tear it down. I'll do that, as soon as I find myself a vintage sledgehammer. Stay tuned.