I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

Ben is outside early this morning, finishing part of the new fence. He has decided that hand tools are the way to go, and also that his utilikilt is the best uniform for fence-building now. Just the kilt, for the shirt is usually torn off fifteen minutes in.

It's a thing of beauty to watch this brawny, fledgling renaissance man fortifying his kingdom against the beasts of the wild.

It's even better watching him do it in this endless pouring rain.

Sigh.

Back to the future, blue smock edition.

A productive day. We found all the gifts we wanted to get for Henry for his upcoming birthday, we found a new shopping center that is closer and nicer than the one we've been trekking to since we moved here, and I took apart the entire time machine (dishwasher) and managed to put it back together with only one hint. Tomorrow when I run it it could still leak all over the floor but for now I'll call it a job well done. I can always turn it back to the past, where I don't run it and my kitchen is saved, right?

And sadly, after a nineteen month hiatus, Bridget walked the fuck back into Wal-Mart today.

God, I hate Wal-Mart but this was the first one I ever visited that wasn't a nosedive straight into purgatory. It was well-lit, neat, clean, the staff were helpful and the other customers weren't straight out of a bad dream. I might go back. We'll see.

Trust me when I tell you Wal-Mart gives me the heebie-jeebies. Sadly it was the best place for housewares and kids clothing and maybe it will have to be again as we weather the challenge of both children being in half adult/half children sizing still.

(It's rough. I keep a list and I keep their wardrobes pretty spare for now. I never know when I'm going to wake up and hear that wail that means they outgrew all their outfits overnight. It happens. It happens often.)

So thank you Wal-mart for always going to bat for me, even though I am superungrateful and snobbish and shit. And do you sell dishwashers? Twenty dollars says my kitchen is going to become a lake in the morning when I fire up the time machine tomorrow and dial it back to 1999, the year before Wal-Mart even existed for this two-bit, small-town girl.

Don't forget to greet me at the door. I really love that part. It's like you already know me. Maybe you have time machines after all, and you've been using them all along, seeing into my future, knowing I would be called back to the fold.

You're really creepy, Wal-Mart. But that's okay. Bridget LOVES creepy.

Benjamin battened.

Fuck retro anything.
Fuck your tattoos.
Fuck all you junkies and
Fuck your short memory.

Learn to swim.
Fuck smiley glad-hands with hidden agendas.
Fuck these dysfunctional, insecure actresses.
Learn to swim.

Because I'm praying for rain
And I'm praying for tidal waves
I want to see the ground give way.
I want to watch it all go down.
Mom, please flush it all away.
I want to watch it go right in and down.
I want to watch it go right in.
Watch you flush it all away.

Time to bring it down again.
Don't just call me a pessimist.
Try and read between the lines.
I can't imagine why you wouldn't
Welcome any change, my friend.

Just listening to music and watching the skies tonight. A storm is coming, better close all the windows and curl up next to someone safe.

The swindle.

I don't have the discipline to breathe the open air
No one has to listen when all they do is stare

People can't be counterfeited. Not like cosmetics and Louis Vuitton handbags and questionable watches. People are real and unique and stamped with invisible serial numbers that lie behind their eyes and in their voices. The patterns of their fingerprints and the beat of their hearts. Their style, whether it be designer or thrift store, conservative or flamboyant. Stereotypical but still unique.

People I know are not fake or shallow or knocked off. People are not manufactured on the sly to be as close as possible to the real thing. They are the real thing from the first moment, without a doubt, without a question, without wondering if the deal will be too good to pass up or better left unsold just in case, obtained from a more reputable source as money well spent without the forced gamble.

At the bottom of the whiskey glass we talked about fake versus genuine. At the bottom of the bottle we talked about promises to always be real. At the bottom of my eyelids I was sure I was real but I haven't checked yet and maybe when I wasn't looking they made a cheap replica somewhere and shoved it out into the limelight when everyone turned their backs and she's not going to last as long as her paint is already scraped off and her voice won't hold and she seems sort of brittle when you pick her up and she can't hold her liquor or her heart at all.

Forty-five degree angels.

It was a small job, finishing a curiously uncapped half wall in the master bathroom but it's done. Ben and a miter box and a sharp new saw and me, passing the pencil to him and holding out nails and finally holding the new crisp white trim in place as he hammered it into place.

He said to move my hand a little and then he said Hold still.

I closed my eyes, feeling the hammer falling millimeters from my fingertips. One wrong move and I would be the one with the broken hand instead of Lochlan, one distraction and my fingers would be smashed by Benjamin, large and strong, wielding steel with determination, with effort.

And I was not afraid.

It was liberating.

This is how most of our conversations go.

If you want to go on an African safari just say the word, princess. You know the world is your oyster, after all.

No, it isn't. In fact, I think it's yours.

Give me your bucket list and I'll see to it that everything is checked off by Saturday.

Fuck off.

This is why you don't get anywhere, princess. You're so combative.

Ha. I thought you liked that.

I am trying to be nice. I'm trying to show you I can do these things.

So can any of the others.

But have they?

I'm not asking them to. I'm not asking you to either.

It's a fucking giraffe and you acted as though someone had given you a hearing transplant.

Okay, that, if you can make it happen, would be lovely.

I can see that you get devices that actually work so you don't get frustrated.

They don't exist.

Sure they do. Good technology costs money.

That why you bought the car?

Partly, yes. I have always loved the design of the 911s though.

My car could still take yours.

Not off the line.

No, overall. That's how you win a race.

By stopping to look at the giraffes and wishing you had the time/money/means to indulge yourself just a little more for once?

Yeah, that's how. And I won. Kiss my dirt.

Fine, Miss Doolittle. See you tomorrow.

Ta-ta, Mister Higgins. Better get a head start in that slow car of yours.

Jesus, Bridget, so nasty today. I hope tomorrow sees you a little more cheerful.

There's an easy way to ensure that, Caleb.

And how is that? Tell me. I'll do anything.

Don't come over.

Nice.

I warned you.

Yes. Yes, you did.

So much better than I expected.

I met a giraffe today.

This is probably not a big deal to those of you who are well-traveled or grew up in major centres with amazing zoos but I figured I would have to venture on an African safari to see a giraffe up close and in person.

I did not. One of the first things I read about Vancouver was that the zoo had a giraffe.

Yes, yes it did. It had a bunch of them, actually.


We just haven't had time to go until now. And I am so happy we went. We saw hippopotami and zebras and rhinoceroses (um, no idea on plural there) and the giraffes who were so lovely and accommodating as I hogged their attention for most of the afternoon.

Maybe your bucket list does not including meeting a giraffe. That makes me sad, and we can't be friends anymore, because mine does. And he was aloof and pompous as shit.

Chasing wonderment.

Going to check off a bucket list item today.

I will return with pictures.

(However, since I'm one of the few people on the planet not claiming to be a pro/am photographer, the pictures will probably be awful. It's okay. This isn't for you, it's for me.)

He is coming down. Unraveling slowly, counterclockwise still, the hypnotic vortex of nervous, excessive, giant energy dissolving into a maddening lack of routine. Pointing out I don't need to do laundry or chores or anything. It can wait. It can all wait while Ben pulls me into his arms, against his chest and keeps me there, tucked in amongst need and admiration, flush against satisfaction and comfort, fused to lust and raw desire.

I throw my arms around his neck and leave them there. I'm not budging as day becomes night and the sun dims in favor of stars, too many to count as the breeze ruffles my hair so slightly but fails to keep me awake. My eyelids are so heavy. Cement. My chin drops and I let go of consciousness, not caring as it slides down the cliff into the sea. At the last second Lochlan grabs it and pulls it back to the grass, running his hand across my hair, a familiar touch that rouses me briefly, gently.

I look up and a kiss glances off my forehead. Ben pulls my head back down and holds tighter, just for one breath and then I am released. I stand up and Lochlan takes my hand. It's dim. The outdoor lights are off. I follow him back to the door. Ben is behind me. The house is quiet, asleep. We reach our room and the door is closed, locked behind me. I am trapped within the four walls, within four arms, within two hearts. Or maybe that's five hearts, give or take two ghosts and the Devil too. Tonight there are four arms, tanned and familiar, too hard and too desperate, one historical reach and one future love paradise, a conflict lies within the muscles that keep me glued to that space in between their souls.

Ben's arms come back around me, pulling me down, forcing me out into the night. He is risk, adventure and innocent longing, a very basic want, here and now, no questions, no second-guesses, no hesitation, no regrets. His eyes hold nothing but love and want for me and an acceptance of the way things will be, ways he has engineered in absentia, in absoluteness. I am passed back, against gravity into Lochlan's arms, stability, logic and safety, history, complicated and ruined and nuanced, all regrets on deck, innocence lost, accusations hurled, scarring deep gouges into memories left unprotected to the elements, a regret that burns, manifesting itself in an almost comical inability to step away, so instead we move closer together.

Dawn breaks across the horizon line but I miss it.

Super (Charged)

Yes, I've had a few rides in the new Porsche. It's incredibly delicious. A 911. It sounds just like my car and has elicited a Pavlovian response in that every time he pulls up to the house I go and see who is taking my car, since they sound the same. Hence, he is greeted personally each time, which pleases the Devil to no end, let me tell you. I should be less proprietary over my car, but it isn't ownership, it's curiosity that moves me.

Too bad I can't say that for anyone else.