A beard and a macbook pro.

Ben has gone again, and my brief vacation from the anxiety of being without him has returned with a jolt of electricity so prolific I heard the snap when the doors closed behind him at Departures.

Fuck all of this.

Someone buy this house so we can leave.

I know I'm jumping the gun. Everything is ticking along nicely and such and it's far too early to worry but if you know Bridget you know she'll pick and choose her worries until they are gone and then move on to the next ones. So right now the worries are "sell house" and "ohmyfuck, you've gotten sick", since Ben brought a west-coast cold with him and left it for me to enjoy. I couldn't speak this morning and still I managed to dissolve into the helpless cries that probably make him feel like the biggest jerk in the universe for leaving and yet we are both fully aware that there isn't any better way we could have done this and now we just have to be patient. With any luck at all the longest stretch is past and now comes the rush. Soon, anyway. Eventually.

I have no date for the next trip home. I don't like that one bit. Again, there is no point in booking him home again until we see how the next week or two plays out.

The silver lining in this is perhaps I don't have to work so hard anymore. I can keep chipping away at cleaning, and buy healthy groceries and easy meals for the kids and I and continue to chase after the Himalayan cat with the scissors because she will be less work with less fur and walk the dog more because it will be warmer and hope and pray and fret and miss and cry and fear everything and okay...yeah, it will be like the last three times he was away.

On a hilarious and not even uniquely surprising note, he inspected my little sports car and found that my sort-of functioning block heater WASN'T WORKING AT ALL. There's character building for you. I spent the winter here in Extremecoldville plugging my car in dutifully and it wasn't doing a damned thing. Oh my FUCK!

It works now.

What a difference, too.

That will become part of the big story years from now when this is funny instead of a huge fucking tragedy of biblical proportions. I'm sorry, I call them as I see them and this blows from coast to coast. And I was a total shrew. I told Ben I would be spoiled when I get to the coast. That I'm never shoveling or painting again. That I'm going to sleep in on the weekends and have my nails painted by someone else and I won't lift things or put myself out for any reason at all.

He laughed and said yeah right, princess.

Because I was never the kind of girl to be able to understand how people can pay forty dollars to have someone else file their nails or how they could simply refuse to do things they can damn well do themselves and if they just would put out a little effort they could accomplish so much and now I see it's so much easier and lazier just to say no and for some reason they aren't judged for that.

I just do it. I get it done and then I am sort of amazed that I pulled it off and looking for a break that when it comes, I probably won't take it, although I am finding a lovely gift in reaching out with one finger and stopping the world every single day at three-thirty or four o'clock and pouring myself a cup of coffee to enjoy. Then I lift my finger off the world and it spools up to resume the previous speed of ohmyfuckgetonwiththings.

And yet, Ben promised me that I will be spoiled. He is keeping a list of places he will take us when we get out there. First sights and first meals, first evenings out, first day trips and first overnight trips away from the city. This from a man who can't remember to buy shampoo. It touches me that he wants us there so badly and it gives me hope that he misses me just as terribly and heartbreakingly as I miss him.

I've white-knuckled life through the better part of the last two months without him, and it's the one thing that I never wanted to experience. I've had enough. There's been enough misery and worry and stress and difficulties. There's been enough sad. I want to be excited about moving but currently I am held prisoner by the real estate market and until a shining angel of mercy signs on an offer I will wait, not all that patiently, for things to change. I will wait for him to come back and I will daydream and night-dream about him until that time.

Had I known how this would feel I wouldn't have entered into it at all but since I'm here what else can I do? Make lemonade. Whatever. I hate lemonade in the wintertime.

I miss him already. You really won't ever understand how much.

Seven.

That's how many hours are left.
~via BlackBerry.

Waking up bitten.

He's gone again. Thank God.

No, not Ben. Ben is still here. I mean Caleb.

He thought it fine to fly in and ruin all the fun of the toxic twins, casting his customary cold grey edge to everything that was formerly warm and/or safe. He thought I seemed to be descending back towards the low end of the metronome and I was. The ticking stopped. I rested with no beat and I think it's more like a mild undercurrent of white-knuckle hysteria and he thinks it meant it was time for a lesson from Satan, reminders of how the behavior of tiny blonde wisps of panic should play out.

Or else.

Ben and I would have been perfectly fine not to have hell recreated in the night but when do I ever get a say? I will never be given a chance to refund iniquity and vice as they pay dividends that allow us to live like kings and princesses and paupers in gold-lined paper houses. The light is artificial, the warmth contrived.

What Satan doesn't know is there's an army forming to the south of my future love paradise and it's as heavily-subsidized as his reprobation against Bridget. Because people who actually love me without conditions are running out of patience for his extravagant display of obsession for me. Once again I'll just put my head down and they can all fight it out above me. Eventually someone with a cooler head (Lochlan) will step in and ensure that the children and I are returned to the collective focus but not before everyone has re-staked their constantly shifting property lines in what seems to be a fairly fluid neighborhood.

Who am I kidding? I'm sure he knows. I'm sure he feels the pressure. Maybe time is running out and that's why he felt he had to interrupt our reunion with the ugly reminders of the way things are. Maybe he did indeed want to spend a day with the children and Bridget is just a lovely x-rated side benefit who struggles just enough to be fun but still flinches enough to make things difficult.

I won't change and I doubt he will either. All signs point to the army being both a blessing and a whole new kind of curse. A kind of curse where you go from eyes wide shut to eyes wide open and you jump and hope for the best.

Ben won't let me fall. If there is one thing he has always done, it's hang on, no matter what. This story isn't over yet. Not by a long shot. Paper houses don't hold up and eventually all luck has to change.

Struggling just to get enough words to arrange at all.

Somewhere around my bony shoulders and tired soul, anticipation is singeing the edges of the fear-paper that coats the walls of my life presently. It's such a tiny surge I'm not even sure I'm ready to acknowledge it just in case my mind is playing tricks on me. I will wait patiently for it to bloom and continue my slow pace, one foot in front of the other, out of this place. Slowly and with a heavy heart because I am so conflicted.

Spring is coming. Right?

Right? Please?

I love having Ben home. The past two days he declared to be no-work days. Tomorrow we'll finish off the little things I couldn't manage on my own but otherwise driving, eating, working, sleeping, all of it so much easier with him here at home. Even though it's less home right now. Keeping the children calm and reassured and informed and healthy. Keeping everything running smoothly in the face of chaos.

I have two days of him left and then he's gone again and I will fall down the darker well and stay there and contemplate horrible thoughts in my usual horrifyingly bemused fashion. However, I have found a comfort looking up toward daylight, scratching the days into the cement walls in the part where the water doesn't drip down and I know rescue is eventual (ha, prove it). Sometimes panic supersedes logic and sometimes it doesn't. I'm working on it but really I'm not having any luck writing, relaxing or being reasonable anymore.

I just wish Ben could stay because I really don't think I can do this much longer. The well is cold and it's dark and it's just not a happy place for Bridget. Ben's arms are my happy. He is my breath.

Bridget is not a happy girl otherwise.

Cross your fingers and say a prayer if you will. Sure there are worse things in the world and oh, dear, the problems of the rich. I'm not rich and I've never been rich. I know people who are and I talk about them too much. What I do know is that I have never sold a house before and I really really need this to go well. Smooth and quick, gone on the first try, don't let the sale fall through. That much, please, and in return I will pray for you.

Because sometimes I do.

Post two, because I don't have enough to do.

Every now and then I see you dreaming
Every now and then I see you cry
Every now and then I see you reaching,
Reaching for the other side
What are you waiting for?

Six and a half hours left until Ben-time and my brain just wants to continue to sabotage me and as usual my luck isn't holding at all.

On the upside, the house is presentable at last. Or as much as I can do anyway, if you could have witnessed the immense frustration this afternoon as the dirt-sucker thing I can't spell EXPLODED on the staircase. Right, the one I had just spent three hours polishing because it has three feet of wood trim on the walls around it.

Exactly.

I don't know what happened but I got the mess cleaned up and then I drug out the ladder once again and tried valiantly to do a couple of up-high things I'm afraid I'll forget to ask Ben to do because when I see him (this will be the third time since Christmas) everything kind of goes right out the piano window anyway. I couldn't do them so I wrote it down. We'll be up early anyway, so we'll get it done in the morning. Tonight I just have to put away the laundry, make dinner and then wait. I could also be doing some touch up things but really, I know how loverly my old OCD issues can flare up and thankfully I can override them now.

If only I could do that with all the other bad feelings that ricochet around inside my head. Ah well, I suppose it's nice to keep some dreams on hand, isn't it?

Light bright.

Every time the radio plays Pour some sugar on me I envision the pole dance I would perform if...my beautiful house had come equipped with a pole.

(Well, I had the strobe light..)

Ben comes home IN! TEN! HOURS!

Yay!

Sunday? Don't phone, I plan to barricade myself in his arms and sleep all damn day long. Why not tomorrow? Tomorrow sucks. They're coming to take the pictures for the listing. No, I will not be posting the link. Seriously you people.

Go think about Bridget pole dancing instead. You know you want to.

Dreams of gold.

Certain members of Team Canada (GO, boys!) at the 2010 winter games have some interesting names, don't they?

Let's see, there is Duncan, Drew, Chris, Dan, Patrick, John, Corey, Mark and Ben in addition to the other boys....

And since I pointed out that all of my boys made their way to Vancouver in the weeks after Christmas, part of a new collective endeavor that will see them all work together for a while, my readership has been positively rife with speculation.

Stop that. Stop it right now.

I don't do that anymore. I wasn't going to say anything at all but it's reached ridiculous proportions in my inbox and I really felt like I had to....be vague and uninformative. So there you have it. Don't expect replies and remember you have no right repeatedly emailing me for a response when it's an invasion of my privacy. Come and enjoy the words or the misery and then go away again, okay?

I like you in the dark. Better you than me.

(Besides, the guesses are forever entertaining. My favorites are always going to be the ones where you think I am the 'cutie' in Death Cab.)

And sometimes one gets desperate.

Down down down to the tunnels under the hill, the cold wind following me as I run, prepared this time in my gear that breathes but keeps me warm until I am warm enough to relax a little. Counting strides, counting breaths I focus on the numbers until I realize I have run right past the door and I have to turn and go back. I grab the wheel and turn it hard and pull and slowly it creaks open.

Inside the dust motes float in the air and that single beam of light from somewhere high above highlights the center of the room.

Jacob turns around and folds his wings casually behind his back. He smiles, his big white chiclet teeth competing with the radiance all around him.

I've missed you, princess.

I open my mouth to respond in kind and instead all this....noise comes out. An unholy cry that won't end and then when it finally does stop the tears are rolling and I can't catch my breath. I'm shaking, covered in goosebumps and completely shattered and he takes a step toward me and then stops abruptly. I hold my arms up like a child. He won't move though.

Please, Jake.

I can't, Bridget.

This time when I open my mouth the rage comes out. Loud and long, all the pent-up frustration and anxiety and pure fear that I run on these days, finding the energy in emotions instead of in sleep or food or habit. That's a bad kind of energy but I can't seem to turn it around. I know what I need and it isn't there.

It just isn't here.

Ben comes home in fifty hours. I really hope I don't self-destruct before then.

Night forty.

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
~ Maya Angelou

The Good Sport.

I am:

• exhausted.
• covered with paint.
• aching and in pain.
• missing Ben so badly I burst into tears every ten minutes.
• sick of planning life around dog walks.
• starting to clean rooms, windows and light fixtures.
• jealous that other people aren't going through this.
  
• worried about how long it will take the house to sell.
• frustrated with phone calls that I don't have time to answer.
• forgetful as always.
• afraid of the dark.
  
• unshowered today, and I don't know how that happened.

I won't:

• give up.
• stop moving.
• pretend everything is okay when it isn't.
• stop worrying until it's over.
• be okay.
• quit.
• stay up all night, just very very late until it's safe to go to sleep.
• let tomorrow go by without getting that shower.
  
• let everybody down.

That last one, that seems to be key. I don't know if I'm succeeding or not but I'm still trying. I'm just really sore, incredibly discouraged, and completely overwhelmed. So if you want to put aside your derision and just have a little ounce of understanding, I am going to put my head down for just a little while and cry.

Sweethearts.

Look what just came! I have the most amazing husband in the whole wide world.

He is in Vancouver right now, and I am not. Gorgeous flowers make it a little easier. So does chocolate. Like the pink sparkly rockstar heart? I sure do.

Thank you, baby. I love you.

Where's Bridget?

I'm in this video. Have fun looking, it's like Where's Waldo? but with Bridget.

Painting is going swimmingly (sarcasm abounds). I can't feel my arms anymore. Blissful numb, I call it. I hope it goes away soon.

Back to work. More when I have time. Currently I am fresh out.

Paint the seconds.

We stopped time
To chase these truths

Tell it to move
Feel like climbing the walls
Useless messengers haste
Rushing to arrive

Balanced at the very top of a rickety wooden ladder she paints, holding the can in one hand (half-full, so heavy) and the old tired brush in the other. It's precarious, you see and she yells along with Chevelle on the stereo while she contemplates quitting altogether, or maybe doing it all after dark so she will at least have the gleeful ambiance of night to keep her company.

Whoops, a significant wobble and her eyes get wide for a split-second. She braces bruised knees covered in black tights against the wall, sensible black shoes for horizontal travel strapped tightly to her feet. Plaster dust on her plain black dress and a black tie in her hair to keep it off her neck while she works.

See these streams of color
They threatened it's too magical
That you still need to grow

The sooner we enter
The sooner we'll blend
Ease into another endless abyss

Every second she worked. I quit I quit I quit I quit. But she never slowed down, never stopped, never managed to put down the brush until the work was actually done and then she climbed slowly down the ladder again, the splinter from the day before cutting further under her skin, her knuckles white against the Pollack-splatters of previously chosen colors and she cursed the air until she was returned safely to the ground.

Her shoulders and knees ache and she is tired now. But it's finished and that's all she wanted for today.

Break a finger on the upper hand.

Today was spent chipping away at the list and now the perseverance is wearing thin and the list grows long like the light left in today, so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and have a cup of coffee now and breathe for a few minutes before I dive into the dinner/dogwalk/kid-bath minirush of early evening. Four to about eight is a whirlwind in which the minutes tick by at a dizzying pace. I can't keep up, hell, I can't even keep track and suddenly the house is plunged into dark and quiet again and I am alone with my thoughts once more. That should not be allowed to happen, because my thoughts are like a bad date, they barge right in and then I can't get them to leave and I feel threatened and helpless. It's better just to keep moving and then drop. Get up and do it all over again.

Dear radio, please stop playing New Fang. I'm pleading on aching knees here. Please, vultures, release a new single.

I am sticking to this list because if I stray from it everything becomes so overwhelming I start to sink into the ground when I walk, stiletto heels first, though these days I live in my old pink camouflage converse all-stars. High tops, yes. A ridiculous small size of course because I have little feet. A wonderful feature when you have to tip-toe over five-hour-old varathane on a ninety-seven year old floor because you left a bunch of things in your bedroom, which is on the other side of that freshly-painted floor. Sigh.

So far so good. I am running a list for Ben too, because in nine days he is home again. The big white bird will spit him back into my arms for more time and it's already sorely needed but I'm beginning to have some hope that I am not stuck here forever. Sometimes it seems like it, especially when it's dark and cold.

On that note, we're up to three minutes, twenty-five seconds of extra daylight each day. It's now light out from about seven-thirty to well after six each night which is an absolute godsend of a different sort. I'm not unaware of the five weeks remaining in the winter but five weeks isn't insurmountable now, is it?

Depends on who you ask.

Speaking of others, Ben is doing well. I like it that he tells me of the harder parts and what he does to counteract them. Then I can try the same tricks and fail but at least I come away with knowing what makes him tick a little better. You would think after this long that I would know everything but I don't. Do we ever? Does he know everything about how I am? Well, of course he does. Sigh.

So much for that argument. In any case, absences do get easier and time heals all whatever. I'm numb, more likely. Numb and better within that numb to the point where the keening panic became a wooden ambivalence that leaves splinters behind when you try to run your hand across it. Self-preservation is an amazing mechanism and I am lucky to have it an any form at this point. A gift horse with a rather large and endless mouth, but I'm not looking into it, I just take what I am given and say thank you.

I read a quote yesterday about the school of hard knocks and I can't remember what it was. It might have been on Travis Barker's twitter. No, shoot. It was on someone's twitter. Twitter moves fast but it's like company you don't have to sit up straight for. I will keep looking for it, it was a great quote and I laughed and then I agreed with it. Twitter is always open on a tab now. The entertainment value is limitless.

And my mom made cookies and sent them to us, which just about sent Henry into spasms, he loves his Nana's chocolate-chip cookies and I always like the letters and stories and pictures she puts into them. Those boxes are my mom's version of Twitter, I think. Pretty cool. Thank you, mom.

I must go. I need match a paint color before I lose the light. Tomorrow's Thursday and there will be eight sleeps left and Vampire girl can sleep again, for a short while.

Vampire boy will be here keeping watch, and that is what I'm living for these days.

10 minutes to spare.

I have nothing for you except for sixty-odd messy sneezes and a very sore shoulder.

But the last floor is finished. Okay, not finished but good enough, which is the new motto around here lately.

Hideously tired and uninspired. Come back tomorrow, okay?

Homing angel.

This is the part where Ben gets eaten by the big white bird again.

He's gone already. The plane has taken off and with any luck his guitar and assorted musical amplifications will meet him at the baggage claim upon landing. If not he will use the insurance cash to buy something louder. He is not concerned in the least and only had the coffee-soaked blip of nerves this morning once settled in at the gate for the endless wait to board.

It was an amazing weekend. We did no work. Well, we did some, but mostly we organized the next visit, which is only eleven sleeps from now, because this weekend that just passed was the most exciting surprise, the best one, I think, and I am so happy he was here. We mostly spent the weekend in each others arms, staying up late, cuddling, snuggling, having family time and generally since it was not the first time he's come back, somehow it was easier to handle overall, though I still have moments this morning where it feels like the end of the world. We watched It Might Get Loud, which easily slid into my top ten movies of all time. Easily.

Over the course of Ben's next trip home the house officially hits the market and I'm now going to organize getting everything ready, cleaning, packing some of the valuables and things people don't need to be distracted by and I have to slap a coat of paint in the back porch and finish one floor upstairs. I'm not doing anything else. I will be content to let the rest go.

Upon first inspection the realtor told me flowers and a tablecloth would be nice, and wash windows and light fixtures too.

That's it?

That's it, she said.

Gosh, aside from the daunting task of washing the windows I hope someone buys it. I'm tempted to bury St. Joseph out there in the snow to help things along. I may not be catholic but I love relics and this house is a big one. Cross your fingers for me, I could use some luck for a change.

Ben is still in the air, his St. Christopher medal anchored around his neck for a safe flight, his hands full with the memories of holding us to keep him comforted for this next round of days apart, soon to be spilled onto the strings of his favorite strat, turning tactile memory into musical notes, turning pain into something good.

Say anything.

Late last night after a fruitless evening of trying to contact him, I finally got a message from Ben on my phone.

I got a picture for you, just a sec.

I waited. Waited and waited and waited a little more.

Finally a picture came through.

Of the back door.

I bet that was a funny sight, for him to watch as the lights progressed through the house, flip flip flip through two doors flip flip flip down the steps flip flip flip flip flip through three doors and then a cursory glance through the window because I wasn't sure if maybe he had someone else take a picture for a bad joke and there he was, larger than life, standing on the other side of the door.

I almost took a steel door off the hinges to get to him.

And now he is home. But only until Monday. Shhh. We won't think about bad things. Just for now.

Pitch-dark and dead quiet (teach me how to do this).

Once again the week is over, children and pets are tucked in safely and the lights burn low downstairs. I still have to make one more trip down there in an hour or two to let Bonham out for his final tour of the yard. Hopefully I will stay up late enough to take him out so that he might let me sleep in a little bit tomorrow. Cross your fingers.

I have been remiss lately in writing. It's been difficult to find time in which my brain isn't fused in panic and my heart doesn't thud with the long slow beat of homesickness and quiet. It's also incredibly painful right now. That Nexcare skin crack liquid I picked up never had a chance. When I'm not scrubbing plaster dust off my hands, I'm scrubbing paint or varathane off them. I also managed to tear them up quite nicely with sandpaper too, so perhaps I'll just use it to maintain the current state of affairs and not hope for miracle cures until the minor constructions are complete. I can't wait to live in a place where this doesn't happen anymore. It hurts. A lot. And that's saying something, coming from the girl with the pain threshold so high you can't even see it while standing on your tiptoes.

Did I mention the real estate agent is coming this weekend? Ergo, finish the house and finish it fast, Bridget.

She's going to cringe anyway. And I'm not satisfied though with a cursory look-through it will be wonderful. Nit-pickers need to go seek new construction, for you won't find perfection in a house built in 1914. No sir.

But I am running out of energy, time, money and heart. I loved this house but it's no longer mine. I called it Winter House, for a time and that was quickly discarded because every mention of winter was followed by my sweetest habit ever, cursing hard and long like a sailor on a yearlong cruise.

Never said I was a lady, now, did I?

The past few nights have seen the return of a very old habit I haven't indulged in since I was eighteen years old. Music to fall asleep by. By the time I was twelve I would go to sleep wit headphones on every single night. It was relaxing. It put me out. I went through thousands of dollars worth of batteries and headphones each year, since I would wake up in the morning with said headphones crushed underneath my shoulders and the player still on, but dead. My parents indulged me, it was maybe one of the very few ways I ever relax, music is.

(I'm not a self-soother. Don't know if you noticed.)

Once I moved in with Cole, the music stopped somewhat, because tuning him out was rude, and we were indulging in our favorite pastime most nights anyhow (shhhhhhhhhhh) and also because we could barely afford to eat, let alone buy batteries for Bridget's walkman.

And you know what? He bought them anyway because did you know? She's not a self-soother. There were always enough double-As when I went to replenish my ears (Oh yes, I'm one of those terrible tuned-out people, don't you know it). I never did go back to putting on music while I fell asleep. Never had to. I could just curl up in his arms, or someone else's and be out like a light.

Once the children were born I learned to sleep with one eye and both defective ears open, listening for cries or needs in the night, ready to jump out of bed and slay imaginary monsters or fetch tissues, inhalers, extra blankets, cats, dropped stuffed bunnies and random assorted socks (which magically fall off Ruth's feet at night and must be excavated from her bed in the morning. Every morning).

So bye-bye forever, night music.

And then two nights ago I hammered the sleep button on the radio, ostensibly to get the weather report for the next day, because the cold is up and down and another stupid snowstorm is coming our way (Fucking prairie. I've had it with you. So long. I won't miss you.) and after the report Snuff came on (love that song) so I left it on to listen for a minute. A minute because twelve minutes and I could feel the homesick/ache-pain of Ben's absence ebbing just a little tiny bit in favor of letting the music wash over me in a way that I always have and most people don't.

(WAIT A SECOND. SOOTHING.)

I don't remember ever turning off the radio that night, I just remember waking up knowing that I didn't spend four hours tossing and turning like I usually do, getting up a million times to see why the security lights have come on in the backyard (owls) and to check the children because my bedroom is a little bit removed from their rooms and I can't hear them anyway so I peek in a lot.

Fluke?

Last night I hit the button again, and the very last things I recall thinking before falling asleep were Oh, good, at least they're not playing Green Day and Josh Homme's voice really does nothing for me.

It's positively magical again to drift off to some metal-light, since I have to acquiesce and listen to bands and songs that aren't really up my alley, although the more I think about it, the more I see the alley of my future revealing some sort of CD-playing clock radio instead of this hilarious twenty-year parade of substandard Sony Dream Cubes. Imagine picking my own music to drift off to, much like the rest of the planet has probably done for at least the past decade or more. I wouldn't know. Unless Research in Motion puts it out I try not to pay attention.

I could fall asleep listening to music on my BlackBerry but killing bluetooth headphones is expensive, the phone would have to be in close proximity to tiny white dog who would love to eat it and also it would have to be charging and in case you snoozed through the first half of my post, my house was built in 1914. I don't believe the one plug and questionable power circuitry (or whatever the hell that flicky-switch in the basement that's always turning off is called) can handle the power.

Who am I kidding? It definitely can't.

Some moments I am stunned and surprised that the house was retrofitted with a toilet. Though at other times, what with the extensive woodwork and stained glass gracing the halls and various rooms, I can't ever understand why there aren't two toilets, or even three. Let's just be decadent all the way around, shall we? (Go big or go homing angel, as August likes to tell me)

In any case, I don't get to pick my music while I sleep so God help the first programmer who plays 21 Guns while I'm trying to fall asleep and tomorrow hopefully my bloody fingertips and aching soul will be up for another day of sanding/scrubbing/painting/cleaning.

Don't feel sorry for me though. Jesus, please. All of this work and effort and endurance and fortitude and lessons in self-soothing bring me one step closer to not needing music to help me fall asleep.

It brings me that much closer to Ben.

Goodnight. My fingers hurt now.

Best thing about today.

Ben just sent me this.

I am still laughing.

Today I called my real estate agent.

Maddening. Nothing.

It's not enough.
I need more.
Nothing seems to satisfy.
I said,
I don't want it.
I just need it.
To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive.

Today was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it flash of sunlight and teeth. A care taken in dressing to depress, a step taken in learning the difference between people telling the truth and people telling Bridget what they think she wants to hear.

It's okay, I understand perfectly and so the only thing I can do is bring the storm clouds in rather close and let you be absorbed by the black of my dress and if you're really lucky I'll distract you with my own wicked humor, borne in exhaustion and habitual solitude.

It's alright, really. Ben has gone and is doing his customary thing in which he drops off the face of the earth because he is used to this and still it gets no easier for me but I was never so independent and that's okay, I'm going to give up trying to change that and will go to my grave reaching out for arms within which to find my safety. Never mind that I'll be dead. It really won't impact that action because I already do it in my sleep and have the aching limbs to prove it.

Caleb left this morning, content in obtaining proof that I'll reach for him too and I will because in the dark he is Cole, a memory of love now dead and cold but of love nonetheless, and nothing more than that. In the dark it's everything I need. In the light it is shameful, the weight of a thousand secrets pressing down on my bony shoulders, pounding me into the frozen earth.

It's the hidden disapproval in the otherwise stone expression of Caleb's driver/our bodyguard, Mike, who has been privy to more of my life in the past three years than anyone else I know and still he makes promises to me that are coerced out with threat of fire on the other side. I don't blame him but I can't trust him and I was foolish to think I could, but really, all secrets are open secrets in Bridget's house. She does not discriminate and for that the punishment was compliance, same as it ever is.

Luckily I can't feel anything anymore. But could I ever?

Devil may care.

The most interesting part of all of this is that Jacob fought tooth and nail to keep me, to keep (almost) all of us away from Caleb. No information, no access, no weak points in the keep through which the devil might wind.

Save for Ben. Ben would not listen. Ben went against everyone's better advice and most fervent wishes and struck up a close friendship with Caleb, maybe in an effort to hold on to Cole, because Ben and Cole were so close.

And now the devil runs the entire circus, and his right hand man got the girl. The devil controls the girl and the devil is responsible for and personally involved in every last nuance of our lives.

Which is why he is now downstairs in the dining room reading the local paper with a disapproving frown on his handsome face, shooting his cuffs like they are weapons to deploy charm and sophistication and remarking that I really need to get a grip, he could have sent some of the boys overseas, where the action is, instead of keeping them in the country.

All of these random, composed points softened from threats while he evaluates whether my dress is to his taste, if I am too thin and how tired I look after a night with Daniel because he's as close to Ben as I can be right now

After Jake flew I sold the circus to Caleb.

I got tired of fighting, tired of running and I have one hell of a self-destructive streak that lets me spend time with him without even caring if he sets me on fire or locks me in my own head for days. Jacob had been losing the fight anyway and in the end the devil pushed him off the sky. I'm not dumb, I know he did it, I know Caleb was the straw that broke the preacher's back.

They say to keep your enemies closer and I'm trying to do that now and the weirdest part of today was not the oddly extreme meltdown as Daniel was going through the gate or the fact that not thirty seconds after I got home Caleb was on his way because Mike took one look at me and called him, but it was the exchange Caleb and I had when he arrived. Civilized, appropriate and normal and downright weird by our standards, which are completely out to lunch.

Did you get the things you needed?

Yes, he's good for the next few months, maybe into summer.

What size is Henry? I can have some things sent.

It's not necessary. He's in 14/16s now, the next step is the men's department.

Are you serious?

Yes.

What size do most eight year olds wear?

7/8, though Ruthie was in 5/6s then. It depends on the child, really.

But fourteen? Jesus.

You've seen him. He's a big kid.

Is there something in the water here, princess?

If there was, I would drink more of it, don't you think?

I'm wondering how long he's going to sit down there and pretend everything is fine. Wait, nevermind. I don't think I care.

Jacob, I wish you would fix this. I think I screwed up big time here.

Whirlwind Dan.

If you blinked late last night, Daniel showed up on my doorstep and he was back at the airport before it started to get dark, just a little while ago. He came to give me a hug, my variation of it, anyway, and then he was gone again, a victim of Caleb's easily enforceable timetable. He who has plane makes rules, a lesson I tested early this morning when I tried to go over his head and get Ben a flight home for Friday and couldn't because everything is booked and Ben has a schedule besides.

And right this second I'm walking the tightrope between horrifically discouraged and somewhat heartened. Things are slowly falling into place. Time heralds the adventure on the horizon, blah, blah, blah. It's going to happen whether I sleepwalk or fret the whole way through it. I'm trying for small victories and mindful of big challenges. I'm trying to stick the methods I have always used. A lot of tears and one step in front of the other and verbal smorgasbords of words designed to convey to others precisely how poorly I deal with stress and only serving to reduce me to idiot in their eyes, I'm sure.

For one very brief cool-skinned hug nothing was so bad.

Then he let go and I slid back down, all the way to the bottom and landed with a hard thump and got grass stains all over my starched pinafore and insult to my injuries besides.

I choose sleepwalk, but I'm not allowed.

I would pick Ben to come back, but that seems unreachable, invisible, out of the question, fragile miss Bridget.

The cold and the quiet settle in again like a blanket that seems warm until you realize you can no longer breathe or move or find any peace at all. That's where I am tonight anyways.

Adagio, cold metal and Dana Fuchs on the radio.

Well do you or don't you want me to make you?
I'm coming down fast but don't let me break you

If you find her in the sunlight, the tiny dust motes floating in the air while she bites her sterling bobby pins open and twists her hair up into a ballerina bun, she won't see you. The sleeves of her sweater are long, getting in the way, constantly pushed up over bony elbows. She pushes them up again and adds one more pin to keep the bun from falling out while she paints. And you watch her.

While she sings.

While she thinks.

Well do you or don't you want me to love you?
I'm coming down fast but I'm miles above you

God's down at the Safeway and she said I was fine.

I'm cooking corn, cod and potatoes for dinner. Hot comfort food if there ever was any. I'm dying to go to the Raincity Grill in Vancouver. I'm picking places out for Ben and I to try out once we're there. If you have any suggestions, let me know, I love to eat.

Yesterday again they had no cake when I went for groceries. I braved the icy roads, bought the requisite vegetables, fruits, fibers, legumes and school snacks and then I went to see if they had any chocolate cake for Bridget because even though Bridget prefers the very fancy cakes one can find at Salty's or Dio, the cakes from Safeway are perfectly wonderful in their own right. And only $12. For a WHOLE one!

No cake. None. Zip. Wait, some strange German chocolate affair that always looks so unappetizing so I opted to just buy extra pears to snack on and as I'm coming up the bakery aisle an elderly lady asked me if I could reach the cherries for her. I found that funny, she was maybe two inches shorter than me. I gave them to her and she remarked that they didn't seem to have any graham crackers, whole ones, not the crumbs. She needed the wafers.

They're in the cookie aisle, I said. At the bottom.

Thank you, she said. You're a good person. You'll do fine.

Late last night it hit me. She was God. I asked for something, anything and I got it in the form of a little old lady at the grocery store.

Interesting. I'm not sure I'm up for scavenger hunts though, I would much prefer it if God would just email me so we could have a conversation I could go back over later, if need be.

After shopping I still had some time left before the kids would be home for lunch so I drove to the shopping center and bought a lottery ticket and went to the big drugstore to see if there was anything new in the first-aid aisle. My fingertips cracked earlier this week and it's been especially painful since I'm always up to my elbows in (very drying) plaster and paint. I was in luck.

This stuff.

So far so good, though it's been barely a day. I'll keep you posted. Maybe I can just glue all of the broken parts of Bridget on and survive the rest of the winter intact. Place your wagers now, as bidding soon will close.

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

~J. D. Salinger (1919-2010)

Hypoxia

Good morning
Don't cop out
You crawled from the cancer to land on your feet
Are you crazy to want this
Even for a while?

Yes, I know it's midnight. Sometimes life works out just like this.

Satan breezed in mid-morning, just as I was sitting in the garage in the car listening to Matthew Good and feeling as if there could be no more of a desolate and lonely moment in my life than this one right now.

He wanted to drop all of the paperwork in my lap, which were essentially his relocation allowances for the boys and for me, spelled out in dollars and sense, contracts with words like 'arbitration' and 'moral property'.

Fine, just leave it on the kitchen table. I returned to my incredible sadness. I don't know what is is, just this deep unrelenting ache that, when addressed, blooms into breathtaking panic, and when ignored, retreats to the background, multitasking along with me, hurting enough to make its presence known and make it hard to breathe but still allowing me to do what needs to be done.

Had Caleb arrived in flames I probably wouldn't have noticed. I feel like finally the details are slipping away and the nitty-gritty things I always try to nail down don't even matter anymore. What matters is Ben, eight days already tacked on to the first absence, bringing the total to twenty but Bridget isn't counting because Bridget always focuses on the wrong things.

There is no allowance for my drama and things are very difficult at best.

Sure, I continue to chip away at the house. Some touch up paint here, a plant there, a picture moved, decluttering. Plasterwork and sanding and big ticket painting too but still I cough and cough and my eyes water (half cold virus, half drama) and I have the winter blues and cabin fever and fear of everything and the I-miss-Bens. I feel like the house will never be good enough because it's a hundred years old and there's not enough time or energy to make it perfect and really I don't think I want it perfect because it looks so lovely and I won't get to have this ever again and before I turn this into another ode to the castle of my dreams, I'll remind myself right here that the castle sits in a kingdom that is entombed in ice.

Oh, quite literal, I am. No drama there. It is so cold I can't trust Henry not to dawdle on the way home and far too icy on the roads to run the snow-rally car so I walk with them, four times a day. I swear to God winters here are an endless ballet of boots on, coat on. Boots off, coat off.

And so Caleb frowns.

What's wrong, Bridget.

What's right, Cale?

Stop being dramatic.

Yeah. Fine.

He frowns deeper. He looks very scary when he does that but I'm not sure I can find the generosity to reassure him. I am far too busy feeling sorry for myself. Endless winter, horror-Prairie, what in the fuck am I doing here, we shouldn't be here.

I scare myself with the voices. On days like this one I was really beginning to believe everything everyone says. Not about how incredibly beautiful I am (ha), but about my issues and whether or not I can manage them appropriately anymore, under these circumstances.

My doubts have begun.

Caleb is too busy adjusting bottom lines and coordinating people from all four corners of the globe and he doesn't have time to assuage petty concerns, worries I have invented and then magnified so that they are big green hairy monsters that chase me, screaming, down the hall. Worry is a nightmare hole I fell into and can't fall out of and I've pulled Matthew Good over the hole to obscure me and maybe the fear won't find me again but the apathy can stay because it's less agonizing.

Caleb remained at the house just long enough to make sure I had everything I needed to distribute to the boys and to spend a few moments with the children, who are also minding the cold and the isolation now but are elastic enough to find distractions without effort (hereafter to be referred to as DWE because I'm sure it will be a recurring theme) and were happy to see him and then as I walked him to the door, I guess my newfound detachment struck a chord, or perhaps a nerve, because he reached down and held the back of my head as if he was going to embrace me and instead his unshaven jaw razed a burn down my cheek and his lips were so warm, just under my temple that I flinched but was held fast in his arms.

You're doing just fine, princess. You're capable. Everything is going to be better.

I couldn't even tell him where to put his reassurance. Ben is gone. Doesn't anyone get that? Ben is my air and he isn't here and I'm lightheaded and soon I'll be dead from the lack of oxygen.

He kissed me hard and then he was gone. My pupils constricted and Strange Days came flooding back into my brain.

Bridget's bonspiel.

This morning was a carnival ride of a different kind. Wheeeeeeeeee as I turned my little car into a curling stone, giving it a twist and watching it curve around the neighborhood slower than death, coming around to rest precisely where I shot for, at the away end. The garage again.

In other words, I made it around the block and then I was smart and packed it in. I am not going on a cake run until the city cleans up Mother Nature's mess. They have promised that overnight tonight and tomorrow we should see improvements so I will test things again on Thursday, I think.

Besides, my car has a good three inches of clearance which makes it the PERFECT vehicle for snow navigation. I bought it for an ice rally I plan to enter someday. Why are you laughing? Stop laughing. It has snow tires. You could tell by the way it was glued to the garage floor when I went to pull it out. Eek.

Industrial-strength lullabies.

This lonely isolation follows me through my dreams
I wander around with doubt
so cold and incomplete
There is nothing here for comfort
No spark of hope I see
I breathe deep and fill my lungs to silently release
This is more than a dream to me
I breathe deep and drown my lungs and release silently
I gasp for breath to only hear what's inside me
An echo
More than a dream to me
An echo of my scream

Metal makes everything strong. Steadfast, more comfortable. Ben is made of metal. I wish he could be home right now.

The blizzard has ended and we didn't even run out of milk. The mercury is free-falling now and instead of perishing in isolation as the city became obscured by drifts, instead we're going to freeze to death.

Cole, why did we move here again? Oh yes. That was in another life, a life that's over now. Lucky you. You can't feel cold.

Jesus, Bridget, what has he done? Jacob's first comment on the weather here as he watched the thermometer surrender the day we hit new cold records.

There is always a mad dash to prove life in spite of the obstacles. Sure, go out and carry on as usual. But first be sure the rope is tied securely around your waist, your will is up to date and you've got at least five layers of thinsulate, wool and gortex on, even though you will still feel every degree of the current conditions.

Thanks for the wild send-off, you stupid godforsaken hell-hole, I am done now.

Last night I thought I would die of fear again. Not sure what it is, save for these moments that feel like shallow panic attacks. I can wade right in, cool off, splash around a bit and then come out eventually. It takes forever to get dry. I should probably just wait on the side. I know it's just the weather and the lack of sleep and this bad cold and the upheaval and it's all in my head. I don't believe my head understands the rules of engagement and so it reacts like a feral child with no access to civilization. I believe I would make a great thesis for somebody. Maybe more than one person, since every armchair therapist who has ever discovered me online has felt the need to weigh in. Screw you, show me your qualifications and your pay scale and then we'll talk. Only then.

At the height of my stupidity I tried to talk August into coming home. He is the most free with engagements at present. I begged and I promised and I charmed and then Satan came out of nowhere and shut me down. I was no longer mindful of the rules. I tried to circumvent the status quo and once again I was held screaming into the flames before being pulled back, strong arms using logic as muscle against a mind that likes to see the suffering.

August was similarly burned. I have apologized to him until I run out of words and he will not accept it, he says it isn't my fault and for some reason that makes more sense today, in the sun, with the blizzard warnings now behind us than it did last night in the dark with the winds howling all around me.

Safety won't be there with him, princess.

I don't care, Caleb. I need people here.

To waste time?

To keep me grounded.

Maybe you need a reminder in why this is best.

What I need is a timeline. Dates. Plans. Throw me a bone here, Jesus. Right now it just seems like endless winter.

What are you learning?

How much I hate you, Caleb.

And?

How hard Ben works. How when he feels pain now he just puts his head down and works harder. How he refuses to dwell on the hard parts because he has to survive.

Admirable. Can you apply that to yourself, perhaps?

No. I'm a masochist. I want to feel it and then I want to flick a switch and make it go away.

All you have to do is say one word, princess.

No. Goodbye, Caleb. And leave the boys alone. They're doing well, they don't need you doing this.

I didn't get where I am by leaving loose ends, Bridget.

Who said anything about loose ends?

That's what August is. Your Jacob-clone. The outsider. The one we all watched in real time as he became helpless against your attentions.

I thought that was Ben's role.

So did I but you are quite the little collector, aren't you?

I haven't collected anyone.

Bridget, your...'army' as you call it is quite strong now. Cole would have been incredibly surprised at this turn of events.

I should have told him.

Told him what?

That he was not the monster.

Oh, really?

You are. It was you. He was a puppet too.

No, Bridget, I loved my brother. But my brother had issues too and he failed to appreciate the life he had.

Not true. You did that to him.

Before you make a mistake and deify any more losers I'm going to suggest tonight be a little less noisy on your end of life. You're being protected, there is nothing that can happen to you so you may as well be content to get to know yourself a little better instead of hiding in the arms of the first man who slows down near you.

Caleb?

Yes, princess?

Fuck you.

I always appreciate it when you end a call with spirit. It's just another little reassurance that you're doing just fine.

The city in the sea.

A pause for clarity, since the emails are still rolling in. You people seem to demand literal postings. Every song lyric, person and moment I mention seems to be matched and compared and speculated upon. It's weird. Find a new hobby, please. Thank you.

Caleb Followill is not Caleb. Jesus. Come on. The age difference must be twenty years. (but doesn't he resemble a young David Gilmour? Wow.) I've stopped entertaining the Ben-guesses completely because the point of this journal is BRIDGET, pure and simple (or contaminated and complicated, as expected).

And this post is in direct reference to this non-event. My theory extends to the visitor being a great grandchild to my most beloved of all poets.

See, I read the news.

Every once in a blue moon.

Sunday morning decaf.

Determination comes in tiny-blonde too, you know.

Apologies, to my creation for these wasted days
My transcendence has a bitter face
Dreams are built and spent with might
And I'm sorry cause I never fight

And in the aftermath, dreams just altruistic sayings
My just emotion throws, apart, unique, I didn't even care
So look away your life is past and you let the chances cave
And all our cares of the moment have given us our names

Uneasy peace settles like a pall over the darkened house. I draw my finely-knit wrap around my shoulders a little tighter and take the clip out of my hair so that my neck and shoulders are protected from imaginary chill. I'm looking for things that bring warmth today and finding that everything is temporary and even the incredibly familiar things I love so feel somewhat useless this morning.

There is no church. Sam is still away and I could go and listen for the community service but it isn't the same. I look after the household chores automatically, distractedly. Check the children, spool up the stereo downstairs, because the big black iron grates in every room that deliver the heat also deliver the sound if it's tuned just right. Marc Arcand's voice, my absolute favorite voice in the whole world, living or dead and oh, didn't that annoy Jacob so badly but it became a wasted argument because I would not budge, and we put it under the rug and tripped over the lump it made so very rarely as he learned the songs in spite of his displeasure over being usurped but I like voices and I never want to listen to my own because it surprises me. It always will do that when you can't hear yourself talk. So to hear Marc's voice so crystal clear, breathing included has always been a huge joy for me that perplexes everyone else.

Perfect example here.

Sigh. They are totally fledglingly adorable. Bridget has the sads that they have become a Quiet Band now. Ben has no issues, he knows his voice to me is a warm bath and the cruelest of familiar away-noise all at once. His voice is mine. It is my favorite too but only because I get to hear it relay the most depraved thoughts of me and I love that more than I can tell you right now because my mom (Hi mom) reads and it's Sunday, people.

Our storm seems to be dwindling but we won't know for sure until thirty hours from now. It's going to get cold and windy and then the sun will break through for the rest of the week, leaving the cold to linger because I hoped the unseasonable warm would remain but I never expected it to. Every step closer gets to happy though, right? Ben tells me that every night on the phone and I'm trying to believe in it despite the endless hours I spend alone.

Every step. Fuck this, I'm soon to break into a run. And when I do the chain on my necklace will lift, pulling the heart away from my skin, cooling it in the still night air and my hair will fly out behind me, tangling in knots and separating into waves like the streaks of green versus blue in the ocean at the cottage and the warmth of Ben's eyes will bring me in because I won't stumble until I see him smile and then and only then do I plan to fall apart again.

I have to be tougher than this. I will spend today sitting in the light by the window mending the holes in my armor, stitch by stitch, most likely with the stereo still on. You'll see. I'll sew until I can't feel my fingers anymore. I'll make you proud, baby.

Snowpocalypse.

Because I'm knowing what you're fearing
An unsentimental jury
And for miles I guide you
I watch over everything

Yeah, that kind of princess. The high-maintenance, never-lift-a-finger, lets-someone-else-do-all-the-work kind of girl. But sweet and in a low-cut dress.

That's the kind of princess I'm going to be because otherwise I'm soon going to look like Popeye with giant arms on a skinny little body and that won't do at all.

Seriously, the day has been spent plaster skim-coating walls and shoveling the white concrete that fell from the sky overnight and then the rain and oh my Gods.

It sucks so bad.

Wait, let me rephrase that, if you are ten years old or under it's the Best Thing Ever. If you're over thirty and you drive a sportscar it is fresh white tears on the face of your driveway, who is all emo and impassable.

On the upside, the shoveling is done for the moment, cross your fingers for the rain and warm temperatures to continue and maybe it can eat away at some of the snow before the next round of climatic stupidity tomorrow.

The prairies and I are gearing up to make sure we won't miss each other, that's for sure. Not for even one single teeny tiny moment. It's now a war.

Lunatic city.

Bridget was never a Prairie girl to begin with.

I'm listening to Mudvayne and Domenica today. It's an odd kind of day like that.

The best news is despite feeling all kinds of miserable this morning when I woke up, a hot bath and some Advil took the bite out of the cold I am fighting. I had a fever but right now it's the high point of the day and I feel almost human. I did manage to clean the floors and catch up on the laundry and I even sanded a little bit and removed the ancient door jam (which was a mess) from my bedroom door. It was once an exterior door, since my room is part of the addition that was put on in the thirties/forties.

Great fun, that. Not sure how much lead paint I need to inhale in my lifetime but I've probably had enough.

I sat in the car again while it warmed up. I didn't need to go out but I have this weird thing about making sure it starts which is all me and not the car. I have issues. Seriously.

I spoke to the boys, who are running around in the sunshine in Vancouver without jackets on (ARGHHHH) and I cried at all of them. I used blubbery words like scared and Colorado low and blizzard and power outages and they all have assured me that we'll be fine. So to further the 'fine' I walked to the store and got some treats for the kids and for Bridget because I am still slightly bent that there was no cake at the bakery and so fuck you cake, it's salsa and chips this weekend.

We'll watch movies and hang out in our pajamas. We'll eat and sleep and get better. We'll get through this blizzard just like Ma Ingalls and the girls did that time that Pa went hunting and the blizzard came up and they didn't see him for over a week and almost starved to death, except we'll do it hopefully with more snack food and the internet.

We don't have a choice so what the hell.

If it gets bad though, you'll find us at the Fairmont. I'm not stupid. I put my Mastercard by the door. Because that's what true princesses do in an emergency and someday I plan to be one.

(A true princess, not an emergency. Haven't you noticed? I'm already an emergency.)

Needless to say, my arch-nemesis, The Weather Network, is calling for some ridiculous amount of snow and wind, complete with red warnings and dire predictions. True to form, Environment Canada is all wtf, weather network, fear-mongering much?

I'm splitting the difference. Nachos it is.

The Tell-Tale Heart.

Sometimes talented men die young, whether it be because they've expended too much energy in kind or because there is only so much room for the brightest stars to shine all at once and when your time is up, it's simply up.

She didn't plan on notoriety. It was one of the few wrinkles in her memories, the fact that in recent years it grew more and more difficult to slip in and out undetected. Unsteadily so, as she would drink half the bottle before she even put on her coat, lamenting the loss of a life so incredibly wicked and writ. Then she would choose his roses from the vase on the table and tuck the bottle, now tightly capped, under her coat and head off to remember. In the dark, like he must be now.

Upon arrival she waited behind the wall, listening. Hearing nothing she walked forward. Tiptoes. Minimizing her clicking heels, the sound overtaken by her thumping heart. She knelt down and placed the roses at the base of the memorial and then gently balanced the bourbon beside the flowers. She touched her fingers to her lips and then to the cold stone and she smiled, warm with a tinge of bitterness because he has been gone now for such a long time. She has not known him in her own lifetime. She wished she did.

She stood, taking one more swift glance around the courtyard and broke into a run, leaving her treasures behind with her heart, her blood entombed under this massive stone reliquary.

Happy birthday. Someday we'll be together again.

She died this year. At home, alone in her bed, and this year will be the first year that they will be together, and he can meet his flesh and blood.

There is no mystery here, only resonance.

Princess courageous and the mittens of doom.

Ben sent me this to watch since I couldn't stay awake to see it last night.

Nom nom. Awesome. They should be back in Canada by now. True North, strong and free, baby.

In other news, we're supposed to have a whole lovely bunch of wind and freezing ice pellets and snow for the next four days and so I went and filled my car up to the brim with gas and did not find winter washer fluid anywhere but I have regular so better than nothing and I bought groceries which oddly while I was shopping seemed to consist of mostly vitamin water and frozen burritos but by the time I got home all of the usual suspects were stacked in the pantry. It's very difficult to shop for three people, I believe at this point we have enough food to last until summer.

I could spend the day sitting on the pantry floor hoping nothing goes wrong, missing Ben and being awful and unmanageable. I'd LIKE to do that, God knows, everyone keeps minimizing this as if my reactionary life is completely unreasonable. Well, it isn't and I'm not, but I have things about me that don't lend well to stupid concepts like 'independence' and 'strength'. So there. Sue me. I don't do alone well. I hardly manage it at all, frankly and damned if I'm not amazingly proud of myself for going out today. Small steps.

Every last one with a tiny squeak of pain because Ben isn't within reach.

Also, I'm convinced life will be easier when it isn't mostly conducted in ice at ridiculous temperatures below zero. I plan to buy a red umbrella to stand out and maybe some cute red rain boots.

Look, distractions, princess. See them? They're right there.

I plan all kinds of things for when I get out of here, when I get to be with Ben. When things settle and we survive this most recent round of obstacles. Henry seems to be on the mend at last. Ruth has a lesser version of his cold. I have a terribly sore throat and swollen glands, hence the vitamin water. I don't drink enough unless there is coffee left. Coincidentally since I still seem to make coffee for six people every morning, there is always some left.

And I'm not going to talk about yesterday. I was cheeky and I got my hand slapped as a result. Caleb politely asked me to remove my post so I did because I don't bite the hand that feeds me. It bites me. Sometimes it hurts and so for now I'm just going to let that go for a little bit and maybe he will slither back into the shadows, under a rock somewhere like a good little snake and I can continue my walk through the shade in the forest hoping that I come across the clearing soon.

(Where the sun shines and the flowers bloom toward the sky. Where snakes wither helplessly and then they die.)

Whoops. That was out loud again, wasn't it?

I'm going to go make lunch for the children. They should be home from school any moment now.

Putting the 'Mental' in fundamental.

Why does time move so incredibly SLOW while Ben is away? Can someone tell me? I'd love the answer to that one. And really, if you're prone to being able to proficiently answer philoso-psychological questions like that, you might want to stick around because I have more.

I'm sure I'll get a phone call from Sam when he sees that.

Extra-beautiful, the bitter/sweet edition.

Maybe redemption has stories to tell
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here.

You would think with all the boys I know, famous and infamous, I would have done a little better yesterday.

Chris and I were in our usual spot, outside the venue two hours before the show when the photographer (Andy, who RULES ALL) came out and invited us to come in and watch Switchfoot do their soundcheck. Ben would have loved this but alas, Chris takes us to the Switchfoot shows because ironically my husband is usually away playing death metal when they roll into town.

We sat on the floor while they played Dirty Second Hands, and then they came down and met us, chatting for a few minutes.

And I'm an idiot, because I'm standing there holding the hand of the guy who wrote the words on my ankle and I didn't show him my Nothing in the world could fail me now tattoo.

Argh!

(Jon, I'm so sorry. I wanted to show you. My brain wiped itself clean somewhere in between walking down to the stage and when you smiled at me.)

I managed to talk to him a little though. I had a great talk with Chad, and Drew and Tim. Jerome remembered the children from three years ago when we last met up at the same place.

When they were finished we were sent back outside, no longer cold, VIP wristbands displayed proudly because I'm the biggest Switchfoot fan that ever lived and seriously, after coming away from the last show with set lists and guitar picks and a front-row view I figured that was the amazing show and hopefully this one would be cool too but at no point did I expect to meet the band. I've known some other bands. Mostly big scary gruff guys with almost as many tattoos as I have. Not down to earth, friendly and engaging bands that I can sing every word of every song with.

But at door time we filed in and wound up in the front row again! This time firmly rooted between where Tim and Jon stand onstage. Only Jon never stands still. He grabbed hands, he jumped into the audience right next to me, to the positively screams of delight from my kids and the glowstick-teens next to us. He sang to Ruth. He sang to me. Tim checked Henry to make sure he seemed to be having fun. (For the record, Henry bailed at ten songs in, bless his heart. Christian took him to a cooler vantage point from which to enjoy the rest of the show). We sang and swayed and rocked out and took video (PS My blackberry takes amazing video, sound is distorted but I might try a Youtube upload later today) and waved goodbye when they were finished, wrapping up with Dare you to Move after twenty other songs, including playing the new Hello Hurricane album start to finish. Start to finish, I said. Oh my God, the songs.

It was beyond ridiculously good. I didn't want to cut off my access bracelet when we got home. I didn't want to go to sleep.

Four hours later we were up again and on our way to the airport, this time for duty instead of celebration. I had to drop Ben off for his flight and we were almost late because we could not let go of each other and didn't want to face this morning but knew we don't really have much of a choice. Onward and upward big B and little b. Face your fears. Face the day. Dare you to move, stupids.

After a night like that, it seems like anything and everything is possible. Strangers are friends. Fear is adventure in disguise. Time is relative. Wounds heal.

And live music is worth living for, a gift like nothing else to me.

Thank you, boys.

Recycling, the hard way.

Let go for just a moment, Princess.

I think somehow I felt like Ben leaving his favorite guitar here at home was collateral so that he would have to come back. I spent a lot of his time away wondering if I would see him again, feeling like I had been left behind and generally just wholly unprepared for how rocked I would be in his absence.

He has gone away before. Dozens of times over the years. In previous lives we would pick a fight, he would go on tour and I would point out repeatedly in messages and calls that I hardly noticed he wasn't present and I would see him when I saw him. In turn he would point out how peaceful and fun the chaos, noise and misery of the road was compared to my house. We both knew better, it was just fun to throw barbs and pretend they didn't hit their targets.

Of course, now everything is at stake and trips have taken on an albatross-shaped shadow that sometimes blocks the sun and sometimes it just forces shade. I can still see, but it's softened light and it isn't quite right.

The guitar goes back with him early this week and we have no return date this time, both points that leave me completely cold and freaked out and wanting to do the velcro-monkey all over Ben. I want him to brush his hand down my hair and hold my head against his chest so I can quiet to his heartbeat. So I can feel safe. Once he leaves that goes out the window like a mended bird, never to be seen again.

I want to be a raving lunatic. I've shed enough tears in the past two weeks to commission the building of an ark. I've pointed out a hundred times that this is too hard and I can't do it and I've talked and breathed my way out of five good panic attacks because that was the only choice I had. Sink or swim. Get a grip or slide right off the edge. Buck up and deal with it or risk the permanent label of catastrophizing everything, every time. Never getting better. Backsliding over what will be small potatoes someday.

Yeah, well, sometimes those small potatoes aren't so small. They block the view. They block progress.

So for one solid minute, this afternoon in the midst of the final major renovation project in the house I took my lunatic moment. I lost my mind. I stomped and screamed and yelled and took all my frustrations out on a cardboard box in the basement. I tore it to pieces and kicked it and freaked the fuck out.

Completely. You would have been surprised. I'm a quiet worrier, I cry, I get frustrated. I become silent. Paralyzed. I very rarely explode and when I do I might yell for a minute or talk back. I'm buttoned-up.

Ben just stood there. I don't think he knew what to do. He didn't know what to say so he just turned around and went back upstairs to keep working while I finished tearing up the box three floors below. Then I came upstairs, passed him the tools he needed and we carried along as before.

Later tonight after dinner, Ben said he thought I really needed that and he was glad for it. I'm still humiliated and embarrassed that I flipped like that but he assures me I've been bottling things up and should yell more and cry less, that it would be easier for everyone. Healthier too.

Maybe he was just relieved I didn't go after the guitar.

(For the record, I would never destroy his belongings. I wasn't mad at Ben. I was mad at the circumstances, and they're not his fault.)

Not sure what I'm going to do for my next trick. It will probably involve more quiet plastering though. That seems to be January's theme, and how I've kept all this rampant frustration in check for so long thus far.

A sight for sore eyes.

Today was amazing. The sun was shining, it was mild out, and we took off after a lazy morning to have some lunch out, run a few errands and take a long drive.

I've been very good today. I've worked hard not to be the little velcro-monkey I expected to be. Ben came home in full beard and flannel just before midnight and opened his arms and I was a fucking goner, baby.

He smelled like airplane fuel, and once again I did not care. I stayed in his arms and I slept fitfully, waking up every six minutes to make sure he was really here and I wasn't dreaming.

I'm not dreaming, am I?

Best intentions.

After lunch this afternoon I got in the car and pulled out of the garage into the sunshine and sat for a few moments waiting for the car to warm up. The boys have told me I can't just let my car sit for long periods without at least warming it up every now and then so I've been dutiful (before you email me, we're talking -30 or worse temperatures most of the time) though they probably say it just as much to get me out of the house.

I figured I would put it in gear and go to the hardware store and maybe stop for a coffee on the way home. A little treat since I haven't spent a dime or left the house for any reason other than school and one trip grocery shopping for two weeks straight.

Huh.

I pulled back into the garage, turned the car off, plugged it in and came inside.

I made coffee in the coffee maker. Odds are Ben will want to visit a few places tomorrow anyway so we'll go out then and maybe we can tack on a nice lunch out somewhere and a coffee on the way back.

I think it's self-preservation. I have a headache. I'm way beyond overtired and everything is melty and the roads are very slippery. It's not that I am in bed with the covers pulled up over my head wishing away the world, it's more that I don't feel like wasting the energy and stressing myself out more when I know I'm overtaxed.

This morning I painted and caught up on the laundry and cleaned and I got everything ready for Ben's return tonight. His towels are out. His favorite foods are stocked in the kitchen. The house is clean. I even brushed the dog. He's so excited to be coming home, even if it's just for a long weekend and I am still plotting to bar the doors and ground all the planes so that he can't go back next week. I hope I'm successful but I think instead I'll be expected to be an adult.

Hmph. Fat chance of that ever happening in this lifetime.

He's coming home, though! That's all that matters.

Lachrymose and twee.

One more sleep to go and then I can fill this massive hole where Ben is supposed to be but isn't. I've been edging around this hole for almost two weeks now and no amount of contingency plans, rickety fences or reassurance keeps the fear of falling in away from me.

One more sleep.

I'm so excited my heart is already pounding and I have that weird sickish feeling in my throat. I'm looking so forward to being able to sleep with both eyes closed, getting the giant princess-crushing hugs and general feeling of safety that Ben provides and a million other reasons. I miss seeing his eyes in person. I miss the grin and the beard he said he is keeping until we're with him for good and I miss being able to feel my heart beating because he has it with him and hell, even at Build-A-Bear they have a beating heart you can buy to stuff into your animal as it's made. It's important. It's basic comfort like nothing else.

Like Ben.

In other boy-news, I heard from my fair-weather lover too after mentioning how well I do when he is away. Lochlan called me and swore at me. Nice. I swore back because I am such a lady, and a petulant, immature one at that. Then I cried because he doesn't miss me the way Ben does.

He said I had no way of knowing that, simply because he doesn't moon over me the way the others do presently. I pointed out they don't, haven't and aren't so what does he know, anyway? He said he isn't given the privilege of showing any vulnerability when it comes to Bridget any more because everyone gets their guard up and I fall apart and it's just a bad scene all around. Fair enough. We'll finish that conversation when I see him next. But see? I can just leave Lochlan there and not be sad.

I can, I swear.

Okay, not really.

I'm just trying to focus. I got a lot accomplished in the past two weeks. A lot I didn't expect to accomplish and I even picked up my bravery cape and tried it on a few times. Maybe it fits. I'm just not sure about the color or the weight. But it's there on the hook and when the sun is shining I might drape it over my arm or twirl once or twice in front of the mirror wearing it.

Maybe I'll sleep in it tonight.

Fifty hours left until Ben comes home! Yay! or boo, that's way too long.

And there's a hippo loose in Montenegro.

• The saved voice notes on my BlackBerry are hilarious. I forgot they were there, and so I'm amusing myself right now playing them all back. Conway Twitty and The Night Bacon one is my favorite. Ben cracks up and has to start over. Twice.
  
• I've never seen an episode of the Simpsons, Mad Men, Desperate Housewives, American Idol or whatever else everyone seems to live-Twitter. I don't really like TV. Okay, I loved NCIS before it disappeared, and I liked Ice Road Truckers and Ice Pilots NWT. I love watching the Dakar Rally when it's on, the winter Olympics (but not really the summer ones except for men's swimming..hmm...fancy that) and my all-time favorite thing to watch was Eco-Challenge. LONG gone. I don't watch the news. I love movies but lately I haven't had enough peace of mind to sit down long enough to watch one. Maybe this weekend. We still have a bunch of new Blu-Rays just sitting here that haven't been opened yet.
• When I'm painting/drywalling/making a mess, I twist my wet hair up in two knots behind each ear and secure with hair elastics. Not only does it make the mailman laugh when I forget it's like that and take the dog for a walk as Princess Leia, but when I take them out later when my hair is dry, it is all ringletty and pretty, which is just a nice bonus after spending the day feeling yuck.
  
• I have no idea where Montenegro is. I looked it up and I still have no idea. Bad maps or inept Geography teacher. I'll let you decide.
• the first thing I plan to buy in Vancouver is a fake Louis Vuitton bag. Why? Because I always wanted one. Ben wanted to buy me a real one in Paris but then we had the fight and came home and really, let's just not go there.
• My new plan for world domination includes taking out The Weather Network first. They were off by fifteen degrees today. They got my hopes up for the last time. I'm a fan of Weather Underground now. As always, last to the party.
  
• I'm addicted to themes for my BlackBerry. (You may know this if you follow me on Twitter. Are you following me? You should follow me. I warn you, I post alot and then delete half of it later, but I'm impulsive like that.) I follow all the theme making girls. They make such nice themes and my new Bold can hold dozens of them. I change my theme or at least my wallpaper every single day.
  
• I realize I've been reading my Christmas book for three weeks already. I'm hoping to finish it tonight this month.
• I would vote for this as the most useful thing on the internet. No, I'm not kidding. (Also, cute ministers..it's a thing. Go away.)
• Ben has been very patient. I would tell you how patient, but then I just look like a drama queen. What's that? Oh, shut up.
  
• There are 55 hours left until he gets home. FIFTY-FIVE! Karma, if you're going to be a bitch, do it now.
  
• Lochlan has dropped off the face of the earth. I hate it when he does that but really, he doesn't have much patience for me. He never has. He'll resurface when he's good and ready. I am fine with him being gone when he goes and stays away. Ironic.
  
• Point form posts are sometimes what Bridget gives you when she's had three hours of sleep because Henry has been coughing again. With any luck tonight (aka a hot bath and some children's Nyquil) he'll sleep a lot better and then maybe I will also. Cross your fingers.

Not like the other: A chip. Or two.

Yes, I saw it. I looked out over the snowswept plain and I considered the gusts and the barren stillness and remoteness of it all and I gave it an appropriate length of deliberation. I took a pass.

Jacob warmed his hands by rubbing them together.

Where are your gloves?

I don't know. Is this alright, then?

No, it isn't.

I wouldn't have picked this for you either.

You don't get to make decisions anymore, you're dead.

Exactly. And you haven't been left behind.

* * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, I stopped using CFL bulbs today. As in, I went around the house replacing perfectly good spendy dim CFLs with good old-fashioned incandescent bulbs. And wow. What a difference. The light is bright and warm again. I can toss spent bulbs in recycling again. I can put them in outdoor fixtures without them failing, know that I can flip a light on and off without shortening its lifespan (which, for the record is NO longer) and I don't have to wait three seconds for the light to come on. By then, I am already across the room and have tripped over the dog. I can happily use my pretty lamps with clip on shades. And incandescents are two for a dollar.

So stuff it.

You want to talk to me about the environment? About saving energy and helping the planet? Trust me, you don't want to get into it with me. I could almost guarantee you I'll win the war on who is more ubercrunchay with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back.

And I'll do it brightly and warmly lit.

(Snort.)

Bedtime Stories (Four sleeps left).

Run, rabbit, run. Down the rabbit hole. It goes faster if you tuck your skirt around your legs tightly and close your eyes.

Go, Bridget, go!

I was up off my backside and running, never daring to look behind me, since the shadow stretching out in front of me was enough incentive. In my head the constant soundtracker took over and put Vivaldi to my movements, which made my brain compete with my legs for speed and made me dizzy. I fought to replace it with Bach. Angry, brooding German. Sonata No. 1 in G minor. Hell, pick something, princess, just get moving!

Down further and further, the cavern looped around and around, a spiral deep underground, leading God knows where. A door. It's a door. Open it. Run inside and SLAM! Turn and survey the room. Lightbulb in the ceiling and a tiny bottle on the floor in the center, almost directly underneath the bulb.

DRINK ME.

Who am I to question the weirdness of the moment or the relative recklessness of drinking something that I can't identify?

Whoooooooosh.

I'm tiny. The size of a firefly. My voice is a helium buzz and I laugh, a chipmunk bubble not even loud enough to echo off the stone walls. I can hide anywhere now, the problem is running. It will take weeks to cover the same distance I just ran when I was big.

The door flies open and I hide behind the tiny bottle, crouched down because it's empty. Hoping it's enough.

Fee Fi Fo fum.

What the fuck? I don't remember a giant in this story. But where there are giants, there are beanstalks. And golden eggs. Maybe if I can find both I can buy my way out of this mess. The goose was probably eaten already by the Queen of Hearts and her ludicrous children and I am fresh out of luck and storybooks. Why oh why can't this be The Princess and the Pea? That one is easy.

I step out.

Caleb.

Yes, princess?

It doesn't go like that.

It doesn't matter. I have money, I'll just change it.

But you can't. It's a classic.

Write another.

I don't write fairytales.

Sure you do.

Not until after they happen.

Why is that?

It's just the way I am.

He grinned, and the giant was replaced by the beast.

Stop that.

Stop what?

Stop changing. I can't keep you straight.

That's my point. If you didn't write it, I can do whatever I please. Free reign on the page.

Then it won't be a very good story and no one will read it. A sad ending to your hopes of becoming a classic.

Suddenly he was Caleb again and I blinked and he passed me a cookie. One bite and I was back to Bridget-size, all five feet of anxiety, words and humor that becomes unrecognizable emo swill with one good shake. Nice yellow dress. I don't wear yellow. Christ. He held up the rose. It was already dead. My favorite kind.

So what would make it a classic?

Time.

Hard to have time when you won't stop running, Bridget.

Fairytales have happy endings, and I am nowhere near one right now.

How do you know that?

Because you're here.

Aren't you supposed to give me the gold? Then I'll go away. Unless...

Rumpelstiltskin!

*POOF*

Morning star.

Caleb (most likely with everyone's blessing) is having me watched.

I wasn't sure at first, and at one point I thought maybe he was back in town and content to remain on the fringes, watching me from behind snowbanks or across the street even. I just felt like I was putting on a show of sorts, like we had some sort of (though benevolent) keeper.

It's Mike.

Caleb's driver has a soft spot for me. Not in the way men usually do, but in a Samwise-way, in that he cares very much for my welfare without getting sucked in to my princess force field or whatever it is that casts the spell that ruins all of my friendships in favor of the weirdly thrilling tension-filled relationships that brought me this collective, for lack of a better term.

And I have a soft spot for him, negotiating heavily for a triple Christmas bonus over what Caleb had already generously planned for Mike, because Mike earns it. Who else could navigate for the devil so efficiently and then some? And he brings me pocky sticks. Gold.

And so Mike continues to earn his renumeration by being more than Satan's GPS. It's easier to say driver than second. I'm not blind. Mike only pretends to be subservient. I'm sure he can be just as cold-blooded as Satan himself, I'm sure his role is even larger than we assume but for now I am oddly grateful that we have someone looking out for us, even if I only catch the odd glimpse or feeling of him there. Mike will eventually make his way out west too, to continue his employment under/beside Caleb, and until then I will enjoy his invisible company.

(Oh, come on. Did you really think I wasn't going to call this out?)