Friday, 1 February 2019

An unsentimental journey.

What if you had married me? 

He thought he was being sweet or provocative and he cornered me with the age-old question yet again. It was too late anyway, the candles had burned out, the rain had drowned our will to persist and the music had looped around, back to the beginning and my preteen brain wandered off again, trying to understand how all of these wounded-heart people became such amazing singers to share their pain in these beautiful/ugly ballads I love to listen to so much. 

I would need way more therapy than I've ever gotten thus far. 

It was an offhand, knee-jerk reply and my heart immediately rose to my throat as I waited for him to throw me off the face of the earth in a rage, or worse. 

And I would have gotten it for you. The offer stands. 

It doesn't work. (I'm the worst patient that ever lived. Honestly, just bundle me into a cozy straitjacket, put some headphones on me and leave to rock in the corner and I'm good. Or as good as I can be, I guess.)

If you'd give me a chance, it would. 

No. (Because 2019 is all about limits and protecting myself at all costs. How am I doing?)

You break my heart, Neamhchiontach. 

Ditto. 

Thursday, 31 January 2019

A nothing Thursday (also Duncan binge-watched all of True Detective and he's very, very tired).

Just here waiting on the snow, nursing a sore shoulder and a hot cup of chai tea. I rearranged all of the boxes of tea in the cupboard, dumped out all of the tea bag packets and organized them in a big tupperware box so suddenly everyone is trying every flavor as if we've never had tea before. It's kind of funny but at least it's getting used. I also did a big pantry challenge this month and a budget challenge and I still have to do a clothing challenge but I don't care so much about that.

I'm not really a clothes person so no rush.

So we have fresh groceries, I took out some cash, I got gas (that's an every three or four days thing now LOL) and I'm going to hunker down and have a storm break if we do get snow here. If we don't then that's okay too.

Duncan is rather cranky but Ben is not and Lochlan is off helping PJ put things on my jeep (they love to tinker with cars (and bikes/campers/trucks/barbecues/sink faucets and clothes dryers) any chance they get) and yeah, this tea is pretty good. Shoulder's not though, so I'm just going to try and chill for a bit. 

Wednesday, 30 January 2019

Guarded.

Using both hands I jammed my crown down tight onto my head, hair flattened against my skull, braid pinned underneath the band, golden metal blinding anyone who came within a hundred-yard radius of the tiny princess-at-arms, guarding her own imagination.

She didn't have to do it alone.

The prince was there, too. In his jeans with the perpeputally ripped-open back pocket from putting heavy tools in it absentmindedly, too-big flannel shirt, his own crown crushing his beautiful red curls he stood just slightly in front of her, bearing a sword with a rusted blade cut into with chips, worn dull from use fighting her nightmares. Fighting his own.

He adjusted his crown so it was slightly cocked to match his eyebrow and set his mouth in a determined line.

Ready, Bridgie? 

I don't know, Locket. Are we?

***

He came in tonight, two bags of groceries in one hand, truck keys in the other. Keys are tossed onto the table in the front hall and his arm slides around my waist, pulling me in tight, folding the groceries against my back as he can't resist a full embrace.

I haven't seen him all day so I'm fine to have a bottle of orange juice suddenly pressed against my back.

Ready? 

Do we have plans? 

We do. 

And they are? 

We're going to make dinner together, just you and I and this bottle of red wine (the one I thought was orange juice) and we're going to have it in the gazebo. 

It's cold and raining-

I thought you figured out the heater. 

I keeping forgetting it has one.

We made chicken alfredo for two with bowtie pasta and garlic rolls and opened the wine and took a basket full of candles out with us and a blanket big enough for two and we savoured our quiet, private supper like we rarely get to. It was only when he got up to pack up the dishes that I saw the sword propped up against the back of his chair.

Monday, 28 January 2019

Later-day saint (sic).

Drove the Porsche today so she doesn't feel forgotten. She didn't seem happy at all. I promised I would clean her up maybe on the weekend and she shrugged and let me out quietly in the driveway when I got home.

I brought more pie home. This habit will soon spell certain disaster, as everyone here has a sweet tooth as big as mine and boy do they love pie. Even though I say we're cake people, if you put pie in front of a man's nose he will eat it, to be certain.

I have a bruise on my hand from slamming it against the open corner of the counter at work, repeatedly. It looks terrible and the worst part is I keep slamming it against everything.

I got a rash from my work dress due to it's appealing (snort) synthetic nature and have resolved to find out more about mormon undergarments just for the shield they would provide between my delicate angry skin and that dress.

I wouldn't, honestly. It's sacred to the LDS church, a church I know nothing about but it also sounds so compelling, especially when they describe it as 'armor of God'.

Who wouldn't want to wear that?

Now, if anyone has any other leads on some neck-to-knee cotton bodysuits I'm all ears.

Sunday, 27 January 2019

Tiny blonde persecutors and those who narrate them.

Sam's words hit the ceiling of clouds today and I took them all in, soothing their bruises, their cut and dried meanings, their fabric, soaked to the bone and torn to pieces and then I ate them, swallowing gristle whole, choking back the too-big parts, drowning in the sugar and the vinegar of his plan for us. For all of us.

God is a tough parent but a fair one. He is unconditional and patient. 

He's a lot like Lochlan and as I listen to Sam's words in the ice-cold Could we please have a little heat? morning I came to that conclusion that I don't give Lochlan enough credit, though I try very hard to. Maybe I don't have enough to spare or maybe he's crossed from difficult husband into absolute martyrdom when no one was looking but he did the impossible and I'm grateful for it. He is the one person in my life who can rein in my mind long enough to achieve anything, whether it be running without tripping, eating four-squares a day or just being comfortable in my own skin. 

He had to deal with me. Especially in the aftermath of that summer and then the aftermath of the winter of 2007 and he's done the best he could with what he has. With so little patience and yet all the patience in the world. 

So it makes me laugh when he leans in halfway through the sermon and spits,

You didn't eat breakfast, did you?

I had a muffin. 

Lies. I ate the last one last night. 

It was English! I had an English muffin!

Traitor then! 

And we laughed quietly, much to Sam's delight, who thought he was being clever.

Saturday, 26 January 2019

I'm not sure how this works.

And you walked away
And I saw fireworks imploding
Frame by frame
Like watching a movie in slow motion
From miles away
Up like a rocket ship ascends
Drifting up into space
And I'm running out of oxygen
I still kind of love these rare early Saturday mornings where the fog lies heavy over the point, giving the point a muffled, muted presence. The boys, the kids and the pets are all sleeping and I have my headphones, a large hot mug of coffee and a sudden discovery that what was previously a lightly-treading soft song is a deeply painful one upon examination of the lyrics.

My favorite kind.

My coffee is barely touched, words hardly finding time to get comfortable on my page when Ben appears, a warm hand on the back of my neck, a kiss landing on the top of my head. He pours a coffee and heads downstairs without a word (we try not to interrupt each other when writing) while I keep pushing letters around until they match the thoughts inside my head.

(That's a myth, actually and I perpetuate it. I've never found the words to properly articulate the way I feel, truth be told. But it's a challenge I've taken on nonetheless.)

I've been struggling lately in a different way that's the same. I'm having trouble sleeping again. My anxiety is through the roof about the smallest things. I feel like I've got one corner of the controllable universe grasped tightly in my hand like a sheet but one good hard flutter and it's going to be yanked away. I hate this feeling but it's one I have to ride along with until something else happens and then I'll be distracted by that and lose my way back to this.

Everyone says it's something that can be helped. Take this blue pill, or this red one maybe. Practice self care. Be mindful. Rest. Take sleeping pills. Take a vacation. Take a break, Bridget.

This is my break. I put on headphones and I fall in love with words and the melody to which they're sung because I can't find the words of my own.

Friday, 25 January 2019

'The joy of my heart is to study men.' (Yes, yes it is, Mr. Burns.)

Lochlan saved me from the certainty of having to hustle up a haggis from somewhere far from here because as a surprise he's making smoked haddock chowder instead and I've already had a taste and it's delicious. He's a very good cook, he just doesn't do it enough. I wouldn't either, honestly. It's daunting to cook for up to a dozen and the nights we dump two boxes of chicken nuggets (but shaped like dinosaurs) on baking sheets and add three bags of french fries are more common around here than you think.

Most people would say that everyone can make their own dinner and that happens here too but we also like to eat as a family so there's generally an early dinner shift and a late one and it's been working this way for a long time.

I've already had a small glass of whiskey and water, truth be told. Aberlour gives me a headache in my teeth, if that makes sense so I'll probably switch to water now. It's less painful overall. This stuff is harsh but it was also close at hand.

After dinner we'll read poems aloud and Ben will play us out on the bagpipes, same as he welcomed this morning by playing them in the driveway which brought the usual round of death threats from the neighbors via text message (lovely people).

I hope we can eat soon. I'm starving.

Thursday, 24 January 2019

(None of this is important to anyone but me.)

I parked on the front lawn today. Right at the top of the stone steps. Got a good laugh from everyone who left the house today and had a blast driving up there. Who needs roads? indeed.

Got a charitable tax receipt from my credit card for my membership to the art gallery. I need to check on that before I blindly add it in. Seems..weird and unexpected.

Got some T4s too. Here we go. Ten days left before I can start work on taxes. I hate taxes. I have a job now though so there's that. I'm thankful for it, I think.

Got some timbits. May eat them all for dinner and not even share.

Got really really tired this afternoon and may have started crying while loading the cookie jar. Then I loaded the dishwasher and stopped crying. It comes and goes. It's not grief but hormones. Lovely.

Lochlan kissed me right between the eyes today and then used the code word that a few people know which means I don't have the strength to chuck you out the window but could you please leave? to August and August quickly and kindly decided he sleeps better in his low swinging bed and thanked us for the extended mini-vacation. When he left Lochlan grabbed me in a tight hug and didn't let go.

Feel better? He asked after a few minutes.

Definitely, because I live for those hugs but I don't know if he meant that or something else.

The dog had a wonderful day of playing and went on a long walk today with yours truly.

I got groceries. And batteries for the remote panic alarms scattered throughout the house. Remind me to stagger the replacements next time so they don't all start chirping at once.

I got tired. Did I mention that? Oh, I did.

I discovered that Doc Marten boots are the very best things in which to drive a Jeep with.

I found out Chef's Table Volume 6 is coming next month to Netflix, which is a damn sad replacement for the winter Olympics but it's an odd-numbered year so it's better than nothing.

And tomorrow is Robbie Burns Day and I didn't buy any groceries for that at all and now I have to do my usual annual supply run. Because panic-haggis is the best haggis.

Have a good night.

Wednesday, 23 January 2019

Don't look so scary.

Sunlight
Ain't it good to feel alright
Ain't it good to know that you're not alone
Yeah ain't it good to know

Cause I lived my whole life
Looking for the light with closed eyes
Ain't it funny how you fight what you need the most
Yeah, but I can finally feel my soul tonight
Have to break the fourth wall for a moment here because Dear Reader, your reading comprehension gets an F.

The Jeep wasn't the leap of faith. It's a truck. Get a grip.

The leap had to do with August, and putting my foot down and climbing out of a hole only to slide happily right down to the bottom of it again because who wants to ignore the blissful coldness of good grief and here on the point we have the very best. So Sam moved back to his Boathouse and August is having a little vacation here from the loft because..

Because I need him? Maybe I just want him. Maybe he needs me. Hell, maybe he just wants me. 

Did I ask? Nope. 

Does it matter? Nope.

Did I have to fight for it?

Of course I did. That's what I do.

Tuesday, 22 January 2019

The Retro Encabulator. That's what her name is.

I went in tonight with PJ for moral support and Lochlan for Big Life Events you don't forget and I smiled really big and the dealership didn't remember me for a few moments, or why I was there.

But then they did and it was fine, because I saw it when we pulled in.

My brand new Jeep.

It's a Rubicon. Tires up to my neck. 2018 tech I will never learn and side rails that are actually incredibly slippery when you try to climb into the thing, or fall out of it as I have done every single time so far, forgetting it's a fathom to the ground and I'm about as graceful as a kitten on ice around that thing.

And I love it. So much. I'm finally big on the highway but I can reach all the pedals. I can leave everything the way I want it. I got exactly what I wanted.

It has locking differentials, Bridge.

Ummm, yes! 

What are they for again?

Different compartments for locking up your belongings. Are you gatekeeping me? 

No, not at all. 

Good. Better not.

Monday, 21 January 2019

Battle cries.

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

I dare you to move
I dare you to move
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor
I dare you to move
I dare you to move
Like today never happened
Today never happened
Today never happened
Today never happened before
I've scared myself to pieces. I made a little leap. Not a big deal to most, huge to me. Everything's huge when you walk as me, five feet of blustery willfulness in a sea of people who tower over me, looking right over my head, able to see what's coming, able to see what's next. Able to keep their eyes on the horizon all the while my focus remains shirt buttons and metal logos on t-shirts. That's my view when I need a soul with kind eyes and open arms and so with sight gone (and hearing long before it, even) I'm left with touch.

The songs touch me. So do the boys and so I've gathered both in my arms and I'm trying to hold on as hard as I can but fear is bigger than everyone and it can definitely see me from here.

Sam said not to try to smother, to let it breathe, to let it fill me and learn to live with it and then I will be able to see a way a through it but that's easier said, like all things, than done.

The new routine is that Dare you to Move is followed by Wonderful Feeling, because it's like me, a clear, straight journey from desperate + hopeful to joyful + hopeful and that's a good place to step off from, right?

Sunday, 20 January 2019

Overland.

Church was lit. Sam's back in full force. Matt was a blip on his radar, one that eventually moved away before dropping off the screen completely and we didn't realize we've been holding our collective (Collective? Ha) breath since Christmas, exhaling in such a huge rush it almost blew me off the point. 

I forget what the sermon was. I fell asleep sitting up and was finally scooped in close to Lochlan, his warm suited arm keeping me awake with random squeezing. We came home and the shit hit the fan and now it's suddenly nine at night and I haven't eaten or gotten anything at all accomplished and I'm fine with that. 

Tomorrow will be much of the same. But it's a good kind of shit, in a capable sort of fan and I'll tell you more tomorrow!

Or Wednesday. Tuesday? I dunno. We'll see. 

Saturday, 19 January 2019

King tides + misguides.

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as we turned and walked ten paces away from each other and then whirled around and fired. Everything we had.

August is off-limits. The list includes Ben and Sam too. They've had too much loss already to have to put up with you. They're absolutely protected by me and by everyone else here and you will never close a door in one of their faces again. You will never deny them comfort if they ask for it, whether it be on my behalf or your own.

I spit the words out rapid-fire. Automatic.

And then I got shot right through the heart.

I've had too much loss already too, Bridget. My brother died a violent, miserable death following his violent, miserable life and no one is allowed to supersede my presence. Not last night, not ever. Not when it comes to you.

My brain pokes me in the back, whispering in my ear. Well, he is on the list.

(Shush, you.)

He continues. When I woke up you were gone. I needed you and you were somewhere else-

You HAD me-

Not your full attention. Not all of you. 

This is juvenile and-

No, you know what's juvenile? Him using Jacob's death to elicit sympathy from and therefore time with you-

How is that different from me? 

You make an effort to deal with your grief-

Oh my God. Hardly. But my rules remain or this all falls apart. 

Let it. Then maybe he can move on. 

What about me? 

I'll continue to look after you. Maybe this whole Collective was a bad idea but it exists because of your rule in the first place. 

No, it was the only way you could think of to stay close to me. 

The end will always justify the means, Neamhchiontach. 

See, I don't think so.

Friday, 18 January 2019

Chasing after ghosts.

I was running on empty
I was feeling so low
When you made me a promise
To never let me go
I was falling to pieces
When you carried me home
When you told me you loved me
And my prodigal soul
The knock came softly. I barely heard it for the rain and the cracking fire. It came again and then I knew I had heard something. I go to the door and crack it slightly.

It's August.

Did you listen?

Yeah.

And?

He would have loved it, August.

Yeah.

I feel warmth against my back suddenly, breath against the top of my head. Caleb is behind me. What do you need, August?

Nothing you can provide, man. I miss my best friend.

He isn't here.

I'm aware.

Goodnight August. Caleb reaches over me and closes the door in August's face. The look on it as the door closed broke my heart. I am led back to bed, crushed under Caleb's weight as he uses our wakefulness in the dark for another round of trying to win me back the hard way, fighting through all of history, Stockholm and post-traumatic Bridget syndromes to arrive at this pre-dawn assault on my convictions about who I love, and in what order.

He finally lets go and falls asleep and I lie there. I can't sleep. August's pain of missing Jake is the bond that keeps us close and I know damn well if I feel like that, especially in the night, there isn't a single person who would turn me down or turn me out.

And it's a luxury I absolutely refuse to deny him.

I get up quietly, extricating myself from Caleb's arms, and Lochlan's grip on my hand, and I dress quickly, leaving the room silent like a mouse. I dart across the driveway in bare feet in the freezing rain, almost wiping out on the steps and knock on August's door. I wait, shivering but he never comes. I let myself in and walk into his loft and he's on his knees, head down in prayer, rocking back and forth, probably set back a million years like I was when I listened to the new record and knew Jake would have loved it so beyond anything else he had heard and I dropped to the floor, threw my arms around him and tried to keep him from shaking.

It's supposed to be easy now, Bridget. It's been so long and I can't get anywhere and I know how you feel. 

Yeah, you do. Better than anyone. I nod, tears dripping off my chin, as August turns to sit with his back against the wall, pulling me into his lap to hold. It's always a song, or a photograph. Or just a feeling like something's missing. Something big. Something blonde. Something so faithful he held the rest of us up our whole lives and we're only being to realize how efficient he must have been at doing it, as we can't seem to do it for ourselves.

Thursday, 17 January 2019

Helpless/help more.

(Caleb is being Caleb and yet this is my issue to fix? Thanks guys.)

John is half-amused and half deadly serious.

I can't believe how bad this is. You used to grift for a living. 

No, I charmed. I can do that. I can lie until the sun goes down. But if you ask me directly I tell the truth. 

I'm just trying to figure out how Loch did that. Force integrity all the while teaching you how to rob people blind. 

He says both were necessities, at the time. 

John nods. He can control his mirth over this but he also thinks it's time someone had a little lesson in holding a poker face.

Hey, I'm discreet. I'm private. 

Not when it comes to Caleb. 

His presence unnerves me.

And that's weird. He should be just like everyone else. 

You remember that guy who came up to Ben at the Maiden show and knew everything about him? And I played Ben off as a huge fan who styled himself to look just like Ben and I called him Brent and we all had a good laugh afterward? I can do it. Just not with Cale. 

So let's fix that. 

It's too late. I need to find a new restaurant. Or maybe I'll work at a Starbucks. 

I don't think you're qualified. 

Ha. Oh my God, I think you're right. Oh well. I'll go back to writing. 

Oh great. See you in October. I hated the way you holed up to do that. 

It's par for the course. 

Anyway, concentrate, Bridget. We have some work to do. 

I can't wait to see how. 

Well, for starters, you can act like you don't know him. Like if someone says hey, who is that? You can just smile and say you don't know, but he's nice. 

Uh..I think it's too late to reverse history. 

It never is. 

Oh. Then I want to go back further and change some other things and then this won't even be an issue. 

Wednesday, 16 January 2019

Paper filters.

Caleb came in today. He sat at the chrome-trimmed formica counter top, at the end, tantalizingly close to the pie rack and nursed a coffee and a plate of sauerkraut and corned beef for lunch for so long the other staff began to watch him and talk.

Finally another server asked me, after watching us talk quietly as I refilled his coffee for what seemed like the fifth time, if he was my husband. They're used to my random boys sitting in the diner for hours. But since Caleb radiates intensity they could already see it's different than most of the others.

He's my boyfriend. My first thought is to correct a stranger from a painful assumption, and not to protect my privacy.

Oh. I thought you were married. 

I am! (Oh, shit. Here we go.)

But it gets busy and I am spared any questions and eventually Caleb can't entertain himself anymore reading yesterday's newspaper and he asks me if I can leave early, get a ride home with him, and someone can come get my car later.

I have to work until three. I tell him.

Or quit and then you won't have to work at all. I've put enough in your account to see you through the spring. 

See me what through the spring? 

Don't you check your accounts? 

Yes but it's been a week or two. 

Then you should look. He finishes his coffee, tucks a hundred-dollar-bill underneath the edge of his saucer and winks at me before putting his jacket on. He doesn't carry cash often anymore so that surprises me more than the amount.

Thanks! We tip-share now, for the new year. 

What does that mean? 


We pool the tips and divide them between the wait staff and the cooks. 

How many are working today? 

Six people, including me.

He takes his wallet out again and counts off five more hundred dollar bills.

There. Now everyone's happy. 

You don't have to-

I can't spoil you directly, so I'll have to do it the hard way. Check your account. Put this somewhere out of sight. He pushes the saucer toward me.

Everyone was a little surprised at their second holiday bonus and one person remarked that they would also have a boyfriend on the side if he was that rich. It would be worth the hassle. Everyone looked at me and I shrugged.

Money doesn't buy happiness. 

I'll take it then, said the cook. If you don't need it since you're already happy. 

He grinned, content in knowing absolutely nothing about me and went back to scraping the flat top. I left my hundred there to be redispersed among everyone else. I hate it when Caleb does this. Now I probably will have to quit, when the judgement comes out of the woodwork.

Tuesday, 15 January 2019

And now twice in fourteen months.

Got my Breaking Benjamin tickets early early this morning before work. I almost died of fright. Chrome didn't want to play nice and so Firefox stepped in and saved the day. They're playing half an arena in Abbotsford, a place I only know as the place where everyone passes their driver's licenses and the home of Castle Fun Park and the Maan Farms haunted Halloween maze.

Asking Alexandria is opening for Breaking Benjamin. I almost expected Avenged Sevenfold AGAIN.  So now who do I contact so I will get to hear The Road and Moving On live?

I might die. This is amazing. Twice in less than two years after waiting almost twenty to see them at all?

The most amazing part is it's the night before my sixth (seventh? Don't even know anymore and will have to check) Switchfoot concert. So I get to see my two favorite bands of all time in a single weekend.

If you try to pinch me this time I'm going to run away.

Monday, 14 January 2019

Just say when.

Caleb has slowly morphed the little den that begins his wing into a proper office, though slightly less sterile and uh, venture-capitalistic than before. It's more rustic, more homey, with some big easy chairs and a heavy rustic wooden desk and bookshelves. 

The lighting he redid as well and now it's so cozy it almost makes me want to do work for him, though I declined easily this morning when he asked if I would consider helping him with his year end and tax reconciliations. 

I can't. Switchfoot's new album comes out in four more sleeps and in the meantime Lochlan bought me Nothing More's Stories We Tell Ourselves so I'm a little bu-

Bridget, I adore the fact that you eat, sleep and breathe your music. You can bring your airpods with you. 

Numbers mess up the music. It only works with words. 

I'm sorry? 

I can't listen to music while working with numbers. 

I didn't know this. I've always put on music for you-

I can't hear it. 

But you can write and listen-

And sing along. While writing completely different thoughts. 

So are you saying you're throwing me over for Nothing Less?

Nothing More. And yeah. We said this last year. No more taxes. 

It's the only thing certain in life, Neamhchiontach. 

No, that's death. Remember?

Sunday, 13 January 2019

Fifteen degrees in January and my life is different now but also the same.

Lochlan picked a fight. Apparently Matt did too, though from a distance instead of directly in Sam's face and so Sam and I took a day off. He let one of his other ministers lead Sunday services and I told Lochlan off so gently I'm not entirely sure he heard me but it felt good.

Sam took me out for breakfast to a place with bottomless coffee and fried potatoes and then we came home and put on our swimsuits and towels for a long hot sauna. When we couldn't stand that anymore we retired to the hot tub on the lowest setting. PJ brought out an ice pack for my head and a mimosa for me, orange juice for Sam.

I thought Sam was going to try and rearrange my brain so I started babbling but he just gazed at me wearily and told me to stop. That we didn't need to do this today. That today could just be rest. That I should close my eyes and flatline my brain, just for a little while. That everything could wait.

And so it did.

After too long in the hot tub my headache began to come back and I was just thinking about getting out when Lochlan appeared. Sam stepped out, put a towel skirt on over his swim trunks and said he would see us at supper (everyone's excited about supper. I'm making SOPP-sausages, onions, peppers and potatoes in three of the big skillets tonight. And buttered rolls besides.).

Lochlan bent down beside the edge of the hot tub and held up a towel.

Is that the towel of arbitration or the towel of forgiveness?

It's the love towel. 

Oh, yuck. Is it...clean? 

He laughs. I love you, stupid. This towel is to show you how much. 

How will a towel show me how much you love me? I am suspicious and remain where I sit.

Get out and see. 

Still with my eyes narrowed, I get out and he wraps me tightly in the towel. It's fresh from the dryer and warm. He was right. He loves me an awful lot.

Told you.

Saturday, 12 January 2019

Far too much to ask for (the real devil would have already done it by now, just to enjoy the fallout, FYI).

I'll be right there
But you'll have to grab my throat and lift me in the air
If you need anyone
(If you need anyone)
I'll stop my plans
But you'll have to tie me down
And then break both my hands
Lochlan fell asleep the night that Caleb and I had our two-restaurant date and now blames himself for my fear.

As always, he blames himself where the blame surely lies more squarely on the devil, aligned perfectly along the edges so that it doesn't stick out sharply, wounding me with clean cuts that bleed a waterfall down through the house, drowning everything in crimson.

I don't let him take that blame. He can't have it. It does not belong to him. It has nothing to do with him. He makes a generous allowance for my wants and then stands back and bites his tongue as I throw myself over the edge of it, taking too much, being greedy, and as always it comes back to bite me on the shoulder in the throes of its own selfish ecstasy.

For him that fear is confirmation of my loyalty. It's his peace of mind, his own watershed of comfort in playing the hero of my story now, again, as always.

Enough, Lochlan said when Caleb remarked that he enjoyed our evening and that we should extend it through the weekend.

I thought we had fun, Caleb looks at me curiously (maybe accusingly) and waits for my confirmation, waits for my assurance that Lochlan is being possessive and overbearing.

I shake my head just slightly, as if his interpretation is just plain mad.

Alright, outside. Caleb orders, he doesn't ask.

This is new.

Fine. I bring my coffee cup. In the daylight he doesn't scare me. With my clothes on as armour he doesn't scare me. It's only when conditions are just right and the night is full of regret and poor choices and old wounds and inexplicable needs that he terrorizes (I mean terrifies me).

This is supposed to be working. 

What is?

You, me. This. Even Lochlan is on board with trying to make things better for you and trying to give you what you want. 

You won't give me what I want. 

He stares at me. He knows exactly what I mean and we're going to be at a stalemate until one of us dies, and then I'm going to be so disappointed because it will be him.

I can't do that, Neamhchiontach. 

Then we're done here. I take my cup and go back inside.

Friday, 11 January 2019

Because you can't actually fix anything with a sandwich and an orgasm, contrary to popular belief.

I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and all your demons

I'll be the one to protect you from
A will to survive and a voice of reason
He tried, I guess.

Dinner was beyond decadent. Vertical food. Probably plated with tweezers like I've seen on Chef's Table so it was cold by the time it made it to me, and then I didn't know how to eat it.

You haven't touched your food. 

(Sorry, I'm busy savouring this six hundred dollar wine instead. Tonight's going to hurt, better anaesthetize myself while I can.)

I don't know what it is, Cale. 

He rolls his eyes. Chicken. Mushrooms. Risotto. 

Which part? I squint at my plate. I see no chicken. I can identify a green bean and what I think is shaved parmesan. The rest is roasted beige something. It's a poultry inukshuk. We were here alright.

Tell you what. Finish your glass. We'll go find some Monte Cristos. 

Really? I light up. I'm starving and pretension robs my appetite.

Tension robs everything else. Including common sense. As I never saw the shift in him, the one that took him from trying to please, to expecting to be pleased. There's always a price for a six hundred dollar bottle of wine. I should have stayed in Vegas. At least then it wouldn't have been the same monster over and over again. It would have been a different one every day.

Bridget. 

Mmmm? My attention is drowning in oak-aged grapes and wrath.

You're preoccupied. 

Sorry. Just thinking. 

About what? Be honest with me. He's got our coats now, helping me into mine, the familiar roughness taking over where his gentlemanly efforts are beginning to wear away. He leads me out by the hand and we are in the car and then we're in a more-brightly lit but far less affected restaurant where he orders cokes and sandwiches and then he smiles but only with his mouth and we eat quickly (he eats the half I leave) and then we're in the car again. It's late. Deciding you chose the wrong place for dinner and having to choose again takes time.

Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how Joel said Lucic makes one-point-five million every time he scores a goal. It made me laugh.

I didn't think you followed Edmonton. 

I don't. I follow Lucic though.

And then we're home and it's hardly lit at all, the outside lights are mostly off. It's later than I thought and the house is quiet. The kids' doors are closed and no one is around and there are a few lights burning in the library and Lochlan is there but I don't even know if he followed as I am led upstairs, still with my coat on. Still with my buzz on. Still with no lights on and I stumble against furniture as we make our way to my room. He wastes no more of his precious time, stripping me down, again without the gentleness of before, now with barely-concealed need leaking out from the darkness of his eyes, the strength of his hands and the bent of his brain that has to do this.

(Why does he have to do this?)

And then he has already begun, his hip bones grinding against mine, his fingers in my mouth, my buzz heading out the door. Lochlan isn't coming. No one's going to save me now. I can feel doors closing in my brain as history takes over and a ten-year-old starts calling the shots in the best way she knows how.

Don't shut down on me, Bridget. It's a warning I can't heed. It's too late.

He shines a flashlight directly in her eyes. You're safe. Everything's okay. I'm here. He slows down, no longer grinding down my bones, instead bearing down hard enough to break them instead. My jaw unclenches and he holds my head in his hands, hard enough to squeeze my brain. I cry out and he loves that and his fingers go back into my mouth and I can't move a muscle. But I don't have to, the Devil is working my limbs, trying to touch my brain, trying to reach my soul so he can have it back. And the ten year old suddenly steps away and he sees my hiding place and I can't help it anymore and I give in.

This is his reward, the one I never want to give him anymore.

Go, baby, he whispers. Go get it. 

Harder, I cry and he twists my arms up over my head as I arch my back. I can't reconcile anything anymore but goddamnit I'm going to get something out of this fucked-up life too.

But the moment it's over she steps back in to hide me, my hands start shaking and the look of certain victory on Caleb's face in the dark makes me want to throw up.

This is why I would give you the moon if you asked, Neamhchiontach. 

Can you just get Lochlan for me instead? I need him. The look of victory and all of the air is sucked right out of the room with that request and I can no longer breathe at all.

Thursday, 10 January 2019

The only thing darker than my last death.

In these diamonds we're left with coloured glass
As pressure takes its toll, we will outlast
But you can't break my heart
As long as I can be myself, I'll never fall apart
And you can't take me in
If I'm not broken, break me down
So I will never feel alone again
Have to get in the mood. Have to breathe evenly. Have to delete the message just like the good old days when several hours prior to a date, he would tell me what I should wear. Have to stop my hands from shaking as he pulls out old triggers and new risk. Have to button all of these stupid buttons but I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Can't let Lochlan see this fear after I said I was fine. In control, even. So not in control. Why did he agree to this? My terms are simpler. My ways are safer. You let him call the shots they'll be aimed right between my eyes.

Or worse. At my heart.

Wednesday, 9 January 2019

This is frustrating (and no I'm not drunk.) (Okay, I'm not drunk YET.) (Okay, maybe a little.)

New Jake is growing a beard (omg what's wrong with my knees?)

John just shaved his off. (I might have cried out in alarm when I saw him, as I didn't know who he was at first.)

PJ plans to grow his to his knees. God love my metalhead.

Ben has his customary-scary winter one.

Lochlan just looks weird and homeless with one. It doesn't work for him. 

Caleb looks like a serial killer hiding in plain sight with his. 

Daniel will never ever grow one and waxes. 

Schuyler shaves twice a week, sometimes only once. 

Christian also looks downright strange with one. 

Batman always looks like a Wall Street financier down on his luck with one. 

Sam looks like a... a Hobbit now with his. 

And I have been trying to grow one for years and years and it never happens, and they won't tell me the secret of how to do it. 

Tuesday, 8 January 2019

Hold my planner.

Caleb comes around this afternoon after I get home, trying once again for a date. He's less lonely than before but also makes twice as much effort to cement his place in the house (and my  life) but he's doing it sweetly, at least. 

Can I borrow her...just for a meal? 

She's not very high in calories. Lochlan is amused, playing with words like he plays with fire. Actually he's doing that too, as Caleb is running down a sensitive subject and sometimes when you joke with him when he's feeling like this he has a tendency to get violent. 

Except he knows that I don't permit violence in my house (much) and that it won't win him any dinners, lunches OR breakfasts. He needs to play nice to play at all. 

I'll let them figure it out. I'm too happy to be home and head first in Lochlan's shirt, his arms around me tight. He smells like goatsmilk soap and coffee and he's nice and warm. 

Thursday. When she's off work. Then you can come back with her. 

My eyebrow goes up and bumps into Lochlan's collar. Did he just set up my date and then invite him home afterward? 

I was thinking a late dinner, so eightish and back around eleven? 

Sounds fine. 

Yes. Yes he did.

Monday, 7 January 2019

Continuity errors.

If you knew me (you're so lucky you don't), you'd know that the only thing I want to do after sex is go to sleep for a bit. And by a bit I mean hours and hours, preferably overnight or at least for the remains of the day.

So when Ben gently turned me out the door I contemplated not doing my jean-buttons back up but I did and then boy, was I surprised when I ran into Caleb coming down the basement steps and I quickly tried to casually fix my Ben-hair, as he had it gripped good and tight in his hand and it's a disaster.

Oh, I was just looking for- He stopped. No amount of surprise casual-ness will hide what I was just up to. Jesus. You can't even wait until dark? 

Did you need something? Ice will cover my fluster. Ice will freeze it in place forever and I'll never ever change. I'll never be as cool and collected as the devil, I'll never have a poker face or be able to hide a thing. I'm clear. See-through. A jellyfish.

A well-fucked jellyfish.

I was hoping to steal you away for some brunch but now I feel as if I should just go back upstairs and pretend I never saw you. 

You could do that. 

Do you want to get ready and go out? 

No. I need to lie down. I start laughing. I'm the man. Don't men always want to fall asleep right after sex? Yeah, that's me. I'm a dude. So happy. Be right back, going to pee in the snow.

What's so funny? 

Nothing. 

Are you laughing at me? 

No, I'm tired. Maybe brunch tomorrow. 

You work tomorrow. 

That makes me laugh more, only it doesn't sound much like a laugh. More like a sob. True. Maybe later, when I get up. 

Are you alright?

Oh, I'm good. I'm so good. 

Sunday, 6 January 2019

Benterludes.

I got to sleep in. Sam conceded that since I heard the sermon, live and up close, and that I live it already, trying to protect myself against all of the things that threaten to tear me down, that I was cleared to not attend.

He didn't let Lochlan off the hook and after a lot of grumpy swearing and even some indignant hollering down the hall at Sam's back as he went home to find a suit (and the famous Argentinian flag-bucked belt) Lochlan also put on a suit, a plain brown belt and brown shoes and went to church.

It almost made me laugh except that I was so damned surprised that he followed through the laughter ended up far behind me. I went down to see Ben instead. Ben sometimes still disappears for too long and it's one of the thorns that stuck into our relationship and let it bleed out so slowly nothing hurt and he is always, always there when I need him mind you. He's just distracted and always caught up in wonderful projects.

I snuck in through the door and up behind him as he sat in his chair. I didn't know he was asleep or I would have left him be but I wrapped my arms around his head and he startled fifty feet and shouted. AH!

WHAT?

WHO IS IT?

It's MEEEEEEE!

Oh my God, Bridget, you scared me. 

Probably because you forget what I look like. 

I just look for the short blonde blur. 

Nice. 

Have I been down here too long? 

I didn't nag. 

Maybe you should. 

I'm not that type of person. 

He snorts and I make a note to follow up on that. I am persistent, though I won't harass you if you're busy unless I'm kidding and you're clearly not busy.

Where's Loch?

He went to church. 

Huh. What'd he do? 

I just told you. 

I mean to go alone? Did he kill someone? 

Sam guilted him into it. 

Sam is everyone's favorite sitcom wife. 

True. But Loch went that's good. 

And you're bored. 

Yup. I'm just using you for entertainment. You know, til he comes back. 

How much time do we have? He's not in his chair anymore, crowding the spot where I stand, head down, lips against my hair, hands absolutely all over.

What's time again? Oh, that thing we don't measure. 

Lock the door, Bridge. 

Already did. My smile is wicked, my intentions crystal-clear.

Saturday, 5 January 2019

Bones are not enough armour for a heart.

Sam is road-testing his sermon on us today about the difference between forgiveness and self-protection. Using himself as an example, no less. Beginning with a parable of a samaritan who puts his own safety at risk to save another's life and ending with dealing with lies in a relationship and when to cut the cord in order to save oneself is going to be an interesting sell to the congregation tomorrow but will also put to rest the rumours which will no doubt fly when Matt's fresh reappearance turns into a glaring absence, noted by the people who seem to find sport in noticing such things, under the guise of concern. 

(It's not concern. We see right through you.)

I think he should take the day but he incorporated that into the sermon as well, in that no amount of outside influence will weaken his relationship with or need to be close to God. 

He is a living lesson sometimes, with a strength I don't understand sometimes as he can seem small and vulnerable but then he's weathered storms that would break a lesser man at the same time. Sam's demons are fought to fucking ash and then he steps over the remains into the light. Sam's a hero. No question. 

The question is not if I can manage, but if you will bear witness, he asks. He is sleepy and gorgeous and I just got that sermon face to face, morning-breathed and half-awake, cuddled under all the quilts in my bed, Lochlan still sleeping against my other side, slumbering right through the entire homily (possible as usual?).

But I've already heard it now! Doesn't that mean I can sleep in? 

Friday, 4 January 2019

Snap your fingers, snap your neck.

PJ's entire existence has been devoted to doing things like playing Prong or Amon Amarth at top volume while I eat my breakfast, nodding along while he headbangs through loading the dishwasher or pouring cereal for milk. He's so earnest. He said the heavy holds our worries, the notes weighing them down in order to drown them in this endless, soaking rain. He says that it's liberating. He says It's necessary, Bridget. And you should try harder.

God Bless him. I just finished a night in which I was reminded of being ten years old and not understanding the incredible heartbreak in the music of artists like Air Supply, Journey, Bon Jovi and countless others.

Lochlan took a gamble playing endless ballads and now they all run with it, including Sam, force-feeding it into my brain, making a whole new kind of hurt as I hear the words with fresh adult ears, always jolted by the pain, the emotion in the voices of singers I can belt along with in my sleep at this point.

But that, my friends, is a far cry from nodding sleepily along with fucking Prong while I enjoy toast with crunchy peanut butter and coffee in the huge BB8 mug that I always grab first, crumbs on my cheek, curly tips of a bedhead bob making me feel ten years old again, in which case this is definitely not the right music.

My kitchen is Wacken, my bedroom a smoky pub on the right side of town where they play soft pop and mourn their busted tickers til the sun comes up and then we'll start all over again, won't we, because that's what people do.

Sam is okay. I've passed on all of the positive encouragement you've emailed and I thank you readers, for understanding how much it hurts when the love of your life walks the fuck out for a third time without warning.

(He's not sad at this point, just angry at himself for falling for it all over again. But he's not too angry to take comfort with us, and I think I may just keep him here until Easter all the same.)

Thursday, 3 January 2019

Holiday Matt.

(For the record that I don't even know who is keeping, Lochlan already pinky-swore to make up New Years Eve to me, as if it was his fault or something that I chose to work both days, and so Friday night we're going to go out for a fancy dinner and a show (this usually morphs into a stack of pizzas brought home in the truck followed by a stack of boys draped all over the place in the theatre room at home, though, so be warned. It's my favorite thing. Well, one of them anyway.)

When I get home with groceries (a quarter of a load. We'll go back out Saturday or Sunday but I needed a whole bunch of things that couldn't wait) this morning in advance of the impending storm, Sam is standing on the second step down. Not underneath the porch roof but just beyond reach of it. Soaking wet. An expression that would be unreadable if I didn't know Sam so well. I load up on bags and head up the walkway. He hasn't even noticed me yet even though I drove the big truck and parked it badly right in front of him.

When did he leave?

Sunday night.

Oh, Sam. Why didn't you say something?

What was I supposed to say, Bridget? You were right? Again? We got caught up in the wedding, I guess, and didn't see that nothing has really changed.

So what have you been doing the past few days? Instead of looking to your friends to support you. I don't want to be right, I want you to be okay.

I'm okay. Mended my ego, shined my pride back up, prayed for a solution to being lonely. You know, the usual. Well, YOU don't know but some of them get it.

I guess the look on my face walked back his attitude just enough to bring my Sam back.

Sorry, Bridget. I'm just trying to deal with it.

Let us help you.

How can you possibly help me?

By giving you perspective. And grace. 

Is your grace stronger than God's?

Of course it is. I'm local. 

He snorts laughter. Finally, a smile. A soaking-wet smile.

I should have come around days ago. 

You can move back. 

Good luck convincing Caleb to go home. He's so content to watch your every move. 

You can live in my room. But you can never ever bring your overly-complicated wedding dates there. 

That's perspective alright. Thanks, Bridget. I get a hug that's half-rain, half-Sam.

You're welcome. Just a note though, I go to bed these days at like eight and I'm usually fairly cranky by then. 

Wednesday, 2 January 2019

Flushed.

My work week is finished, the cook gave me a huge piece of cake to bring home (it was broken and he knew I would love it so he didn't throw it out) and when I get home I sit in my Porsche in the driveway in my spot to the left of the garage beside the steps to August's loft and I eat the cake with my fingers.

It was a good plan until Caleb knocked on the window and I dropped a fistful of cake all over my lap. What a waste. But secondary win, my car now smells like chocolate cake.

Eating sweets in secret usually means someone is cheating on their diet.*

What diet? I ask through a mouthful of cake.

He frowns. I don't understand how he managed to raise you with zero manners. 

I have manners! I'm supposed to use them for important people. 

He misses the burn completely, apparently distracted by the fact that it's three in the afternoon and no one's claimed my attention yet. They don't even know I'm home. Actually they might if they heard the car but sometimes they sit outside too, in their vehicles. I always thought they were probably listening to the end of a song or something but from now on I will assume they're also eating secret cake. That must be why Caleb is out here waiting. He's either the nutrition police or he's hoping I will share.

Well I won't and I'll go to jail if I must. Sugar is worth more than oxygen to me.

I agree to come over after dinner. I can stay up a little later, as I don't have to work tomorrow, and he's been great about not trying to monopolize my time. New Year's eve technically didn't exist except I did indeed wait up for Henry and then texted with Ruth around three in the morning and then I got up at five and went to work.

We did absolutely nothing. Loch dozed off. Ben only came upstairs at twelve ten to say Happy New Year and PJ never even made it past ten-thirty. New Jake was a no-show (he said he was on a phone call) and Matt and Sam didn't come over. I haven't seen them in days. So it was sort of a non-existent celebration in which we didn't celebrate but I did make a few resolutions. I gave up pop. Makes me have to pee, never makes me less thirsty, and is always far too sweet anyway. I rarely have it as it is. I'm going to treat myself to more water plus more hot drinks like tea or an afternoon hot chocolate instead (not too sweet since I put a half-teaspoon of mix in for a huge mug). No drugs and by that I mean I went off the shit the doctor put me on. I threw out all of the pills that make me miserable and I plan to keep advil and decongestants in my medicine drawer and the rest is going away. Part of the reason I always feel so tired and energy-less and nauseous is the endless cocktail of birth control (that isn't for preventing pregnancy, long story), sleeping pills, headache pills, cold pills, stomach pills, stress pills, depressing pills, fucking pills holy fucking jesus no more pills so there you go.

I'm just going to eat cake all the time instead. So far so good. Also, it's GOING TO SNOW TONIGHT. Finally! Wait! I HATE snow. But I don't care since I don't have to go to work. Muhahahaha.

*(Edit: Oh, dear readers. Caleb was not fat-shaming me, he was making a gentle joke. I weigh a massive ninety-four pounds and am always working to gain. It hardly works. And no, I don't need tips. I've tried them. I'm not a stress-eater, rather, the stress eats me.)

Monday, 31 December 2018

Absolutely nothing.

I survived work today (it was bonkers at times, and perfect at others) and after working my ass off they let me leave a little early, so I had time to come home, message Ruth, who is already out for the evening, and hear of Henry's first-ever New Years Eve plans (going to a friend's house, has a ride home for 12:30 am from the parents of a different friend who is also going) and am now making spaghetti for eight, as there are eight of us with no plans.

Tomorrow is going to be a tiring day, that's for sure, as I tend to panic if I'm still awake at eleven at night now if I must get up early.

I brought home another pie, as we had too many and since the restaurant is actually closing early anyway (it's not the kind of place you book for NYE) it would have gone to waste.

Tomorrow is such a normal day, except at over twenty dollars an hour. I won't leave early even if they offer.

Batman cancelled our big formal plans at the last minute, and so Caleb has been edging around me, trying to find out what new plans I have in mind for between spaghetti-thirty and eleven, or twelve-thirty, I guess, for as much as PJ tells me he will wait up for Henry, I feel like I should, as Henry is my son and it's not fair to PJ to shoulder that responsibility. I will probably bend to a port or a martini with Caleb and then maybe some of that prosecco (wouldn't you know it's already been transferred from Batman's house to ours, and New Jake is now one of the eight for dinner) at midnight and then I'll slap myself silly to try and stay awake to see everyone safely in. Except I'll probably fall asleep against Lochlan's shoulder and he will see everyone in but since I'm technically there, I'll take credit.

Sunday, 30 December 2018

Last day of Christmas vacation and I'm sad as fuck about that.

Trying to have a best day ever once again because I work tomorrow and I don't know if it's going to be crazy-busy or not. I work New Year's morning too and I don't know what to expect then, either.

In the meantime I'm tracing my finger down Lochlan's face and every time he twitches in response he comes close to waking up but not quite and it's become a game to touch his eyelids/nose/cheek as lightly as possible.

Sometimes I don't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep and there's nothing else to do. I can't reach my headphones  from here, they're on the night table on the other side of Ben Mountain, and my phone is on the dresser on the other side of the room anyway. If my feet touch the floor I'm going to wake everyone up so instead I poked at Lochlan until he sat up, wild curls and tattoos everywhere and suggested I go have coffee and read. That's the adult equivalent of making cold cereal and watching cartoons, I think, and so here I am.

The coffee is kind of boring and I don't feel like reading. Sam wandered through in search of sugar (they were out) and suggested I write my resolutions but I don't know what I'm hoping to change or better about myself for 2019.

I'd like to read more, worry less, murder my sweet tooth in favour of more fruits and vegetables. I'd like to cook more, but different, adventurous things. I'd like to go out for noodles more and maybe go out for dessert but without dinner first. I want to finish listening to Demon Hunter's discography before the new double album drops this spring and I'd like to watch more foreign films, with subtitles. I want to go back to dressing weird, losing the black, bringing back the rainbows and I want to not cut my hair ever again. It's to my chin at last and I'm not even cutting it to clean it up at this point. I just want it to grow.

I could make a whole heaping pile of resolutions that have to do with my boys or I could just leave well enough alone.

Oh and when my work-pay account reaches five figures (excluding tips) I'm quitting in order to find something better.

Saturday, 29 December 2018

Best. Day. Ever. (and I've only been up for two hours.)

Slept in til ten-thirty.

Ben bathed the dog.

Ruth is making pretzels from the Warcraft cookbook.

It's raining and windy and cozy. There's a fire in the fireplace and sleepy, quiet boys everywhere. We're caught up on Outlander (finally) and maybe will watch the Black Mirror movie later, but maybe we'll watch something else. Who knows? We have turkey soup, leftover turkey and gravy for sandwiches and I'm not going to change from my pajamas because I have zero reason to.

Friday, 28 December 2018

The failed but predictable Group B army recon.

Ha. Between being so sick this year so far and the holidays and the wedding (and..the...the...fist fights) I figured I'd forget to pay all of the bills this month, since I pay them during the last week. Hydro, natural gas, insurance on all of the vehicles and buildings, credit cards, internet, phones, etc. etc. It takes a couple of hours for me to pay everything, do transfers and then enter everything into the big Collective spreadsheet that we have for keeping track.

I'm so caught up I'm actually ahead now, however and I'm happy to report that I plan to not sweat falling behind on everything else as a result. And so I agreed to go on a New Year's Eve supply run with Batman, who also hates crowds but sometimes must venture out into them for a purpose.

Just a Prosecco run, sweetheart. If your monkeys will let you out of their sight. 

Olives too? 

If you like. Batman smiles thoughtfully. He's having a little thing on New Year's Eve. I'll be asleep in my plate face down, as I go back to work that day and then have to go to Batman's for dinner and drinks and then back to work early on New Year's Day. I've been threatening to quit but for some reason knowing I can means I haven't yet, and will soldier on until I can't stand it anymore at all.

Only if they're garlic-stuffed. 

Only for you. He laughs. So picky. 

Not picky. They're the best. 

I prefer pimentos. 

Well, get those then. Don't worry about me. 

Someone has to spoil you. He winks. I shake my head. I try not to be spoiled but it's inevitable.

Okay then we'll get both. I offer a compromise.

That's a good plan. 

Indeed. 

You know what else would be a good plan? 

Olives stuffed with pearl onions!

No, you staying New Years Eve. 

Not a chance. 

Not even a small one? 

Nope. About the same as finding olives stuffed with pearl onions. 

We didn't find any. We spent the rest of the shopping trip in an unfamiliar (but still comfortable) silence.

Thursday, 27 December 2018

Caleb hates weddings.

Seven hours of sleep, coffee that is more Baileys than coffee itself (thank God) and a fifteen minute blistering morning sauna followed by an hour-long drunken soak in the hot tub with Caleb and I'm sure I can tick off my self-care regimen and my visitation requirements with the Devil all in this Thursday morning before the snow comes.

And then I'm free.

He's crushing me under the weight of his psychic pain, his need. He hates weddings, mentally planning his own, loathe to celebrate any others until he gets what he wants so desperately and what he'll never ever have.

We can all feel it, he wears it outwardly, an arm-band of black for mourning, and we avoid looking directly at it even as I consent to a little extra time with him over Christmas, because he'd really like to have that time, he needs that time, he wants it in a way he wants it but tenfold, physically painful, inwardly destructive.

So here I am, half-drunk on a Thursday morning at Christmas, bangs stuck to my forehead from the heat, letting the jets roll over my muscles and bones, bringing me back to life only so he can destroy me again at will. It's a resurrection game, a breath-holding, voice-caught kind of urgency at this point but I'm playing along here from rock-bottom, safety net not all that far away honestly so I'm not concerned. It's a stage. A phase. A momentary lapse. A weakness uncontent to be shoved down any more, bubbling up to the surface and boiling over. It's a curse, is what it is, and we'll get through it just like we get through everyone's personality quirks and bad habits and temporary insanities. I would say we're more fucked up then the average bears but I would also say it's probably a crime to live without this level of intensity, truth be told.

Wednesday, 26 December 2018

Can't get close enough.

It's getting better baby
No one can better this
Still holding on
You're still the one
The beach looked so beautiful. Driftwood tangled in candle holders by the hundreds, custom-blown in smoked teal glass, long tables set like a woodland fairy seaside Christmas (as it is!), set with thick brown runners and copper utensils, dress code well-adhered to, as everyone was asked to wear black. And everyone did, except for Andrew and Schuyler, who wore morning suits in complimentary shades of teal and tan, and they looked incredible. Don't think I've ever seen Andrew with a fresh haircut, in all my years, and don't think I've ever seen Christian let his guard down even for a moment, until he stepped up in front of Andrew before Sam and said his vows, vows I never heard but the look on his face was enough. Who needs words when someone looks at you like that?

We had the clouds, the spring tide and the love of an entire army out in full force and we had everything we needed. We danced on the beach. We cried. We had a moment when we realized how tough these are, these moments in which you choose, and you don't look back and we had our fill of champagne, sparkling water and wedding cake.

We had some incredibly elderly folks make it down to the shore and back with the help of everyone but mainly John who took it upon himself to personally escort those who needed assistance as required. Bless him.

We had the whole point cleared of people by seven in the evening, as it was Christmas Eve and the deal was we will bring you here at no expense to you but you'll also be home before it's time to put out cookies and milk for Santa.

We need no other gifts this Christmas. This was everything. Seeing Chris and Andrew find each other, watching them fall deeper in love and watching them make it permanent, make it real through marriage, before all of our warm gazes and before God was everything we will ever need and Christmas became an afterthought, an oh, yeah, it's Christmas, isn't it?

Caleb offered them a honeymoon as his gift but they didn't want to leave. Batman tried to sweeten the pot along with Caleb and they insist they have everything right here.

Here.

I know what they mean.

Monday, 24 December 2018

Something blue Christmas.

Andrew and Christian got their wish of sunshine and will shortly get their wish of a seaside wedding followed by an early brunch on the beach, complete with:

One server who's entire job is to ensure that all of the candles remain lit, and as they burn down, replace them with new lit candles.

(Sounds like the best job of the day, frankly. Though only because it isn't supposed to be windy.)

People will be arriving soon, and I'm not ready. I've already cried like five times today because this is all so beautiful and I'll be able to describe it one I have a little more free time, and the next time a holiday wedding morphs from New Years Eve to Christmas Eve someone please remind me that it's a little bit much and move it to some random date in June, okay? At least it's happening early on, as we have tons of family who flew in last night and will fly out tonight.

Sam is ready and wandering around calming people down and even sprinting out to the driveway to greet people as they arrive.

I can't even believe that this is happening to two of my oldest and dearest friends. Wish them luck along with me, would you?

Sunday, 23 December 2018

Never leave me home alone again.

Everyone is home at last and Ben wants a do-over of my night, having loved facetiming me at the absolute pinnacle of my disco party when I collapsed on my bed in my rollerskates and glitter and nothing else. The music was still loud and he laughed and laughed and pointed out that there was glitter on the dog, even.

Oh my God. So much glitter.

Everyone kept sending me sweet pictures. They went for a huge steak dinner. Then they saw a magic show. Then they went to another place for dessert and then...they shopped and everyone kept sending me photos of Lochlan standing near doorways looking vaguely supportive but like he'd rather be anywhere else and then at nine this morning they were back on the plane and home in the house by noon with a lot of fun and neat wedding presents and souvenirs and it's probably the least typical Vegas trip ever embarked on by twelve grown men but it was a bonding experience. I think they all enjoyed a night off from looking after each other on the point and they loved my solo Saturday night chronicles, which consisted of close-up, haphazard photos with flash for full effect.

I'm so glad they're home. Not even one of them is a Vegas-people, and yet it's good they marked this next step in life with concrete traditions, as brothers should.

They brought me vintage matchbooks from jazz clubs I didn't know existed and Lochlan found me the most beautiful tiny clutch evening bag. Strange mementos from an even stranger weekend.

Saturday, 22 December 2018

Housepet disco.

Eleven brusque kisses on the forehead and one prolonged one (Lochlan) and the boys are off to Vegas for a night for a last-minute bachelor party, thanks to Caleb who grabbed a plane and booked a room at a nice restaurant for dinner and a block of hotel rooms and they're going to see a show and do the town and then they will fly home in the morning, though probably not in time for church.

Everyone over five-foot-nine was invited. Caleb's such a dick. Henry laughed and asked if he needed to bring his wallet (Henry leaves his wallet home all the time. I swear he gets his grifting charm from me) and Caleb gently told him not this time around, that someone had to stay behind and look after mom.

Sam demurred and Matt along with him. Sam said to me later, I don't think Vegas is for me. 

Vegas isn't for anyone, honestly. It's like Disneyland for sad people. 

He laughed but he remained somewhat unsettled. Not at having to stay behind, but mostly because of my description. He's content in the fact that no matter how much glue he is to hold this Collective together, no one invites the minister along to their bachelor party.

Which one is going to be the bachelor? I texted Christian enroute. They left so early. I ran out of things to do by noon.

We'll make it up as we go XO. Christian is tired of my jokes but he also rolls with it nicely.

Have fun and be safe, I text and I hear nothing back.

It's now five o'clock and Sam and Matt took me for my first visit to Popeyes Louisiana Fried Chicken (which is a fast food place way the fuck out in the valley but we were all bored and hungry so road trip) and it was delicious but then they disappeared when we came home and now I'm on my own.

 I'm plotting to haul out my roller skates, all of my body glitter and my Bee Gees Greatest Hits album because that's what this princess does when faced with a night all to herself. 

Friday, 21 December 2018

Neo-orthodox Unitarianism at it's finest.

One of the biggest tenets of AA is to begin by admitting you were powerless in the face of your addictions. It's a way to bring you to your knees, of course but I always thought it was a crock of shit. Start over, sure but the only person you have to blame is yourself and stating stupid things like alcohol controlled me or I was weak is weak in of itself and shifts the blame right off of where it belongs.

On you.

I struggle with this and I'm not the alcoholic. Never have been. Sam says I interpret it wrong. Ben just laughs and tells me I'm so stubborn he can see Youngest Child Syndrome from space. I agree, mind you but I also don't like blame suddenly shifting from I'm an asshole to It was the drink talking/acting/screwing up my life. No it wasn't, Matt.

It was you.

This is your fault.

And Sam is a fucking saint for letting you back into his life/heart/home. I don't even want to place bets on this save for the New Year will feature yet another broken heart and I know from experience they get harder and harder to put back together as time goes on.

Sam tells me to have an open heart and mind. That it's Christmas and this Christmas we're celebrating love all around us. And I know I'm supposed to allow Matt to begin again. We get endless chances to be good humans, even when we sometimes don't truly deserve them.

But love? We'll see. Right now, I'm celebrating germs and I'm cranky from not sleeping from this weird endless sinus headache so I'm definitely coasting on the good graces of God, his children and my army lately and that's fine too. I blew my nose to try and ease the pressure in my left eye and my matching ear exploded in pain. Christ already. It's been a long year and suddenly we're at the day I hate more than anything. Almost. Winter solstice, AKA first day of winter, AKA the shortest day of the year with the absolute minimum of daylight. Caleb always picks this night to spend with me because he knows how much I hate it but honestly I think I'd rather spend it fighting indoctrination. Fighting surrender. Fighting any more change and any more staying the same too.

Thursday, 20 December 2018

Oh glorious wind!

Wednesday, 19 December 2018

This week's wedding planner is working underneath, and in spite of, the weather.

Monday is going to be rainy and four degrees and that romantic son of a bitch Andrew still maintains the wedding dinner will take place on the beach.

With...tents?

No tents.

Umbrellas and portable heaters, then? 

No. It'll be fine, Bridge. 

Oh, honey. It won't be fine and yet he refuses to make contingency plans, all the while I work around him organizing a multitude of contingency plans for every little thing, including backup tents stored in the garage where he can't see them, our portable space heaters and plans to still have dinner outside, just on the patio if it comes to that.

No one wants to eat if they're cold. No one wants to try and eat a wedding feast in the rain.

Sure they do
, Andrew says dreamily.

You're the worst bride I've ever dealt with, I remind him. Let's plan for the best and prepare for the worst. Also you need to go and pick up the tents you don't need. I've reserved them already. 

You've managed to weaponize logistics, Bridget. He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

Someone had to, I tell him, and cough in his face.

Tuesday, 18 December 2018

Short and sweet, or maybe that's short and drippy.

I feel like I've become such a lightweight but work is cancelled for the week and I guess I'm officially on Christmas break? Though I keep sitting down and drifting off because I can't breathe and my face hurts. 

On the upside, Lochlan remains handy to cuddle with and we watched Krampus. Not even two stars bad. More like one of the greatest Christmas movies ever made. 

Monday, 17 December 2018

Single-digits rotten.

Today is crisp and beautiful pre-storm and I'm not at work.

The headache took over and is still here this morning and so I called in because a brightly-lit, noisy, busy restaurant is no place for someone in pain. I will hang out here in leggings and a big sweater and move slowly and quietly, drinking tea and watching Christmas movies on Netflix with PJ and Duncan, neither of whom enjoy cheesy Christmas movies but both of whom will coddle me until the cows come home. Maybe I'll try a wrap a couple of presents but maybe not, too. Lochlan is worried about my health and my sleeping and has instructed me to do nothing and for his sake I'm really going to try. Otherwise I'm happy it happened now and not next Monday because next Monday is going to be a little busy with the wedding and all.

I had a white flag waved in my face and Lochlan has agreed to the cheesy Christmas movies. But only the ones with two stars or less because he says if they're going to bad they may as well be the worst. I think a new tradition has been born. 

Sunday, 16 December 2018

Twenty hours of work left before Santa.

No church today, though I would have loved to see the candle lit and hear Ben sing again without guitars burying his voice, but I have a huge headache from a renewed bout of coughing and I'm not pushing myself. Physically this week I already went too hard and now I have to pay the price, I suppose, so I had some coffee and cold pizza and I plan to just live quietly today, and hopefully this week overall.

This is Lochlan's lecture to me this morning as I insist I should go to church and he suggests I maybe just stay in, stopping short of outright ordering and instead trying to influence gently.

Which is nice. He doesn't want to the bad guy, even though he has every right to be and he is smarter than I, so I'll go with his observations and try and take it easy today. I work three days this coming week and then I'm off until New Year's Eve. Which is good because we're having a Christmas eve wedding here and it's getting really busy suddenly. So I checked my list, pulled Ben's big Goatwhore hoodie over my head and plan to do very little, though I do have presents to wrap and I am so behind.

I'll do a bunch of it Thursday maybe. Hopefully, or maybe a little later today. We'll get it done. Just not today. 

Saturday, 15 December 2018

Fairytale of Horseshoe Bay.

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you
I woke up with that song in my head. Maybe it's growing on me as I age and make mistakes and live far from home. Far from people who break into chorus and dance steps on a sticky wooden floor and far from the snowy wonderland of trying to drive cars uphill on ice and the ever-present conundrum of how to cook a turkey when the power's been out for hours.

It upset me, that song and so I buried my face against Caleb's chest. He isn't awake yet. He tends to sleep until close to eight most days, though he will arrive in the kitchen showered and dressed, ready for the day almost at eight sharp before checking for coffee and any change in the stock market overnight.

His arms tighten around me and I squeak a little. My shoulder is sore from his teeth pressed against it, my arms weak from his hands holding them down and my legs ache mightily from being tense for hours. He wasn't traditionally rough but he still goes hard and I still need a little cautionary handling the next day as I move slower.

He's been romantic though. He had a fire in the fireplace and hot buttered rum drinks waiting when I arrived and he didn't put me up against the wall or pin to the bed by my neck. He was gentle and sweet and he said he wanted me to have my Christmas present early but a week is way too early and so he agreed to wait a little bit longer, and I agreed not to leave last night, to stick around and go to sleep and he found such comfort in that it made me want to cry. He's touched that I wear his ring every day, no matter what and not all that angry about PJ as he is learning to live in the main house and he's learning to put his temper away and that's nice too.

I always expect everything to be so temporary. He's nice today? Only a matter of time. I didn't cough all morning? I will tonight. The car started with no issues in the cold? What if it doesn't tomorrow?

(I'm never comfortable in my own skin, let alone in someone else's.)

It's not a matter of time. This is where I needed to be. He reassures me without trying to convince me. That's helping, too.

Something has to change, Diabhal.

It is, Neamhchiontach. It is.

Then can you help me get this song out of my head?

Let's try. He found his phone, hooked up to a neat little bluetooth speaker on the shelf and played Coldplay's Christmas Lights instead. And it worked on the first try.

Friday, 14 December 2018

Slower than slow learners.

A new daydream today involves Ryan Clark and Benjamin Burnley doing a duet. A girl can dream, can't she?

I watched the new Tourniquet video first thing, with coffee. I don't know why I did that. I think it's part three of a set that began with Red Cold River. It's uh..very metal. The song is amazing but sometimes I think musicians should stop with making videos. Even as they've been my bread and butter, they generally suck, honestly. Even some of the ones I've been in. Some are fucking breathtaking, but then again, that's rare. I used to hate live concert video compilations and now I think that's the way to go.

I pre-ordered the new War and Peace albums this morning from Demon Hunter. Now I have two more songs, though I can't seem to take Carry Me Down (the piano version) off today's pedestal, on repeat in the rain as I conclude that I have used up all of my nine lives as a curious cat and I now wish to be a fly on the wall, hearing everything or nothing at all as PJ holds his ground against whatever kind but menacing discussion he and Caleb are having.

Leave it, Lochlan orders. He's distracted, up to his neck in Henry's computer, optimizing the motherboard or something. Henry is learning as much as Lochlan knows as fast as Lochlan can teach him. Together they figured out they missed a step when they built the machine and I still can't figure out how to turn on the monitor.

As long as I can figure out how to get to my music I'm fine. This annoys Caleb to no end, who, against Ben's express instructions, tried to teach me to use Spotify. Spotify is a heated topic in this house. Very precious few people have it as the pricing on the back end is detrimental to the artists you're listening to. I balk at renting my music besides that. Fuck that noise. I need to own it.

PJ is back in a few minutes.

What body part has he threatened to take from you in the night and sell on the black market? I bet I can guess. 

PJ makes a face. What? No. He just wanted to know where I am in this new hierarchy. 

Below me, obvs. 

Well, obvs. He just wants to make sure I'm below him. 

And what did you say? 

You don't want me to repeat it. 

Hell, yes I do. 

I asked him when the last time he had good pussy was. 

Okay, yeah, I don't want to know. Never mind. I hate that word. 

I needed to be crass to make a point with him. 

Which was? 

You call the shots. Not him. 

And from deep inside the computer case, now up to his shoulders, Lochlan laughed. 

Thursday, 13 December 2018

Nanny state.

I made it through the year and I did not even collapse
Gotta say, "Thank God, for that"
I'm torn between what keeps me whole and what tears me in half
I'll fall apart or stay intact

With tired eyes I stumble back to bed
I need to realize my sorry life's not hanging by a thread
At least not yet

So look at me now
Its finally Christmas and I'm home
Head indoors, to get out of this weather
And I don't know how
But the closest friends I've ever known are all inside
Singing together
Singing merry Christmas, here's to many more/i>
It's quickly becoming my all-time favourite Christmastime song, though they all are, if I'm being honest (Just kidding! It's still and always will be Type O Negative's Red Water). I love Christmas. I love falling asleep in the big chair in the living room in my uniform after coming home from work from a really busy day and waking up to PJ running interference between Caleb and Lochlan, both of whom have vastly different but the exact same ideals when it comes to how best to deal with this pathetic state of affairs.

Jesus, I just sat down for a second. I fall asleep whenever I stop moving and suddenly it's a job con?

PJ ordered both of them out of the room. No more arguments, no more ultimatums just get the fuck out and let her sleep and he'll wake me up later and send me off to bed.

He didn't clarify which bed and Merry Christmas to both of us because guess where I woke up? I still haven't found my work uniform. I think PJ was hoping I would stay forever in his room if I couldn't leave with decorum but he doesn't know me as well as I hoped, I guess. I got up and started to walk out and he was suddenly full of shit.

Okay, okay. Here's your clothes. 

Gee, thanks, Padraig. 

No, thank you, Bridge. Best Christmas gift I never asked for. 

Ah. Too decadent?

Wrong size. 

Motherfucker!

Indeed. 

Tuesday, 11 December 2018

Weirdly proud.

I got a Christmas bonus today. Cash in a Christmas card from the owners of the restaurant. It is the equivalent of a half day's pay but it touches me all the same as I work my ass off to see that people like their meal and that they come back. I mopped twice today. I'm so tired I could cry and I came home and opened my card while Dalton looked on. This is something because it's the first bonus I've earned myself in twenty years that wasn't related to doing work for Caleb or Batman. It's the first one that's all mine. No strings. No expectations. Nothing but joy and generosity.

I feel a little bad for lecturing the manager today on the most efficient way to clean the windows.

But only a little. Maybe he put extra cash in afterwards because he knew I was right.

Monday, 10 December 2018

Postfamous.

And I feel so much depends on the weather
So is it raining in your bedroom?
And I see that these are the eyes of disarray
Would you even care?

And I feel it
And she feels it
I have the remote in a deathgrip, heart locked down, brain switched off as Jacob's swagger of a third incarnation (after God. After Bridget.) fills the screen in the theatre. Matt is rapt, watching Jacob sing in his STP cover band, watching him work the crowd, watching him find the camera and then address it. Watching him rake his hand through his hair, lean way out over the crowd and act so not-preacher-like it's almost as if he was someone else completely.

It was a test, if you can believe it. Matt's heard the stories, Matt's been here through someone of my worst after-flight moments, but never have I offered to show him the recordings, the videos of Jacob's band belting out Stone Temple Pilots hits while the townsfolk positively screamed for more. Jacob has always been just a name to Matt until today. But right now I feel like I could and so I did and I didn't implode or anything.

Matt sits back, sinking in the couch, his eyes wide. Wow, he whispers, looking at me.

I don't look back, I can't take my eyes from the screen. I know, right?