Mush.

Don't think I don't pinch myself four hundred times a day for having married Jacob.

For all the arguments the bitter people give about what romance means, what it is and even if it really exists I wish they could meet Jake. I really do. Because you could never fully appreciate these entries that I write, the stories I try to tell, until you've seen him in person. The way he looks at me stabs my heart in half and then mends it again, every single time.

He's not a typical man. I couldn't have written him better than he exists now, it just isn't possible. And worse yet he goes out of his way to sweep me off my feet and I'm left with fragments of words and pieces of sentences and there's simply no way in hell it translates to this page. No way in hell.

Sometimes the grand gestures like his hot air balloon proposal and the 35-day anniversary dinner get overshadowed or must take their place alongside the sweeter simpler ones, like the middle of the night cake picnics. And I don't write about half of them when I have other things on my mind, so picture that, if you can.

Or like leaving the backyard this morning and finding our initials carved (lightly because he didn't want to hurt it) into the tree by the gate. That wasn't there yesterday. But this morning, clear as daylight:

J & B 4FR

Aw.

I think he was really appreciative of the fact that when he got up this morning, his longjohns were on the radiator.

Omnia vincit amor.

Literally translated from Latin it means Love conquers all. Truer words were never spoken. It's a motto that Jacob spouted last night when I complained to him that my doctor isn't cooperative. Jake just laughed and pointed out that I may feel much perkier this week but that doesn't mean my body is back to one hundred percent yet and he's glad we're waiting a few more weeks, so that he doesn't have to worry he might set me back, or hurt me unknowingly.

Hmmph.

All this translates into...a very grumpy Bridget.

A very grumpy unsatisfied Bridget.

Also stinging is the return to the routine of busy weekends. Jacob returned to work yesterday. He missed it. Two loves in his life and I think he needs a break from the one that complains. I'm harmless though. He knows I will wait for him with anticipation and that I'm just huffing and puffing because there isn't much else I can do about it except relish the extra rest and TLC. He did promise several treats for the family this weekend though that will help spend the time we have banked: a trip to the pumpkin patch, some bubble teas and a movie marathon.

What could be better than that?

Mission.

I may be the worlds' most beautiful and unpredictably narcoleptic zombie, but I'm not a procrastinator.

I put in a message to my doctor asking him to call and let me know if there's any real reason why I can't have sex right now (well, not RIGHT now, you know what I mean) if I feel like I can. I'm not in pain, I managed to shingle half a roof last weekend so you know, let's get a move on. It's been three weeks. He's going to laugh. I know it.

I'm telling you because sometimes I type when I wait. Jacob is at work rolling his eyes right now because I called him first and told him what I was going to do. He should be here running his ridiculously long warm fingers down the back of my neck and torturing me like he did this morning while I hit the snooze button repeatedly because it felt so nice (no, not hitting the button, his fingers on my neck).

Instead I'm left here alone eyeing the breadsticks maliciously.

In other news, because there's more to life than my sex woes (ha! NO THERE ISN'T!) Lochlan called to check in from his explorations in Hogtown, which he corrected me with after I called Toronto the 'hot potato'. Oops. When he was finished laughing at with me he said they were condo-shopping in the suburbs. He's lucky he's not going into the same winter we are here. And he knows it. After ten minutes of listening to him talk about the warmer temperatures they have down there I began to ignore him and went back to oogling the breadsticks.

Because, well, Jacob is still at work. Bedtime is two hours away for the kids and my doctor is going to make me suffer. I know it.

Sigh.

Bridget 101.

Is that a class in learning Bridget? Are you kidding? It would take too long and would have to be graded on a curve, because no one could hope to pass. Like Quantum Physics. Or Probability and Statistics.

Is it a movie? Nope, I wouldn't call it something that dull. I would pick something like I Know What You Did Twenty-three Summers Ago. Or....The Notebook. Oh wait, that one's taken.

Is it the first version of my clone? Just in time. We have a ton of appointments today and seem to be home for mere minutes at a stretch. But that would be a little creepy and frankly I'm not sharing Jacob with anyone, even myself (har), so no.

I wish I had a drumroll.

101 is...

...my weight.

Yes! Everyone do a little cheer. The mighty little one has finally hit the magic number. I'm going to try and add at least 9 more. I'm getting lots of help from the people at Cadbury, who in conjunction with my favorite grocery store, have conspired to fatten me up like a Christmas Turkey by putting all the Halloween candy on sale and then putting it right! in front! of where! the carts are!

And Bridget can't resist candy. Ever.

And now hopefully the strangely fascinating comments about me possibly only weighing half of what Jacob weighs will stop. Because that was weird. And besides, he has measured in at 187 so fuck off guys. I never hit 93.5 and hopefully I never will.

Fairest one of all.

In the interest of playing fair and making up for my last few posts, I'm going to point out my own embarrassments, the little idiosyncratic habits or displays of my own shortcomings. Besides, Jacob is such a good sport about it. Some days I think he's simply happy to be breaking the minister mold-how many ministers do you read about who even shower with their wife, or get nightly lap dances, let alone rip off her panties every chance they get?

I didn't think so.

So...Bridget's shameful habits...

Well...uh....

*crickets*

(whistles and looks at the sky)

Okay, I give. Besides stealing the icing out of every Oreo and eating all the chocolate that crosses my path, I'll cop to the following:

    * I bite pencils. Not all of them, only the yellow ones with the gold-colored collar that surrounds the eraser. And I only bite the collar. It'll give you an electrical shock if you do it just right. Which is a little thrill in itself. All the pencils in this house have squished tops with bite marks.

    * The inappropriate fondling. I really am awful. Jacob is always fishing my hands out of places they don't belong, out from under his shirttails, out of his pockets, pulling my fingers out of his hair, or his ears. In public. At home I'm worse. I'm a toucher, I make no apologies. On second thought, it's his fault. He's too adorable to resist.

    * I'm a human noisemaker. If I'm not playing music and talking a million miles an hour, I've got a range of gasps and hums and various little one or two syllable exclamations that round out my crazy facial expressions. The noises never stop. I don't hear them, I feel them. And worse yet, sex is simply the greatest outlet for all these noises to come out all at once. Seriously. I can't explain it. We can be completely melted into each other and all these little orgasmic noises will come out of my mouth and Jacob will start to laugh because he can't help it. He says I sound like a mogwai. Which would mean that for all those people wanting to know what it's like to sleep with me? Well, apparently it's like being in a bad eighties horror movie.

Right. I did say I was perfect. Yes, I think I said that maybe more than once. I must rethink that. Because the Oreo thing, well that's just wrong.

Bullets over Tuesday.

    * Comments are off, I think I'll just leave them that way. I get a ton of email but very precious few comments. Is that normal in the blogging world?

    * I'm really not sure what it is about Switchfoot but I really really love them. I think this song is going to be as big for them as Dare you to Move was. It's still my ringtone. Yes, me. The Tool girl.

    * I have a second TV show. I know I said I only ever watch Lost but I've added What About Brian? to my weekly television watching. It's really well done and I look forward to next week every time.

    * Mittens. What the hell? Every thumb has a hole in it. Every single one. I think I need to have some words with my Grandmother. She's my mitten dealer. First ones free...actually all of them are free so I probably shouldn't complain. And now I know why she taught me to sew. And knit. So I can fix her sloppy work. Oh I'm kidding. She's 90, I'm thrilled she still makes my mittens. Even though the kids have cold thumbs.

    * You know you married the right man when you can scrape all the icing off the inside of an Oreo with your teeth and pass him the now-blank, slightly moist wafers and he eats them, without even blinking. Please remember, this is the same man who PEES ON ME in the shower. And not in a freaky, fetish-y kind of way, but in a frat-boy, practical joke kind of way. I think he just likes to hear me scream in terror. Or laughter. It's a mix of both, really.

Oh, he's going to kill me now.

Rain.

Yesterday we worked from lunchtime until well after dinner in an effort while the weather is still above freezing to fix the roof on the garage. I was afraid to go up at first, and yet I wound up on the roof longer than Jake, because he didn't have the time or the patience to hold the ladder much while I got on and off it too many times. He brought up two hammers and everything else we needed and we did it together. I had black smears on my converse all-stars, black smears on my forehead and I ruined my workgloves. I had to wash our clothes twice, the second time in pure bleach to get rid of the dirt.

But the garage is done, and this morning it started to rain, a deluge this area rarely sees. It's supposed to rain right through this week, stopping only on Friday afternoon. So we're very sore today from all the hammering but we also slept satisfied last night because that ancient garage is once again water-tight. I think it was the most work we've done together on the house.

Today we're nursing our stiff and aching shoulders and hands and headed to therapy shortly after lunch. Where Jacob can talk about my princess complex and how difficult I am sexually and I can attempt to poke holes in his unyielding common sense. His father-figure issues with me, his unwillingness to let me lead even when I really really feel I can.

Two steps forward, one step back. One girl in her bright red raincoat turns and smiles back at you, because despite the mess, despite the old house and the bad memories and the never-ending bills and the fights and the tears of frustration, she is really really happy.

And it shows.

They broke the mold.

Oh internet, I'm blushing. And even though I don't write for you, so much as I write for me, there's something I need to address. Because inside everyone of you is a sexual being just dying to break loose. Or you're all as perverted as I am and I think I love you even more now.

I think I get more emails about the lapdances than about anything else. It could be a record for a minister's wife. Maybe someday I can have a second career. I can even bring my own lights now, because yes, some nights are so spectacular he actually went out and bought a strobe light. (For the bedroom. Oh my God, yes. Because I'm a total freak and he loves it.)

I'm kidding. I wouldn't do it for anyone but Jake.

While I'm not up for any lapdances at present, they're still much looked forward too by Jacob. I'm hoping in another month to get back on the proverbial horse.

Yes, I did just say that. (snurfle.)

In the meantime, I thought I'd start with the music I like best. Or maybe the music we like best.

Jacob's favorite song for me to dance to is Forty six and 2 by tool.

Mine is still Pour some sugar on me. Who knew Def Leppard would come in so handy?

Then there's more Tool-rosetta stoned, the pot, stinkfist, and Sober. Be warned, if you use Tool you're going to be there for a while, the songs are long. Everything else goes on repeat or shuffle until you've achieved your goal.

Really once you get into the music you could dance to anything. This is just what works best for me (ahem, I mean us). It helps if you love the songs anyway and I like the ones that I can grind to, so slowly. You have to be in the mood. You really do. You can't phone it in. That's not fair. Give it everything you've got and he'll be left patting himself on the back that he has you all to himself. When he's done with you, that is.

Cute lingerie helps. Although it doesn't matter what you wear, find out what his fetishes are. You have to wear shoes. Very high heels. Hooker shoes. Or boots, if he likes those. If you have long hair you can skip tops. Bottoms are fun because learning to gracefully get out of them is an art form. If he lets you take them off at all. I've lost several pairs of underwear because Jake just couldn't wait. Or dance stark naked. That's fine too. Be creative or be brave, it's your party.

Now get down all over him. Wind out on his lap. Move like you're halfway there without him and you want him to catch up. Work everything and make him want you. Bend your knees. Go all out, baby.

And don't forget, he's not allowed to touch you until at least ten minutes has elapsed. If he can make it that long. Jake tops out around four, and he won't apologize for that. Sometimes I push away or pin his hands, sometimes I give it up. It depends on the mood of that night. You can use your own judgement as to how long you'll hold out on him.

I hope this helps. I've had a lot of sheepish emails recently asking for tips, making queries. Please, I tell people this every day. Life is too short to be shy, or modest even. You're in the privacy of your own home, with the one you love. If you can't let go a little under those circumstances then you most definitely need to learn how to. It's oh so worth it.

The most important thing to remember is to have fun with it. Because it's a really outstanding way to end (or begin) an evening. Trust me.

No, on second thought trust Jake.

Pumpkinhead.

When it's been a long week and the days have gone cold, your emotional pockets come up empty at last so you resort to finding your favorite comforts to help carry you through. Lately I swing from the spectrum of semi-happy-barely-lucid-pretty zombie to a walking nervous breakdown and I'm struggling to maintain the status-quo within my own skull, liquefied into butter by the never ending assault of blows to my soul. Outwardly I'm doing pretty well, I think.

Jacob feels much the same, only he's a little better at the bounce back. He's a little bit stretchier, and a lot more resilient. He has God to lean on in a much more resultive action. He's always been strong. Stronger. Mostly, anyhow. Except when he's not, when he gets pushed too far. He needs comfort too.

Late last night he ran a hot bath for me. He put in a bath bomb and then dimmed the lights and told me to relax and enjoy it. He came back ten minutes later to find me sitting in the clawfoot tub with my head on my knees, frozen in thought and exhaustion, practically asleep.

Are you alright, princess?

No, I want you to come in, too. And relax with me.

Instead of saying anything else he pushed off his jeans and peeled off his sweater and then the water rose precariously high as he slid into the tub behind me, extending his long legs around me, his arms pulling me back so I could lean against him. He turned the hot water back on with his toes and filled the tub as high as he dared and then turned it off again and pushed me back up. Then he washed my hair for me, weakening my resolve to be as strong as he can be. He makes it easy for me to step down and allow him to run things, to look after everything. It's hard knowing that if I'm too tired to move that he will move me. He washed my shoulders and knees gently and then we decided to switch to the shower. He took me into his arms and shielded the spray from my face and I put my head down to rest on his chest while he tried to get clean.He smiled down at me and I closed my eyes.

Bridget, we have to get a pumpkin.

I am a pumpkin, Jacob. I used to be a princess and then midnight came and I turned back into a pumpkin.

I don't see any pumpkins here in the shower, just my princess and she's starkers.

Look really hard. My skin has an orange tinge.

I always kind of liked that about you.

Then he wrapped towels around both of us and took my hand, leading me into the bedroom and he took the towel while I crawled into bed and in a minute he was back. He turned out the lights and snuggled me into my place and then we lay there and whispered to each other for a few minutes. I'm sure I did fall asleep midsentence, but I think he was right behind me. Some nights are like that.

I felt a lot better this morning though. A girl should have a bath like that every night.

Maximum Glide*.

(* a group word play challenge from blogger Odd Muse via Outburst, in which you have to weave a story using a selection of key words.)

It was inevitable, living here.

Winter has officially arrived, skidding into the lineup fresh off a long vacation, still sipping a margarita and attempting to hastily cover her suntanned flesh via distraction, unfolding her wings to unleash a hundred mile an hour prairie gale that wound through the trees last night and tore exactly half of the shingles off the garage, right down to the bare wood.

I suppose I should suck it up and be nice, after all, if I fight it it's only worse for me. For winter is a fickle bitch in that she simply doesn't care to win any popularity contests. She just shows up and parties for the next six months while we attempt to shield ourselves from her elements and enjoy life in between the continuity of never ending assaults, in the form of white-outs and blizzards.

In any event, the reintroduction of the plunging temperatures and fluffy white stuff can mean only one thing to those of us who have learned to harness the power of the icy cold north for good.

It's time to wax the snowboards.