Blow up the moon.

(Never, ever meet the Devil in his own element. Which would be anywhere your defenders are NOT.)

I thought I was so prepared with my emotional shields in place, ready to deflect Caleb's charming and oh-so-familiar appearance, an older, wiser Cole. In an expensive but meant to be casual suit, shooting his cuffs, a gesture that leaves me a little weak in the knees as it is. Slightly nervous, still with his customary heavy-handed approach of poise and chivalry. He was always smooth and seductive where Cole's charisma had an abrasive, wild edge to it. A simple matter of being less refined, an accidental appeal that he didn't cultivate so carefully the way Caleb does. Caleb is, quite simply, a ladies man. And he knows it.

Of course I wasn't prepared, who am I kidding?

When a sleek black car pulled up to collect us after his brief visit he hugged each of the kids and wished them a merry Christmas and then he turned and shook Jacob's hand and told him he was a lucky man and that he hoped the holidays were enjoyable and that he would have time to spend with his family. Jacob nodded and didn't say very much at all, gracious in allowing Caleb in the house at all. But he was reserved and politely formal, and he helped me into my coat, kissed my cheek and frowned as he searched my eyes, hoping I would change my mind and stay home.

I told him I loved him and I'd be back in an hour. I kissed the kids goodnight and Caleb held the door for me.

When we got to the car, Caleb told the driver to take us to an overpriced cocktail lounge downtown. I looked at him with a mixture of surprise and anger. I leaned forward and asked the driver to pull over because we hadn't agreed on that destination.

They have coffee there, Bridget.

I'm not going to a bar with you, Caleb. If you want to get coffee, then we're going to a coffee shop, or an actual restaurant.

How about the one at my hotel then?

Why are you trying to cause problems for me?

What? I only know of a few places here.

Then ask me for suggestions. I've only been here for years, I know a few.

You're absolutely right, Bridget, my apologies.
I gave the driver the address of a coffee shop nearby and we arrived in silence. After ordering coffee and cake, I decided to try and mask my difficulties with being near him by being nasty to him. Very nasty. Hoping it wouldn't be mistaken for the petulance that his brother adored.

So why do you need to know things about me?

What are you talking about?

Continuing to read my journal, asking Ben things that are clearly not your concern, trying to undermine my marriage. What are you up to?

I'm concerned. Bridget, spending time with you is watching our tightrope walker teetering back and forth at the middle and you know there's no net down below. Oh, and would you please stop referring to me as the devil when you write?

No one told you you needed to spend time with me, or analyze me, for that matter.

Cole was very worried about you.

Cole's dead.

He died worrying about you, baby.
I stood up.

Don't call me baby. Fuck, what is wrong with you guys? I'll take a cab home. I'll be sure the kids send you thank you notes for the gifts but you need to go home now, Caleb.
He stood up but made no move to stop me. Shot a cuff and checked his watch.

Oh Lord. Help me.

Please sit down and let me explain. I'm running out of time. You only gave me an hour.

I don't think so.

Then stand up, but let me tell you why I'm trying to make sure you're okay.

Fine.
I sat. And rolled my eyes.

God, you can be so childish.

Your brother loved it.

Does Jake?

No.

I see.

Start talking, Caleb.

Name the one person who ever knew you best?

Jacob.

No, not Jake, Cole.

Sorry. You're wrong.

I'm right, Bridget.

If you were right, Caleb, things would be vastly different right now. Your brother wouldn't have lived his life to hurt me.

No, he knew everything you liked and he indulged you even though he hated himself for what it meant for him. We talked more often than you think we did.
I stood up again. Someone came over and asked me if everything was alright, giving Caleb the once over. People had been watching us since we came in anyway, they do that. I murmured that I was fine, thank you. I sat back down. I must have looked like a pogo stick.

On the inside I felt sick to my stomach.

What are you talking about?

You know exactly what I'm talking about. The things Jacob won't do. For you, to you. Things you want.

Why would you want to hurt me like this, Caleb? How dare you?

He won't do them because he's selfish, Bridge! Forcing you to try and get pregnant, cutting you off from everyone you love. Cole went out of his way to give you everything, including time and space alone with Jake, if that was what you asked for. He gave you everything you wanted. And he felt like a monster but he did those things because he loved you. He wanted you to have everything.
Up she goes, holding back tears with characteristic success. They rolled down my face. These were revelations I already knew. Ones I can't acknowledge.

Caleb, your brother also tried to kill me, when he wasn't farming me out to you. I'm done here. I'm going home to Jacob now.
I tossed my napkin on the plate and stalked to the door to get my coat, shaking like a leaf. Fragile to a fault. Stupid princess. Caleb followed me. He helped me into my coat and then he wiped the tears from my cheeks with his fingers. I didn't stop him. I didn't stop him when he put his arms around me, pressing his mouth against my hair over my ear, speaking low so no one could overhear.

Bridget, you can have it all. All you have to do is say the word. If he won't do it then I will. And you don't have to leave him to get it.

He pulled back and held out a card key. For his hotel room. I stared at it while he talked and I could barely hear him for the blood pounding in my head. For one brief horrible moment I could envision myself taking that card in some desperate, fucked up attempt to turn back time and have just a few more intimate moments with Cole, somehow. Because it was familiar. Because...because I don't even know how to explain why.

But that's not what I want and that's not what this would be.

I don't want this.

I looked up at Caleb's face then as he spoke, not really listening but just staring at his dark blue eyes and noticing for the first time that he somehow looked nothing like Cole on this night.

...I can have the card dropped off and you can meet me whenever I'm in the city...

I don't know what else he said, because I wrenched out of his grasp and pushed past him, walking right out the door.

When I got home the children were still up and climbing all over Jacob while he told them the Christmas story in his own colorful, animated way. I waved and said nothing so that he could finish uninterrupted and then together we put the kids to bed and retreated to the den, not with coffee, but with cognac. Full-on full-glass cognac, warm, soothing tonic for my broken nerves.

I told Jacob everything and I told him that I'd box up the gifts and have them returned to Caleb's office. He nodded. I think he was too stunned to even react, and honestly I downplayed it because I can't handle not minimizing it. I got up to go get ready for bed, not remembering the last time I felt so sick to my stomach. I told Jake I was going to have a shower and why and he just nodded like he really hadn't heard.

Upstairs in the bathroom I stripped out of my dress and drenched myself in a hot stream of water. I turned around, put my head up to rinse my hair and my nose bumped Jake's. He had followed me in quietly under the cover of the noise from the shower, knowing how vulnerable I felt, he was ready to catch me.

Only I didn't fall. There was no risk involved.

He held me, smothered in his arms. He trusts me. He loves me.

He was worried anyway.

There's only one man I love on this earth, only one who's ever going to touch me ever again, only one I would ask those things of, knowing full well he won't concede to doing them but I'll keep asking until I learn to relax and calm down, and only one that is so incredible that none of those other things even fucking matter anymore.

That would be Jake.

As if anyone had to ask.

Oh and to keep him accountable, Caleb said he would fix the laptop when he gets here tonight, having changed his plans to be able to spend a little extra time in the city. Call me selfish, I want it fixed. We can use each other. God.

This isn't Tool, Jacob.

Uh-Oh.

Karaoke man has discovered the Christmas carols. And I am doomed. He's been warming up with The Christmas Song and Doc Walker all morning.

I used to like this song. Now I'm ready to throw the switch and blow Tool's Four Degrees through the house on 11.

But I think Jake would be insulted. I'm making a stab at tolerating liking country music because he listens to everything. Literally everything. Please don't forget this past spring when I was tortured with a week of Xavier Rudd. A week I will never get back. I couldn't stand the sacred Tibetan chanting stuff he put on this morning and he balked at Bif Naked. Doc it is.

Well, poo.

So far I like one song, kinda, sort, mostly. But maybe I'm a sucker for a cute video, a lot of rain and a blonde guy with a guitar.

Like you didn't know that already.

Technical difficulties.

Bridget has a geriatric laptop on life support and is most definitely not allowed to hijack the church computer to post entries to her personal journal, never mind the fact that said personal journal is read here most days by unnamed husband who is cranky today.

So yes, tech guy #1 died (that would be Cole) and back-up tech guy is far away (Lochlan) and so the very technologically impaired duo will either successfully swap out the hard drive and I'll be back in business or we'll have to resort to constructing a hippie laptop made of hemp and good vibes so I can write.

Warmest regards.

I think it's finally hit me. The elusive spirit that just kind of crops up out of nowhere as I take a look around and realize, it's here, Christmas. It's here whether I accomplished everything or anything on my list at all and I can do no more.

This year is light on presents and materialistic indulgences and rich and heavy on love. And thanks and Joy, which gets a capital letter for being free and bountiful.

Guys, I've got everything. The lights have been on all day long on that giant Christmas tree, I have helped Santa wrap the stocking stuffers, the turkey is just about ready to come out of the freezer for thawing and Jacob really doesn't have to eat cooked carrots this year if he doesn't like them. Mom's cookies are just about gone and Ruthie decided that school doesn't suck so much after all, especially now that there's one day left before vacation, two for Jake. Possibly three as he's the on-call chaplain for the fire station, being the newbie this year. So his phone stays on, hopefully people will stay home and be safe so that he can stay home the whole day.

Christmas could have been awful this year, but it's not going to be. And New Year's eve might possibly be epic, as I spent most of 2006 flying by the seat of my pants, and the pants finally gave out and I am permanently grounded in a fresh reality, one that I hope is a little less eventful and even more romantic.

And since there's a lot of you reading at work who may or may not have scored Friday off in order to travel or unwind before the festivities begin, I'd like to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

I'll be posting daily as usual, no worries. I just wanted to send out a big virtual Bridget-hug to everyone who has cheered me on and helped hold me up this year. Without you I would have been lonely.

Thank you. Happy Holidays!

Crosby, Stills, Nash and you.

Geez, I post the sweetest thing in the world and all everyone wants to know was howdrunkwasBridgetlastnight?
I was going to say not so much until I saw that I did indeed write something here. Geez, someone take away the laptop when they bring the alcohol please?

I haven't had a drink in a long time. But I have a feeling that if I can maintain whatever emotional plateau I have climbed onto as of this week I can avoid going back on the freaking stupid zombie pills and maybe just stay like this, because this is nice, and it's nice to have a nightcap or a cocktail or whatever.

In any event, it was a nice, quiet evening. The kids were zonked and asleep by 8, and Jacob turned off all the lights except for the Christmas tree and we danced in the living room but I don't think my feet touched the floor, and I don't think his lips left my shoulder.

    All your life
    You were only waiting for this moment to be free
    Blackbird fly

Obligations and carrots.

Every year for the past ten years my Christmas dinners have been a round table of wayward folks. Cole, our friends, his coworkers, random guys he knew who were far from home, or just plain alone, or didn't want to have to do the fam-thing because of so many reasons. We've always hosted a big dinner to give people a hot meal and some new memories, and because I think I'd rather die than think someone was alone on Christmas.

I can't tell you how many years straight Loch and I got shitfaced on cheap wine and stuck Cole with the dishes. I can't tell you how many years in a row Jacob sat across the table after eating almost half of all the food and started a discussion about going out for dessert when everyone else, who had eaten a fraction of what he had, were stuffed. Or how many times we sang Christmas carol parodies until we couldn't stop laughing. I can't say how many times I left the table at the end of the meal and went outside for a fresh breath of air only to have Jake sneak up on me with some funny little present, a hug and a wish for a Merry Christmas in which we held each other a little too hard, a little too close and perhaps a little bit too often in one night.

This year I'm out of luck. We've all got colds, it's been a long, crowded year and for the first time in recent memory there appear to be no stragglers in need of an emergency Christmas dinner. Not to mention it's our first real honest-to-goodness actual Christmas together, married and together.

And since we're so far behind this year, Jacob asked me to make a list and he went to the grocery store to get everything while I helped Henry with a project.

He came home and we switched places, I went to put away the groceries and he sat down with Henry to see what progress we had made.

Jake!

What is it?

You forgot to get the carrots.

No I didn't.

They were on the list.

Bridget, I hate carrots.

What are you talking about? You eat them all the time.

Raw. I hate cooked carrots.

But..every year you've eaten them. I've seen you. You clean the plate.

Right. Yes.

Okay, you've lost me.

Bridget, I only eat them because you make them. But truth be told, I can't stand them cooked.

You only ate them because I made them?

Because you made them, princess.

Well, now, that is the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I think I could fall in love with you.

So we'll skip them? And I love you too.

Are you kidding me? I have to make them now! It'll be a new tradition.

He smiled, defeated, and looked at Henry. Henry reassured him,

That's okay, Jake. I hate it when mommy makes carrots too.

Cheer in a glass. Uh oh.

I think Jake has a forehead fetish. He put my drink on the desk and then kissed my forehead and headed out to the garage. Then later he comes back in and smooths my bangs back from said forehead. My forehead is a fivehead, okay, I won't lie. I sometimes put a bit of powder on it so the sun reflecting off it doesn't blind people walking toward me.

Next he rubs his thumb across it when he puts his hand over my ear. My drink? Long dranked.

Okay enough.

This is not a post. This is Bridget enjoying a loopy semidrunk minute far too early in the evening.

What's in the glass is eggnog. Or mostly brandy clouded with just enough eggnog so that it can be called Christmas Cheer and not OhfuckBridgetsdrunkagain. But it is five o'clock and dinner is almost done and I'm cut off and lord I hope no one comes by tonight because this hit damn hard

Coming in from the cold.

Jacob came in from the cold at lunch yesterday and said he needed me, come quick, hurry. I ran down to the porch door and he came through it and grabbed me up in a hug, forcing my arms down and then putting his hands up the back of my shirt until I squealed for him to stop. His hands were giant ice cubes. He didn't need me, he just wanted to freeze me out because the squealing is so funny.

I wish he wouldn't do that, but he insists it's payback for when I put my cold toes between his ankles in bed every night. Of course, he doesn't squeal so instead I get a rounded-out litany of swear words with the full-on Newfie accent. So I'll keep doing it forever because he usually keeps the accent in check, except when he's cursing.

He was starting to come around, albeit slowly. My biggest argument against another baby is finally becoming clear to him when he looks at me now. Just now escaping the underweight label but still pale, dark circles a permanent feature of my face. And tenuously clinging to that shred of sanity I talk about that gets rubbed raw and then somehow heals itself. On and off medication. Prone to nightmares and middle of the night crying jags that wear him down and leave me depleted. Not stronger. Coming out of this surprisingly and permanently frail. Fragile Miss Bridget never changes much, you guys.

Somehow balancing my emotional landmines with sex, cake and rock n' roll.

Jacob confessed that one of his earliest dreams after I told him I was pregnant with Ruth was that he wished so badly that he could be in Cole's place from that moment on, waiting for his baby to be born, watching me grow and change, being able to hold the baby and love that child.

And in my frustration at another round of his guilt shoved down my throat I lost it and I reminded him that he did all those things. That he didn't miss a goddamn thing and now he is in Cole's place and he has me, he has two children now that are HIS and why isn't that good enough?

And then Jacob did something he's never done before. He looked at me as if he was hearing me for the very first time and he laid down the gauntlet.

It is.

Then why are we fighting, Jake?

I have no idea, Bridget.

Then we need to stop before we ruin this. You can't have those years back, Jake, they're gone, just let them go. You made me do it and now it's your turn.
He came over to me and put his hands up to my face and he apologized, formally apologized for being argumentative and still incredulous at the fact that I wouldn't stand up to him and say no, instead talking around the issue and making it known that I didn't want this without flat-out refusing him.

You need to say no to me, princess. You won't and when I push you to stand up for yourself you have to do it.

I...I can't.

Yes, you can. It isn't right and you can and I'm not going anywhere and I'm still going to love you.

You say that now.

No, I say that forever, Bridge. Forever. You're right. We really have no business having another baby.

I don't want you to resent me.

I don't. I couldn't. I love you more knowing you would give in because you knew I wanted it.

How is that any different from you giving in?

It's not the same thing. I'm letting a bad idea rest. I got carried away. I get jealous. I get angry when I think about some of the things that have happened over the past few years and I forget where I am now. I'm not perfect. But I'm not going to be a monster, either.

I cringed when he said that. How many times did I describe Cole that way, or insist that he wasn't one?

I had to breathe. I left the house and went for a long walk, alone. He kissed me goodbye, sadly. When I do return I give him back his kiss and retreat to the den to work. He's already cooking something that smells wonderful that I probably won't eat because I don't eat when I'm upset.

But don't talk to me about it because again, the explosions.

You can't be angry with me forever, princess.

I'm not angry at all, Jake. I'm frustrated. I don't know what to do with this. Or where to take it.

It goes wherever we go.

That's what I'm afraid of.

Bridge, everything will be okay, why won't you believe me?

Because it never has been before, Jake.

Maybe we're not trying hard enough.

Maybe we're not trying at all.

I don't believe it. Do you?

Sometimes, yes.

Aw, Christ.

I can't help it.These are some pretty agonizing growing pains.

That's an apt description.

What if they kill us?

They can't. We're indestructible.

We were. Are we still?

Moreso. I love you more now, not less. Coveting wasn't something that magnified my feelings for you, princess. Marriage did that. Arguing does that. Frustration does that. When we need each other the most, I feel the most.

Lucky for us.

It's not luck, princess. It's true love.

Then why can't we sort this out?

Maybe we're overthinking it so that we can put it to rest at last. I'm satisfied, I'm blessed, Bridget. You three as my family is more than I ever imagined and I wouldn't change a thing.

I nodded, still not sure.

What's wrong?

The last two times we fought about this so hard you assured me much the same thing.

And look where it got us? Almost divided once again. I'm done fighting. I don't want to fight with you, princess. I've got too much to be happy about and too much to lose.

So then how do we resolve this formally?

You mean permanently.

Yes.

I'll go see about getting the big operation.

No, I'll go. It's not a big deal anymore for me to be in a hospital.

No, you've been through enough. Besides, mine would be outpatients, I think.

Then you'll hate me forever.

I couldn't hate you if I tried. And I have tried so many times so don't think you're immune.

When?

Just about every time you went home with him over the years, princess.

Wow. That's harsh.

So was watching Cole touch you and knowing what he was. And I promised I wouldn't be anything like him, that I would never put you through pain or fear or uncertainty and that's just what I did and I feel like the monster now.

You're not.

Don't take this personally, Bridge, but you're a shitty judge of character.

I didn't start this argument to rip you to shreds, Jake.

Then just forgive me and we'll call and get an appointment.

Done.

When you pull your head out of your ass you're very easy to get along with, you know that?

Nice, Jake. Nice. I could say the same for you.

Sometimes, princess, I wish you would.

Familiar orbit.

Not pregnant.

And with mixed-the-hell-up cycles to boot. I'm so off-kilter I think I've drifted to a new orbit.

Not pregnant.

I knew I wasn't. I wasn't sick at all, not nauseous. Just the damn cold. And our odds of successfully conceiving are so low, come on. So today I'm just sad for Jake. I watched him as he buttoned his shirt this morning and he talked about nothing, pretending he was fine with it when he's clearly not. I brushed my hair and agreed with everything he said, and I clearly don't and we both know it.

This is what makes my life difficult. When matters of the heart are at odds with logic. When the smart decision isn't the decisions of your dreams. It's a phenomenon that seems to be unique to us and every time I think I'll survive another round it reaches out long fingers to hook me and pull me back in.

I'm drowning in it. But this time we don't have nine years to make a decision. And what's worse, it's a decision with a small chance of success, so why are we putting ourselves through it at all?

But now I'm making my own case, and that's not what this post was about.

More later, if I feel inclined. My brain is overfull today.

An appointment with the Devil.

    You have been dying since the day
    You were born
    You know it has all been planned
    The quartet of deliverance rides
    A sinner once a sinner twice
    No need for confession now
    Cause now you've got the fight of your life

Note to self. People who work tirelessly to wear you down will eventually prevail.

I'm rambling again.

I agreed to allow Caleb to take me out for a coffee before he leaves the city. He's coming by Friday to spend a bit of time with the kids, and drop off presents (which he's never done before but maybe now he's feeling guilty and wanting to shower the children of his poor dead brother with kindness or something) and he has a car that takes him around and so he said he'd arrange to have it arrive at 7 and we'll find a coffee shop and he can explain why he's being such a creep.

I'll allow you to take turns guessing exactly how impressed my husband is by this.

Yes, of course you're right. He's not. And he wasn't invited. And Caleb declined my diplomatic offer to make coffee here at home for crying out loud because it's no secret how lovely my coffee is (yuck) and I'm well aware that he would refuse because he wants to get me alone to charm his way back into my good graces because when he and Jacob are in the same room I defer to Jake and that doesn't allow Caleb any room for maneuvering.

They know all the tricks. I tell you, it's mind-boggling.

I have allowed an hour for his nonsense, mostly because I love good coffee after dinner and I want to know exactly what the heck they're talking about, from his own mouth. I'll indulge the gossip and hopefully usurp Ben in the process.

Because I can be catty and bitchy too.

Humbled and pie.

Despite Jacob's best efforts and attempts to reassure his parish that he has so much more than he ever dreamed of, they ambushed him anyway this weekend. He was joyfully hoarse from spreading his messages as we delivered cards (and pies!) yesterday.

He has been spending weeks encouraging the congregation to reach out, support the food banks, donate warm things, give to local charities that could look after people without a place to lay their heads and in general to step outside of themselves and abandon the materialistic temptations of a commercialized season, instead helping others and showing the spirit from within. This time of year it's especially important. It's so cold out there you would freeze in moments. And the holidays? They're just difficult as it is. People need to be reminded that while they are celebrating, others are suffering. Dark times, my friends.

Of course it's preachy.

He is a preacher.

He puts his money where his mouth is, too. So do I. You would be surprised how many times I cried last week over things that had nothing to do with my life. How many times I was smacked in the face with something bigger and more difficult that anything I have ever had to face personally. These are financial pledges and personal obligations that I have grown to covet, for they keep my perspective fresh and my selfishness in check. In years past I have always gone down for a few hours and packed boxes or helped cook or serve somewhere heartbreakingly full of people but this year it's become an urgent, all-encompassing endeavor. A brand new full-time job for me, a welcome addition by Jacob's side, though I am sick and not quite as tireless as he is.

It's been a welcome distraction from my usual life and all the other stuff we're going through.

And still I watch as Jacob comes home with presents for the children from members of the church, 'little somethings' for us as a family, generous outpourings of acknowledgment for Jacob who has become an extended member of the family to everyone he's ever met, and the kids and I an unexpected completion, a compliment to his life, in their eyes.

He remarked this morning that his record of 54 invitations to Christmas dinner received last year as a single man (read: long-distance estranged husband to his ex-wife) will not be broken because this year he received exactly one invitation, dinner at his own home, with his wife and children and that it was the best invitation a man could have and that he hoped everyone had a home wrapped in love and surrounded by faith and touched with the true spirit of the holiday season.

I came home with a stack of cards in my hand two inches thick. When Jacob arrived later on, the backseat of the car was covered with gifts. He's thrilled and yet chagrined. This money and effort could be better spent.

It's difficult. Everyone knows that this is his last Christmas with the church. They want him to know he is unforgettable and will be missed. They have few other ways to profess their love for him, their appreciation for the work he has done, the sacrifices he has made, the hours he has spent. They understand why he's leaving and that he's not really leaving.

And we got a very special completely unexpected gift this year from one of Jacob's community minister friends, who requested to perform the Christmas Eve service, which was printed in the bulletin as a surprise after Jacob signed off on inclusions. So he'll be home, here with us, for the first time, for our first Christmas as a family.

Who needs presents when you have this?

In gracious acceptance of the gifts we received this morning we're going to attempt to put a value on all of it and donate that same amount in addition to what we do already. We can't come up with any other way to make this generosity right.

We are blessed. I'll end this with a small part of Jacob's closing prayer. (He rambles spectacularly, so I put in the good parts remembered in spite of the Dayquil haze-forgive me if some of what I wrote is poorly strung together today.)

Dear God,

Bless our family and all its members and friends. Bind us together in your love and in your light. Give us kindness and forethought to help each other in difficult times and support and knowledge in everything we do...May peace enter into our hearts and remain with us...May we rejoice in the blessings you have given us and thank you for this one day that we have shared together and for all the days that remain.

Amen.

Just for a moment.

Someone is sitting across from me reading the paper and just for a moment, this morning I'm going to do a study in the here and now because sometimes a fresh outlook makes it all better. Sometimes in our rush to complicate things we can irrevocably change them forever and I don't want that.

I just want this:

Jacob is sitting sideways so he can cross one foot over the opposite knee. He's wearing navy plaid pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved waffle knit t shirt that is at least a size too small (not to call attention to his wall of a chest but because I shrunk it, stupid 100% cotton shirts). His big bare foot supports the middle of the newspaper, the rest is balanced on his thighs and he's holding it up with one hand and with the other he's sipping his coffee very quietly and then making a face every time he stops which means it's a little bitter. When he put his cup down he automatically rubs his left eyebrow and then frowns back at the head lines. He has cleared his throat three times since I started this entry, which means he's getting a cold.

He hasn't shaved since last Saturday, his beard has reached the soft fuzzy stage. It's so blonde it's a golden-white, matching his eyebrows and eyelashes. I can just see slivers of pale blue beneath his lashes as his pupils dart all around the page. His hair, just a little darker than his beard, is messed up like someone walked past him and rubbed it. It's completely flat but curls up around his ears and against his neck and he has a cowlick right in the front that sticks up enough to show his smooth, unlined forehead, pushing his long bangs off to one side. Oh, now he's sucking in his dimples, hollowing his cheeks, which tells me he has no idea I'm documenting his weekend ritual.

His hands are strong and smooth, short, ragged, clean fingernails in need of some attention, softly calloused fingertips, big hands, huge hands, he really has to search to find gloves and gear that fits those hands.

No jokes about big hands and big feet. Yes, the rumors are true. Happy? I am.

What are you doing, princess?

Oh, just working on a story, Jakey.

'Jakey' this morning? What's in that mug?

He laughs, I usually only call him Jakey when I'm slightly drunk.

Bitter coffee.

I watch his right eyebrow grow up. I wonder if he wonders if I can read his mind? He resumes scrolling through the sports section now, telling me which of our favorite teams are doing well and which are not. He makes a few comments about coaches needing to shake up their players.

Now he stands up, folds the paper and offers it to me. He does this every Saturday and I have declined every Saturday but he still offers. And then he bends down to kiss my cheek and-

..ha. I'm busted.

Have a nice weekend!

Princess in a snowglobe.

Here's the lowdown today, in case you thought that I had retreated to my ivory tower with my typewriter in hand, having Jacob run up trays, muscles ripped and toothy grins and all sexy-like.

That's only on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I'm kidding. It's whenever I damn well feel like it. He's awesome.

I woke up in the middle of a coughing fit this morning. Drippy, miserable, scratchy-voiced and I got that super-woozy feeling in the shower this morning and I called Jacob and he came in and I burst into tears and he canceled today for me just because.

I still haven't shipped the gifts home yet and today I was going to finish pulling everything together but it's nicer to sit at the keyboard and write a bit, one hand firmly wrapped around a perpetual cup of warmth.

I haven't touched the spinning wheel in recent memory and I even bailed on running today (which I have barely resumed as it is) because of the weather this morning and I feel guilty even though it's stupid to go running when you're sick and even dumber when you're detoxing and half insane. I need a new outlet. Oh, besides the crying. Lord.

So I babble endlessly. I called Caleb to reschedule his visit since he's here in town every second week for a few days, even though I honestly don't feel I can face him anymore, so much has changed. That was a hard conversation.

Caleb C______.

Caleb? Hey, it's me.

Bridget! How are you doing? And is this a new number? You sound sick.

It is. I'm okay. It's just a cold.

Is he treating you alright?

Of course.

Your journal makes me wonder.

That's my padded room, Caleb. And it's none of your business.

I know, that's why I didn't call.

I appreciate that.

Did you find a time when I can stop in?

Yes, any time from now til Christmas, the kids are finished school in a week if that helps.

Maybe I can take you out to lunch.

Right. So, just let me know when you want to see them.

You've going to avoid me, aren't you?

I won't lie and say no. Self-preservation is a must.

Tell that to your new husband.

I'm not asking for your input, Caleb.

I realize that and I apologize, Bridget. But I'm asking you point-blank if I can take you out for a drink or a coffee while I'm there.

Maybe, I don't know.

Fair enough. I'll let you know when my flights are as soon as my assistant books them. I've got meetings there end of next week as it is.

Okay, thanks.

Thank you, Bridget.

Jacob made his disapproval clear when I repeated the conversation to him and he doesn't understand why I would allow Caleb anywhere near here but I reminded him that he (Jake)was the kids' favorite uncle/godfather forever and how would he have liked it if I had said he couldn't see them anymore? He pointed out Caleb's once a year previous contact with them and the facts that Jake and I were so close, everything is completely different. He has a point but I continue to try to do the right things for the kids' sakes and I don't think I'm going to go out with Caleb at all because it's not necessary.

Christian, in his infinite red-headed, freckled wisdom made a funny observation the other day and the more I think about it, the more it fits. He said my life is like a snowglobe, you can shake me up and slowly watch as the music plays and the glitter swirls madly around in a tornado and then slowly the music begins to wind down and the glitter eventually settles down all over everything and all is peaceful for a few moments or days and then someone comes along again and picks up the globe and gives it another violent shake and it begins all over again.

That says that I still have some of my sparkles but it also highlights the lack of responsibility people hold me to these days. Which would be fun if I was anyone else, but no, I'm uptight, responsible Bridget. At least most of the time I am, anyway. Oh, please. I'm not. I'm not that stupid that I don't see it.

I'm going back to bed for a bit.

Bay boy.

When your husband of two weeks takes you home for the first time it's bound to be an adventure of revelations, and a journey of discoveries that further melts your hearts together into one.

This is the story of Jacob's closet.

This past summer we took a long and windy trip on a very large ferry home to Jacob's Newfoundland. His mother and father were ready and waiting for me with open arms, photo albums and the memories of his first twenty six years on the rock, before I knew him. He was already well versed in the history of Bridget, as we know her, because my parents and friends have had years to subject Jacob to my past whenever we all were together. Jacob moved to Halifax to attend graduate school and that's where I grew up. He's been privy to odd things like my figure skating badges and camping photos of chubby little Bridget in dirty swimsuits when she was six years old for an embarrassing amount of time.

So it was time for him to fill in the blanks, the places marked for completion in our new book of memories, the one we started writing when our lives intersected for good, never to separate ever again.

I wanted to see his room first. Why? I don't know. I guess because it would have represented the nucleus of Jacob's whole being. The bulk of his time was spent there. He grew there, changed there, and wished and hoped there. His faith was planted there. He became the man he is now there.

On the very top floor of the Reilly house is the room where Jake grew up. A white painted door at the top of the stairs leads in to a small bedroom with a wide wooden plank floor and baby blue walls, crowded by steep eaves that require you to stand in the centre of the room so that you don't bump your head. The only thing on the walls are bookshelves, a cork board over the desk and a painting of a boat, his father's boat, that he painted in junior high school.

The bookshelves were atypical for a young adult male. Classics. Homer. Melville. Stevenson. Hemingway. Three bibles. Tattered Hardy Boys tucked in amongst never-opened Star Wars comics. National Geographic in stacks. A microscope. A homemade sock monkey that might be as old as Jacob, later confirmed to be his favorite toy from toddlerhood. Records. Dozens of records. Zeppelin, Floyd, Rush, Eagles, Doors, Lightfoot, Beatles.

On the corkboard were pinned now-faded pictures from the early nineties-Jacob and his younger sister Erin at a wedding, Jacob hauling traps, Jacob and three of his high school friends with his once rustbucket truck, before he and his father restored it. Stubs to an Aerosmith concert in Halifax. A tiny floating buoy keychain with his very own boat keys, because his father trusted him with the true family vehicle.

It's a very small room. Tiny considering Jacob had reached his full six foot four status just before high school started. The only furniture is a double captain's bed and a small plain wooden desk with a plain wooden chair. I was told Jacob helped his father make the furniture when he was around nine years old, in his dad's workshop, which is part of the garage.

On the bed was a mariner's star quilt made by his grandmother in shades of yellow and blues and green. On the floor, a braided blue rug, because the floors are so cold in that house. A lamp on the desk cast a soft warm light so that he could read and study and dream.

From the window he has a view I might pay for, nothing but blue water and a bit of the cliffs across the bay. The wind beats a constant presence on the ripply-glassed, chipped paint window frame. If you stand there too long you get cold. There's a constant draft. Jacob never minded, he likes a cold room to sleep in.

There is a smaller door in the wall beside the closet and for a brief moment I thought maybe he was one of those really lucky kids who had their own bathroom off their bedroom growing up. Instead it was another ice cold spot, this time leading up seven wooden painted stairs to another door. An outside wooden door which leads to the widow's walk which is perched on top of their white-painted house like a steeple and his mother told me she always found him up there and he was never in his room much at all. She said growing up it was his favorite place in the world.

The biggest discovery for me wasn't that he had a secret hideaway. No, my favorite revelations came from his closet. His folks never asked him to take the rest of his things, or made any plans to take over his space, it's just there, as he left it. His, to come and go if he pleases, taking something if he needs it, leaving things behind that he doesn't need for a bit. That surprised me, because my old bedroom was transformed into an office for my mom within a few weeks of my leaving home, and my sister Bailey's room is an upstairs library.

That night as we got ready for sleep after a day spent soaking up sunshine and wind, I asked him about all the girls he may have loved in that bed, and he smiled and said there may have been one or two or possibly three even. I could almost imagine him from his teenage and young adult pictures, with a girl, wrestling under the sheets, skin exposed, feelings on the line, lustful wishes granted in secret with his parents sleeping obliviously in their own bed two floors below, or maybe even away for a few nights. He said he felt like a teenager again when he took me in that bed and it was the quietest, warmest love we had ever made thus far. Then when he stretched out full length beside me he confided in whispers that there had been only one girl ever in his bed and that it was me but that I shouldn't think his father's boat wasn't a much more secretive place in which to take his girlfriends. And I was thrilled to know I'm not the only heartbreaker in our universe because Jacob spent his high school years breaking hearts and crushing spirits all over the place by falling in love and then right back out again, not sure what he wanted out of life quite yet. Half the town's adolescent female population was a bird in his hand at one point. His own memories are fond, but he was searching for meaning as far back as we could see.

Part of me had actually feared he might have grown up in a room completely devoid of creature comforts, reading a bible and possibly committing himself to a life of deprivation in God's name. He laughed and said if I looked very very hard in that closet I'd find a glass bong and a case of empty screech bottles. He said he spent years cultivating his world famous inability to consume anything logic-altering, except for me, of course.

And I did. The next morning I found everything he talked about in that closet. I also found a notebook that constituted one of his first journals. All this hidden up on the top shelf above a rod sagging in the middle with the weight of warm wool sweaters and flannel shirts and a heck of a lot of plaid in that flannel. Thermals by the dozen. Corduroy! An ancient jean jacket. A few early editions of his infamous moss green blazer. A funeral suit. Two rugby team shirts. His University frosh shirt. Hip waders. Hockey gear that would no longer fit him now with such muscular arms and thighs. A couple of pairs of 'good' shoes. Trophies. A toolbox. A record player on a pull-out shelf. A silver peace symbol on a leather cord hanging in with his belts. Everything smelled like salt and Old Spice and cedar.

When you love someone so deeply, returning to their childhood with them is a gift, a confirmation of your uncertain reasonings on how they became the person you know. I got to see that my husband did indeed grow up in a drafty, fiercely loving farmhouse perched on a windy cliff by the sea and that he was indeed a minimalist and a dreamer and he found God and loved and lost and won and cried and laughed too. He picked tomatoes from the garden for his mother and helped his father fix engines and he spent his free time hauling lobster traps and sailing and he lounged on beaches and wrote poetry and listened to music and he drank sometimes and he was grounded from taking the boat out for leisure trips and he tried to trip his sister on the back stairs every single morning and he drank all the milk back then too, just like he does now.

It was such predictable treasure I found there, in his room, that made me love him even more.

But mostly it was the book from the top shelf of his closet. An entry dated Thursday, June 22, 1989.

    I'm told that today is the first day of the rest of my life. Yesterday I graduated from high school and since then everyone has been asking me what I want to do with my life. I answer flippantly and Dad is not impressed. I say fame and fortune. Dad wants me to be humble, do a hard day's work and keep an honest living. I'm starting university in a few months and I don't have a plan quite yet, though I might go for my teaching degree. Maybe history or psychology. Right at this point the only thing I know is that I want to stay near the sea, have a good job that I love, a pretty wife that I love and hopefully a boy and a girl. I'd like to keep driving my truck if it still works and I'd like to keep the same friends even though most of them are going to away to school. No one wants to stay here and I might not. I'd like to see the planet before I settle down, I'd like to see what the girls are like that I haven't met before. I'd like to get better at guitar and maybe learn to cook. That's more than I can fit into a day, so maybe they mean to say this is the first year of the rest of my life. That would be better.

Standstill

We finally stopped arguing long enough to see what it was doing to us and have agreed to call off the battle until we find out if I'm pregnant or not. Then obviously we'll know where our energies need to be focused. If we're having another baby then all of this will have have been for naught. If we're not having a baby we'll resume hopefully with a breather and at least a little perspective lending us some help to get through it once more.

Jake brings far more baggage to this marriage than either of us initially realized. He has an unrelenting biological clock that is ticking away madly and he can't seem to control his desires when it comes to sex or fertility and this has less to do with me than I realized. Neither one of us are being selfish, we're being human. Difficult, troubled, confused humans who sometimes don't have answers for why we feel the way we do. He gets something in his head and pursues it relentlessly and I get something in my head, am permanently scarred by it and subsequently flinch for the rest of my life. Oddly I have discovered a lot of my biggest fears surrounding another baby are not scenarios that I need to be concerned with this time anyway. It was a revelation to say the least but we still need to put it all aside, for now.

Believe it or not no one in this house has a book on remarriage kicking around the house. He is as unprepared as I am for this new experience and therefore we're going to follow the marriage counseling advice we thus far attempted to wait out. My God, we're like two kids playing house, only with consequences. It's so unreal, being in love with Jacob, that sometimes it literally doesn't even feel real and I have to remember that this is it. This IS my life now. The cautionary fairytale.

I'm also going to leave unrelated problems out of this fight and I'm not going to cave in to his charms. He's going to not bully me and he's definitely not going to play his soothing comforts off my insecurities to get what he wants. He's a little too smooth and I'm too unsophisticated to see it. I would have thought it would have been the other way around but he's the enigmatic worldly one and me, well, I'm just a pretty, albeit messed up girl. He only has this power with me. Surprise. That makes him sound like he plays head games with me. It's not deceitful, it's honest. Instead of saying nothing he simply wears his heart on his sleeve and lets the chips fall where they may. This is how I fell in love with him. He'll tell you what he wants and then deal with the consequences. In any other situation it's positively endearing. In this situation it's stupifyingly painful.

But I got my hug. And when we finally let go I got another. I'm about to go get one more, and some food now. And then some sleep if I can convince the kids to go to bed at 7.

Goodnight.

Tomorrow, something uplifting like one of my short stories or maybe our very first kiss. I need some good words.

Through the motions anyway.

I had a long, exposed and very painful rant written and when I was about to hit publish I realized something.

It's pointless.

Posting it would serve to open my brand new husband to the scorn and judgment of everyone we know and don't know, the same people who would love to point out that possibly I fell into the same hole all over again just with different variables, this time. And right now that's the last thing I need.

I could detail the continuing argument and you would hate both of us, and I won't have anyone hating him. Hate me all you like.

Right now what I need is no more yelling, no more pain and no more upheaval. What I need is to find a way around today's new irritable mood, and the shaking, God, to be able to hold a plate long enough to wash it without breaking it and to be able to sleep through the night without waking up my entire family with my screams of fright.

All of that might be too much to ask but I have asked anyways. A hug would be nice too, but my nice guy has so many raw nerve endings today he's offering up nothing, just to protect what's left of his own emotions. He's tired of talking, he's tired of groundhog day, he's tired of me and was in his office before 7 am. It was still dark out. I got the kids ready for school and then we walked over and now I'm back home alone and no one appears to care. That's something new, too.

Addicitve bittersweet.

Bridget's paying the piper, having requested a forbidden song. Whoops.

I have almost two weeks or so to wait out this music and expect my period. And yes, I'm effectively abashed, having not paid close enough attention to the instructions on the patches that tell you to use a back-up method of birth control for the first week. Which means last weekend wasn't the problem, but last month was.

So I can begin testing in about 6 days and until then I've been yanked off all medications (which I would have stopped anyway) and am going to cold-turkey my way through til Christmas because I have no idea whether I'm going to land upside down or rightside up right now. The good news is I feel fine, and I never feel fine when I'm pregnant.

We had no answers for our recklessness in therapy today, the only thing we could all seem to collectively acknowledge was that based on Jacob's spectacularly painful and very recent grief over the last two attempts at biological fatherhood, it is too soon to be gambling against the odds. Far too soon and instead of taking his knocks, Jacob attacked me verbally for writing about it. Hell, I think at that point he was attacking me for being me, for being there. I don't even know. But it's all too much too soon and I'm watching him get his hopes up while mine plummet again because right now I'm in no state to be running around this world unmedicated and the idea of having a newborn to care for when I'm so fragile frightens me.

We were less irresponsible when we weren't married to each other. You would have thought all the fallout would have taken place then. It's difficult when something you can't really seem to agree on carries such high stakes. And as much as I changed my mind when I found out I was pregnant in September, he had also changed his mind and decided he didn't want to endure the heartache involved or the physical risks I would have to face.

And here we are all over again. Him with the joy, me with the fear. And if there's anything I do know for sure it's that Jacob gets what Jacob wants. Eventually. Every time. And yet we're stuck again.

I really hope the therapist thinks we're both crazy.

But I'm absolutely not allowed to write about it anymore. So you didn't hear any of this from me. I hate being yelled at for doing something that is supposed to be beneficial. Even if it's not private.

    It's easier to leave
    It's easier to lie
    It's harder to face ourselves at night
    Feeling alone,
    What have we done?
    What is the monster we've become?
    Where is my soul?

On a more exciting note, tickets for Switchfoot's spring tour go on sale this week. I'm so excited I could burst because seeing a band you adore play live is like....well, it's like cake. It might even be better than cake.

Hugging trees and making fresh mistakes.

Jacob didn't cut off any limbs or digits while playing lumberjack on Saturday. He didn't scratch the new truck or break any of the wraparound porch windows bringing the tree inside the house and he absolutely declined somewhat impolitely to use any of the ornaments from my collection unless they belonged to the kids or were from pre-1986 Christmases. I refused to pack away the tiny white lace angels that my grandmother made over the years, and Jake refused to use them, saying they were joint gifts, not just for me, but for me and Cole.

We were probably overdue for an argument. Hence the cabin getaway to make up for his obstinance and my stubbornness. Because we once again managed to haul in everything but the kitchen sink into the argument, padding our insecurities and positions with things that had no business there. It was dumb, it was overblown and I sat through church yesterday looking everywhere but at Jacob while he struggled to get through his announcements without his mood distracting him. By the time he made it to his sermon I had softened, I was meeting his eyes and he walked down and squeezed my hand and treated us to one of his travelling orations, and then he smiled at me when he returned to the front and we were somehow back on track, trying to ignore the now-dull barbs we had stuck into each other on purpose.

His need for an identity within this marriage, fighting to call the shots in an established family unit, having come in at a time when our habits and traditions are well-entrenched and finding that he possesses a surprisingly fragile ego about it. My need to defer to him and hating myself for falling into old patterns of behavior, placing all my eggs in one proverbial basket, Jacob's.

I fight that every step of the way and I've been losing this battle for months now.

He brought up how much he HATES the birth control. That it's pointless. That if all of this is meant to be then we should just dispense with it and see what happens. I was incredulous, I had assumed that the baby subject had been resolved. So I threw my pill bottle at him and pointed out that lunatics have no business having babies. He yelled that I was not a lunatic and that I needed to trust him and work with him to get better and that I was going to be fine. I don't listen, much like a child, ignoring suggestions to get some food or go to bed at a reasonable time, and get a ton of fresh air and not wallow in my sad songs.

Jesus, Jacob, if I could fix this shit with some fresh air and a bagel would I be taking all these pills right now?

No, Bridget, I mean I think you ignore ideas that help you, and you like dropping all your responsibilities into my lap so that you don't have to be in charge. And then you resist.

Well, duh. And I hate that.

Why? What's wrong with it?

I'm an adult. I shouldn't have to rely on you for everything.

No one said you were.

But I do.

And someday you won't.

When, Jacob?

When you're ready, princess.
The cabin provided a cozy retreat, an unspoken no-fault zone in which we could simply get back to the basics, the blessings we have. We took turns having sled races in the snow, we built an igloo and then we played Old Maid and had hot chocolate by the fire before bedtime. The kids were asleep before 7:30 pm, exhausted from a second full day of fresh air, and it gave Jacob and I many uninterrupted hours of hardly talking at all, just holding each other and kissing and him tracing every inch of my skin, eventually realizing he hadn't found the birth control patch I should have been wearing but wasn't anymore.

And then he hesitated.

Don't do this if you're simply trying to please me.

I would do anything for you.

Then we won't do anything, because this isn't my decision, it's ours and we're not ready, even if I am.

I don't even know what I'm doing anymore, Jake.

Then make me a new promise. Never do something unless you want it. Not for me, not for anyone. We're a team, we do everything together. No one has to make concessions.

Jacob, that's unrealistic. Marriage is about give and take. It's not selfish.

Bridget, I'm being selfish and I'm sorry. And I think it's glorious that you would take this risk for me but you're right and I need to be patient.

Well then what do we do now?

Oh, there's all kinds of things we can do, princess.
Of course, this is Jacob and Bridget you're reading about, and so when one thing leads to another and we have about as much self-control as a nine year old in a cotton candy factory. He grabbed my head and met me eye to eye at one point and I nodded and his eyes filled right up and then mine did too and we reached one of those irrecoverable moments for the second time in our long history, those ones that we know as wrong but we indulge in them anyway.

Jacob got up to add more wood to the fire afterward. He shook his head and smiled at me.

Bridget, how in the hell am I ever supposed to resist you?

He's asking me this question? Hell, I've been asking the same question about him for years.

It can't be done. Last night he confirmed what I've always suspected. Our infatuation with each other is so strong that it supersedes everything else. Even our collective common sense.

Good.

And in other news, I lost one of my hearing aids in a freak sled accident involving a snowman and Henry. I'm back to my muted world for the time being and I forgot how much I like it here. It somehow makes it easier to deflect the pall of sanctioned recklessness we slept under last night.

Cabin fever.

Q: What do you get when you put a bee in front of an owl?

A: A Bowl.

You all know what the owl jokes mean. A trip to the cabin! Yes! In the snow, with hot chocolate and the wood stove and the crackly AM-only radio which means Jacob gets a captive audience for his acoustic loves ongs. But a Sunday night trip means we get up really early and will be back in the city by about 8 am, in time for school.

It's worth it, it will be the last night away for the year. We're not going away for Christmas because of so many reasons. I must go pack, the kids are so excited and the temperatures are almost bearable outside so this is a good night to head out.

See you tomorrow.

300 and a permanent eclipse.

125 days married was marked quite sleepily with Bridget closing her eyes and letting her head slip to one side and then jolting awake when it hit Jacob's shoulder. I did this so many times in the dark overly-warm movie theatre while watching The Fountain that we're going to have to try to see it again because my only recollection involves a bittersweet scene that involved kissing in a clawfoot tub. That's it. That's all I've got. And Jacob laughed sheepishly and admitted he didn't pay much attention to the film because he was having much more fun watching me nod off repeatedly.

Instead I'll point out that this is my 300th entry. And that it's really not so much a relationship blog as it is a blog about Jake. Poor guy, he never had a chance to escape my attention. He's been a very good sport nonetheless, while I alternately build him up and tear him down here because although he isn't perfect, he is as close to it as any man will ever get, in my eyes. And he puts up with his Bridget without ever demoralizing me, disrespecting me or hurting me all the while with the clear expression in his eyes of love and longing for me that knocks people flat.

One of these days I'm going to build a pinhole camera so I can look directly at him without imploding when he does that. If I did it without some sort of shield I would be a perpetual puddle of mush. He's an amazing man and I can't believe he's all mine.

It's even harder to believe when he's running around the house this morning with his hair standing on end and an axe, spouting lines from The Shining and making me laugh while we get ready to go to the Christmas tree farm. Because yes, as freaking adorable as he is, the thought of him out in the woods chopping down a nine-foot tree by himself scares me even without all the Jack Torrance references.

Battle braids.

Bridget's rocking to Eulogy this morning.

    No way to recall
    What it was that you had said to me,
    Like I care at all.
    But it was so loud.
    You sure could yell.
    You took a stand on every little thing
    And so loud.

I can't take credit for coining today's title phrase, Jacob came up with it many years ago to describe my method of operation for getting things done. I put my hair in two long braids and over the course of the day little wisps and waves escape but I don't have to take time to tie it back and put it up when I'm trying to get a lot accomplished. And jeans. I hardly ever wear jeans anymore but they're on today with one of Jacob's big long-sleeved t-shirts that has a jolly roger on the front.

Battle indeed.

I wrote two short stories this morning for a publication, called in a few favors for a little extra work while I'm on a creative (read: medicated and loopy) bender and planned to finish wrapping and packaging the away gifts that I'd like to mail this weekend. I'm trying to get some things out of the way so we can go and get our Christmas tree this weekend and maybe bake cookies for the kids' classrooms.

I've been pulling out the rubbermaid totes full of ornaments and lights and stockings and trying not to cringe at all the hard moments. The First Married Christmas one from 1993, Cole's stocking that has his name on it, we had a set of four that my mom made, though she's hurriedly knitting one for Jacob now.

But it's Friday and I'm alive and I'm happy and I have rosy cheeks and 6 new pounds of flesh to carry on my frame since my last weight check and I've asked Christian not to tell me any more insults that find their way to him regarding me because I can't listen. Ben said I was just a typical whoredinary girl and it stung, even though I'm well aware it's sour grapes. I just can't do it right now.

I need to ride this high while it's here. In front of me.

I'm so excited about getting a real tree. With a real truck. We went for a very long drive last night. The kids fell asleep on the way home, which meant that Jacob had to carry them into the house and straight up to bed, where I managed to get them into their jammies and tucked in tightly and cozily for the night. They like the big red truck.

I pointed out to Jake that it seemed a little flashy for him and he explained that he was trying to find some sort of happy medium between my old car and his older truck and it seemed like a real pretty truck was a good choice. You should hear what Ben said about Jacob having a shiny new truck and a shiny new wife and a new job and a whole litany of bullshit about selling out his ideals and Jacob laughed and said that Ben could go fuck himself, which wasn't generous or empathetic at all but somehow entirely appropriate.

But yes, a few hiccups a long the way but I can manage them because I'm wearing my battle braids.

    Don't you step out of line.
    Don't you fucking lie.
    You've claimed all this time that you would die for me.
    Why then are you so surprised when you hear your own eulogy?
    You had a lot to say.
    You had a lot of nothing to say.

Birth of an urban cowboy.

Hey, Bridge? Come outside for a sec.

Huh? No, fuck that. It's freezing.

Just for a moment. Get your coat on.

What in the heck is that?

Your new ride, princess.

Well, that...that's really big, Jake.

Sitting out front blocking the sunlight was a candy-apple dark red Dodge Ram 3500 quad cab behemoth of a pickup truck. I have to admit, she is awfully pretty and I'm slightly jealous of Jacob's attentions being shifted off me to this new toy. The one with running lights and dual wheels in the back.

I didn't think we needed a truck that big. It's a far cry from the old beloved vintage Suburban, which finally went to the junkyard in the sky, the same one he's been driving since he was 16 years old. But at least this one comes without worries, it's brand new. He's earned it. He really has.

It has heated seats. For my perpetually cold bony little ass. Oh, terrific, honey!

What's funny is I can just see over the hood. On tip-toes. It fits him, though and he's like a kid in a candy store looking at it. Like consumerism just skidded into our house and bit him in the ass. He had to have her. And he looks like a cowboy now with his new truck, having completed the last vestiges of the western male myth to a tee. I asked him if he was going to wear his cowboy hat now to complete the package.

What, you think I should?

Why, yes. Yes I do. Hot damn.

Drive-by folk music lessons.

While I ride the disco biscuit wave of anti-depressant goodness, you're going to be treated to an awful lot of head-clearing drive-by snippets. Just so you know.

I don't think I have ever heard a folk song build and sway and then positively explode quite the way this one does. I love it. Hang on, it's quietly goofy until the last quarter, and then this from Elephant, by Damien Rice.


    What's the point of this song? Or even singing?
    You've already gone, why am I clinging?
    Well I could throw it out, and I could live without
    And I could do it all for you
    I could be strong
    Tell me if you want me to lie
    'Cause this has got to die
Epic.

Midnight turkeys.

(The title today is borrowed from one of Henry's favorite books)

I'm an idiot.

This morning at 1:37 am I woke up coughing so hard I was afraid I would break something in my chest. Old habits die hard, and I immediately quietly slid out of bed and headed for the couch downstairs, having grown accustomed over the years to Cole yelling at me if I woke him up (even when it was fine for him to wake me up at strange hours to rip off my underthings and do whatever he wanted). I had a glass of juice, checked out a few blogs and then settled on the couch with a blanket and the couch cushions and a big swallow of cough medicine.

Around 4 am Jacob called for me,

Get'cher little ass in bed where it belongs before you freeze to death.

I went back upstairs and it was so dark now with the heavy winter curtains up that I was feeling my way along and I made it to the upstairs hallway and then I went to cross to our room and flipped over the portable oil-filled heater we run in the hall when it's really really cold outside. The heater crashed onto it's side and I think I broke two of my toes and I was half-delirious from the lack of sleep and all the medication.

Bridge? Are you okay?

No, fuck. I'm so tired, Jake.
I found the light switch and flicked it long enough to righten the heater and move it out of my way and then I turned the light off again and ran and jumped into bed. Jacob snuggled me down into his arms and then out of habit I reached down, yanked the quilt up to my ears and elbowed him in the eye.

Jesus, Bridge!

Sorry!
This morning he was looking at the hint of a bruise under his right eye and listening to me yelp as I tried to pull wool socks on over my wounded toes and he laughed and told me that charm school failed me because I have the grace of a yeti in snowshoes.

It was payback for teasing the tooth fairy, of that I'm sure.

I will say I'm doing pretty well for someone who's had around three hours of sleep. Please no jokes about narcoleptic nymphomaniacs today because I will hurt you. And I promise they won't be superficial wounds like the ones we're both sporting today.

Tagged.

Smarts has tagged me to stay warm to tell you five things you may not know about me. She warned that it's harder than it looks. She's right!

1. When I was ten years old one of the boys ran into me with a pencil and stabbed me in the ribcage. The lead broke off and even though it happened twenty-five years ago I still have a dark dot under my skin.

2. I don't know the words in the correct order to Oh Canada. I can get through it using a mixture of English and French lyrics so all is not lost. I stay now and sing with Henry's class in the morning so that I can learn it again.

3. Growing up I had a huge crush on Jack Lemmon. My friends were mooning over Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer and I was off mooning over Jack.

4. I can do a perfect impression of Andrea Brooke Ownbey. I like to use it in public and drive Jacob crazy with laughter.

5. I cry when I hear Auld Lang Syne. It doesn't matter if I'm happy or sad or if it's on a movie on TV, there's just something about that song. Thirty-five years into this life you would think I would have a handle on that by now but I don't.

Yes, Smarts, that was tougher than I thought it would be.

Tooth fairy.

In this big old creaky Victorian resplendent with carved woodwork and ancient plaster walls, where the light shines warm through leaded glass windows and laughter echoes off the high ceilings, lies a most ominous secret.

Oh yes.

In this house the tooth fairy is said to be a tiny bell-ringing, sparkling milky-way shadowed creature with a beautiful smile and papery butterfly wings.

It's all a hideous lie.

In reality the tooth fairy is 6'4", blonde, generally unshaven and wearing only pajama bottoms and he scratches his chin in bewilderment, fishes a five dollar bill out of his wallet and attempts to navigate a floor strewn with Polly Pocket wardrobe implements. Once the toy minefield is successfully navigated, our giant cumbersome fairy will then knock the clock radio off the nightstand thereby waking up Ruth, who confronts our fairy still holding the tooth box.

Oh shit.

His excuse?

I was just clearing a path so the tooth fairy won't have any problems finding you tonight. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.

The fairy was dispatched once again around midnight and I'm pleased to say he made much less of a ruckus the second time around and this morning Ruthie was a very wealthy young lady indeed.

Pocketful.

    Like the coldest winter chill
    Heaven beside you... Hell within
    Like the coldest winter will
    Heaven beside you... Hell within
    And you think you have it still, heaven inside you
    So there's problems in your life
    That's fucked up, and I'm not blind
    I'm just see through faded, super jaded
    And out of my mind
    Do what you wanna do
    Go out and seek your truth
    When I'm down and blue
    Rather be me than you

This song is too high for Jacob's baritone but he's singing it anyway, because it's the only AIC song I like and it's fitting for this remarkably freezing cold day. This day in which even my zen player wouldn't play because it was -35 (windchill) when I went out to shovel the sidewalk.

Because forks and automobiles are off-limits but I can still wield the mighty blade of snow removal. I was gifted new silk longjohns this weekend and I'm only feeling pain in my fingertips and toes when I go outside.

Oh and yes, he's very impressed that I have once again written down everything that's going wrong. I got called by my entire name this morning, something he usually saves for the kids when they do something they aren't supposed to on purpose. Yes, I wrote those entries on purpose. But he will live because he says my very bad is pretty darn good and he'll take it.

Good, because I need to look forward to being warm again, someday. That warms me. He still wants me even when I'm a mess.

And when she was bad she was horrid.

And when she was bad she was horrid

    You slid away from me
    Crept away from me
    I tried to keep you down
    And there was nothing I could say.
    So what you're trying to say
    is you don't wanna play.
    But what you want and what you need
    doesn't mean that much to me.

It lurks in the dark and comes out to strip us of our thick skins and contented hearts just when we need them the most. The allowance made for the depression to hang around, even with all the pinching going on around here.

The issues with our sex life remain. I wrote about it back in June, and little has changed. You'll never meet a more dedicated couple in love bound to self-destruct over issues that scream of a history together that's too long. It went on too damned long.

See? Aargh. I can't even figure out how to explain it without exposing myself, us to everyone in a terribly invasive way. Worse that I usually do. Surprise!

Loch's prediction of Very Good Things to come when Bridget recovered from the onslaught of Very Bad Things that took place was ignorant of one of the biggest points of note. Jake and I did sleep together once before, although oh so briefly back in 2000. He's had me with far less baggage than I carry now. He knows what it can be like. He knows and he wants that. He wants it now.

But it isn't like that anymore and he's feeling ripped off, frustrated, impatient. And it shows in everything he does. He's tense. Not with me, with everything else. He'll blame the whole world while he stands there and refuses to blame me for the way I am.

Nights are bad. In the morning when I have no control and I'm hardly awake, it works, somehow. It's much easier to write about.

At night with me, Jacob has taken to doing whatever he can to get me to shut up, help me relax, stop fighting him, and stop asking him to do things that he will not do. Ever. And in my head and my heart I know none of this is fair and I wouldn't dream of throwing it in his face but then in the heat of the moment everything changes and Bridget turns into some sort of little sex maniac. His words, not mine. He has called me challenging, combative (when feeling generous) and fucking messed up (when not).

So when I write about him holding me down or pushing me down, it isn't the same as it used to be. He's doing it to make me stop. Stop trying to do things he doesn't want me to do. To stop me from being a freak.

When I'm so excited I cannot breathe I ask him for things that I wouldn't ask for any other time. It happens. It flies out and I can't put it back in fast enough. He loses his desire for me when I do this and I know that. Well, maybe not, he's perpetually into me. It doesn't matter if it's quiet or if it's loud, with music or without, following a lapdance or a round of stoli or a mug of hot chocolate. Everything. Nothing. It works up to a point. Everything works up to a point and hell, more than once I have begged him to use me in some sick fashion and Jacob got up and left the room, punching the doorframe on the way out. But then he is back moments later, trying to bundle me into his warm, strong arms, kissing my eyelashes, my ears, my mouth, my skin all over because in spite of this bitter pain he still wants me all of the time. Like an addiction to something you are certain will kill you.

I can't even figure him out. He's fighting me, fighting himself. Unable to resist even when he seems to hate us both for our actions and reactions. And me? I'm fighting history, a way of life I've been accustomed to for so long I can't figure out any other way short of becoming a doll, without moving or speaking, and honestly?

What sort of fun would that be?

I may be fucked up but I don't want to be a dead fuck. Because please. Life is too short for bad sex. Even fucked up crazy painful (emotionally) miserable fighting-through-it sex is better than just Bridget lying there and taking it.

Or so I've been taught.

Yes, that's a supremely painful admission too. Or is it shameful? Jacob will tell you different. He would take me unconscious. I swear it. So has very little actually changed for me?

And Jacob would have you believe that everything, that his life with Bridget is perfect. And it would be except that he refuses still to venture to new far away places in the dark. Those same dark places that I am somehow refusing to crawl out of, thereby making his life equally imperfect. Not in some misguided attempt to remain the tiny little bad girl that I want to be but because the dark is a familiar comfort and sometimes, as I have said before, I liked it. Some of it. Jacob doesn't have to follow in Cole's footsteps nor does he need to reflect the terrible level of depravity that Cole had reached with me, but there's a limit I have that I like to push regularly and I want Jake to meet me in the middle.

I'm not a bread and butter girl, there is nothing pedestrian about sleeping with Bridget and as intriguing as it once was to Jacob, now it's an embarrassment that he wishes would just go away. He likes his lap dances and he likes me riding his lap or spread out on the table or the floor and dipped in something sweet but everything else is completely off limits. With no room to negotiate.

Off limits would be fine for most people but when you've done it all there's pretty much a list of things you enjoyed to some extent and I'd like Jacob to take me to those places. Because with him it would be a million times better, a million times greater. Oh my God, I cannot fathom the highs that those experiences would achieve with him. It would be fun and not scary with Jake.

And he won't and I feel like a goddamn freak some nights. Like last night when he propped himself onto his elbows and clamped his hands over my ears and told me just to focus on his face and not think, just focus and take it. And he fucked me for a long while and everything was good and okay and wonderful then.

I would do anything for him, because it's Jake.

He proclaims me still completely fucked up. He's right. I am. I know all this.

And still I fight for something that was never mine, and we both fight for something that is still just out of reach, for now.

I just hope we get there. Because after all this time it hurts. It hurts to know that the most intimate part of our love is a confirmed disaster. Any progress here is going to be hard-won and it's own reward.

Why can't I fix this?

And when she was good, she was very very good.

A wee bit of dirt, or an ode to Jacob and his morning wood.

One plus of the waking up before 6 am habit is that when I start or move even slightly Jacob will invariably wake up too, sensing that I am awake even though he can't open his eyes just quite yet. He'll usually shorten whatever space he finds between us, if there is any left at all, and he'll grab me and pull me in until my back touches his abs, his warm hand spread out across my belly. He pulls my thigh down hard into his lap with one hand while his other hand presses my head hard into the bed. Then he pushes himself into me, not slowly, but with force, because he wants me so badly when he wakes up in the morning. He's much rougher at daybreak then he is at night. At night he's so slow and gentle and has so much patience. He'll wait forever, he'll say he wants to fuck me forever, and he has hours to try things and to wind me out on his whims. In the mornings he has no patience, he doesn't want to wait, he just turns me over and then he's inside me and I'm grabbing for the blanket or the bedpost just to hold on. He doesn't want to talk or kiss or cuddle, he only whispers things I can't hear and takes what he needs.

Speak to me/Breathe.

    Breathe, breathe in the air
    don't be afraid to care
    leave but don't leave me
    look around, choose your own ground
    for long you live and high you fly
    and smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
    and all you touch and all you see
    is all your life will ever be

(Pink Floyd or Phish, who covered it well, your choice, it's what's for my audible breakfast this morning.)

So am I capable of seeing anything at all?

You bet I am.

I can't believe my car is an issue even. It's my car. What's the big deal?

Perceptions and reasoning aren't always the same thing are they? But no one asked me for the reasons, instead they created their own. This is what happens when you allow everyone input on your life. When you go and make a decision without a group vote the shit hits the fan. We're still cleaning that shit off of every surface imaginable.

My car was getting very little use. Very very little and even less now with the snow. It's a coupe, it's not something you want to be out in unless the weather is beautiful. It's winter 5 months of the year here. And I'm fucking medicated, I can't drive. Jacob can't drive it, he's too tall. And the insurance rates on it are through the roof.

Not to mention, it's the most extravagant gift Cole ever gave me. It's black. My badass little car. He led me out into the driveway with his hand over my eyes and there she was with a big white bow on her roof. A toy car for my toy girl, he said. I only ever put 11000 kilometers on her and I had her almost two years.

She was procured by a man who will probably use her to fuel his own life crisis and celebrate his upcoming divorce. Which is fine. It really wasn't much of a family car. And with Jake staring down car payments for the first time in his life we need something a little more practical. His truck is on life support and so he's going to get a new one. A very large one but I've been assured I'll be able to drive it when I end this permanent sanctioned high I'm on because it won't have a broken seat adjuster track like his old truck did. I'll be able to reach the pedals.

Besides, fast cars aren't my thing. Everyone thought my car was the Coolest Car Ever. I lent it out for special occasions. Sometimes I lent it out just for fun. It was a fun present but it sits in the garage and reminds me of when Cole was not angry. Destructive memories. It had to go.

The guys mostly blame Jake, refusing to see the logic involved and I'm not impressed by that. Ben's direct comments, agreed on by others were that Jacob was removing my own personal mode of transportation so that I would be completely dependent on him and he would have total control over where I went and who I went with. Which ties in nicely to the whole drug her up and keep her home scenario they're expounding on right this minute, because my ears are still burning up hot.

Added fuel to the fire would be bringing in reinforcements (Loch), Jacob canceling Caleb's impending visit indefinitely and basically my whole spoken need to just step back and let Jacob run The Bridget Show because hell, I'm safer that way. Physically and emotionally. Do they need a map to show the path that led to this? I'm not being coerced, I'm being smart. I've elevated my attempts at self-preservation to a whole new high and hopefully this time it will hold.

All I know is that I have had a lot of sleep and a lot of talk and I feel almost human again, confident in my big decisions right now. Jacob made love to me gently last night and then ferociously this morning and confirmed that I'm not a zombie (yet) judging by all the shushing he had to whisper because Loch was staying downstairs.

I don't regret getting rid of the car. That's 3000 pounds of baggage off my mind right there. Go Bridget.

Perspective.

I'm not feeling so lucid this afternoon and I crashed down into a chair at the table.

He bent down and kissed my nose and then he got down on his knees and we were eye to eye.

Do you love me, princess?

Of course I love you, Jake. More than anything.

Do you know how much I love you?

Yes, but tell me again.

I love you. Forever and then a little more and I will never ever stop, no matter what.
And that's enough. It's more than enough. It's everything I will ever need in this life.

And then there were four.

Let's expose the devil and his many advocates, just for one bare brief moment.

Let's say Bridget is pressured. Get better. Do it fast, do it now. Play pretend-normal. Life goes on. Take the pills, finish them up. Come on, girl! Leave therapy behind. Make your friends pick sides while they figure out what the fuck to do with your former domineering husband dead and your new husband one of them, formerly less sweet as he tried to usurp Cole. Watch as they get into actual grownup fist-fights over you, over nothing at all. Refuse to talk to most of them. Fight off older brother of dead husband repeatedly (because, the headgames he has played with me for DECADES). Sell cute little sportscar against wishes of people who don't have a say in that kind of thing. Make a few passing references to not being in charge willingly and lead everyone to call your new marriage some sort of sugar-coated incestuous power trip for someone but not for you (that was rich).

Have two treasured trusted friends who remain who will relay these awful character-destroying conversations and letters so that I can see exactly what is black and what is white. Boy was I surprised.

Oops, I almost forgot the whole keep Bridget heavily medicated and unreachable because that makes it easier to control her over all, no?

How am I doing?

Ben, Caleb, Robin. Mark...I don't even understand anymore. I didn't realize when I stopped being the x-rated entertainment that I would become their comic relief. Fodder for their own insecurities. I didn't ask for any of this.

Loch, PJ, Chris and Jake are it now.

Unwritten.

Hey. Good morning. Rest assured, I'm not having a nervous breakdown. I haven't written about much of the latest news at all, looking back because I was hoping it would all magically disappear. I feel like I'm losing what few friends I have left and they may have all been fucked up and had their own hidden agendas but is that better than having no friends left at all or not?

I can't decide. But what people don't understand is that they ARE my family here.

(I'm not saying my friends are causing my problems, let's just say they're heaping it on thick and I'm not strong to start with. So maybe I am saying this is their fault. I have no idea.)

But what was decided for me is that it was too soon to stop talking about everything, it was too soon to stop taking pills, it was too soon to stay up late, to skip meals and to fight with people. It was too soon for me to try to pretend that everything was fine and dandy and it came back and bit me in the ass. I'm not in control anymore because it's better if you just lead Bridget by the hand. She'll come, she's just going to need a very soft touch for a bit.

But I am still spoiled. Jake brought a tray with coffee and toast and my laptop upstairs and I can read and sleep and browse the internet and write if I want to or not and he's going to take the kids to school. They came in to kiss me goodbye and I told them I was feeling really tired and I didn't want to get really sick again.

And surprisingly I don't feel like I'm going to shatter today.

But I'm not allowed to answer the phone either, so your mileage may vary.

Here. Finally.

Jacob found a sitter for Henry this afternoon as soon as I opened my mouth.

Then he put my coat on me and took me out to the truck and put my seatbelt on me, like a child. He didn't say anything. When we parked, he took me by the hand and brought me inside, then again, took my coat off me and steered me by the shoulders straight into the office, no waiting, no bullshit. He said he wasn't going to take any chances, I brought up the very worst day of his life and he refuses to let me be in this kind of pain without doing everything he can to fix me. With help. With a whole team. He has connections, I had no idea. I came away with a plan, I came away knowing all of the factors which contributed to today's abrupt and frightening turn and I came away with more pills. Very strong happy pills. Which Jacob held up in front of me and he forced my chin up until my eyes were two inches from the bottle and he said, quite simply:

These you're going to take. Every single day. Because they keep me from being scared. I know you won't do it for you, so you're going to do it for us.

My teeth were chattering from shock because his voice was ragged from fear. From exhaustion. Because again I pushed myself, us and I was beyond overtired and hungry and slightly shaken by a lot of things lately and dealing with my usual depleted emotional strength and we both missed it in our joy of normal life at last. Or whatever that brief respite was.

My team (ha, that's funny) says a little backsliding is normal (ha)with new stresses and changes in a recent trauma victim and someone battling chemical imbalances as it is. They say it will get better but not for a long time. They say I need to not pretend things are great when they're not. They say that I must not push myself. That I need sleep, food, and medication. They also say I'm not to be left alone again for a while because the straight-laced logical part of me still refuses to say things that will make everyone comfortable. I told Jacob I was sorry and I told him that I love him and I'm not leaving without him but everyone else can go to hell. He laughed and said they sure could and he expects the promise to be made when we catch our breath.

I'm doing my best here. And I'm sorry for scaring everyone. Hell, I scared myself and I called out to him for help. I'm learning, guys.

Loch is coming for the weekend, bless his heart, since Jake has to work a bit, and I'll have all kinds of good influences present.

When we got home I was led into the house and my coat was taken off and then I was enveloped in the longest, hardest hug I have ever had, followed by Jacob pressing his lips against my forehead in a kiss that steamed up my eyelids. My god that felt so fucking good.

Because for once, he was here right when he needed to be.

He was here.

Jake.

Slide. rule.

Right. Downhill all the way now. I shouldn't be trying to write and so I stopped. Again.

In behind the front, the flippant, confident inventor of so many silly similes and poetic waxer of cake, lies me. Just Bridget, flaky girl of extremes and irreparably messed up in the head. Coexisting with my own inner monster is sometimes a real fucking bitch.

Nothing changes with that. I started with it. It's still here.

Jacob may care a whole lot more. He's epic in his own right and I'm the luckiest person in the world. But he asks for a promise I can't make still.

(this is where you can go and search my journal for eggshells or unspoken history and you'll see what I mean, I'm not reading that again.)

Bridget. I need you to give me that. I need to know.
I shook my head. I'm not going to make a promise I'm never sure I'll keep. That would be foolish. I can't lie to him.

Tread carefully, Jakey. And I love you even if sometimes I lie and say I don't just to protect you from me.

It must be hard to live with me. I find it easy because if it gets too hard, then I don't have to do it anymore at all. I thought that maybe since it got so hard already that he wouldn't be so afraid but I was wrong.

And still, I shook my head because I can't make it.

He told me he was going to get help for me because this isn't how I'm supposed to be. I hope he keeps his promise because I'm afraid of myself today. I hate this.

Tears and mortar.

I think this house is causing problems.

It's a beautiful house.

Cole only lived here for exactly eight months and yet it's just full of him, with none of his things left, save for what the kids have. His visage, his imprint is somehow still here, hell, I don't know if it's the house. Maybe it's me. Why wouldn't he had an imprint on me just like his handprint was on me for so long. It was twenty years. It's been five months since he died and that's all. That's nothing. It was just in March when we stopped trying at all. No, I stopped trying. He continued on his self-destructive path without me. March was not so long ago and now even with so many changes and upsets and therapies, it's fresh and it hurts like so much hell.

I'm not sure if we're moving or simply disintegrating.

Once he was feeling generous or sad, I'm not sure which. It was one of the few more recent times when I was being cold, he hated that. I wasn't letting him into my brain or under my skin and perhaps he had a moment of regret, a twinge of a wish. I have no idea. He looked at me and he told me that if anything ever happened to him, to ask Jake for help with anything I needed. That Jacob was a good man and he would look after us and he had been around so long, so many years, that Cole knew he would hold true to his convictions.

I know.

No, seriously, Bridge, he's been there. Ask him for help, no one else.

Are you dying, Cole?

Everyone is going to die someday, baby.

Not you.

Even me.

I'll go first.

That's not even funny today, princess.

It's not supposed to be.

Just promise me.

Done.

Should I expect to be poisoned slowly now?

You should have suspected that all along.

He laughed softly and just looked at me for a moment like he had all the regret in the world. I'm left now wondering if he knew his heart was going to explode or if he sensed something. If he did he either told no one or no one is going to give up his secrets and I'll wonder this as long as I live. Or I could call it simple fate, or God's Big Rescue Plan for me with the help of his favorite wayward angel. I don't know. All I know is that it was times like that one that make me hate his memory less.

An excuse to make excuses.

Hey.

Hi, Bridget.

Caleb. Hi.

Please don't be impressed on my account.

Oh, I'm not, trust me.

Can I just explain? Please?

I don't think any of it matters, Caleb.

I would like a chance to defend my character. Now, don't say anything. I'll be in town before the weekend for a meeting and I'd like to stop by and drop off some Christmas presents for the kids and say hello to you anyway if that's okay. I promise you'll understand when I explain why I contacted Ben. Please, Bridget, just trust me.

Fine, just please try to call before you come over.

I'll do my best. Thanks, Bridge. Look, it's been a while and I...

Don't. Please.

Oh, I can't WAIT to hear his excuses.

He only lies to be kind.

Princess!

Yes, Jake?

How many times are you going to play that song?

Until I figure out the notes!

Oh, my dear God.

What? (I heard him, I just wondered if he'd repeat it.)

Nothing! Sounds good, baby.

Crumbs for breakfast.

I think I'd prefer to wait until the latest event plays itself out and then I'll eviscerate everyone involved right here for fun. It sure isn't as pretty as I like to call myself. Or maybe I'll share it later when I have it figured out. I'm still thinking this morning.

Instead I'll reach into my mailbag. The Friendly Giant used to have a mailbag on his TV show when I was Henry's age. Jacob's other nickname (after Preacher Boy) is Friendly Giant thanks to his towering blonde stature and giant hands and feet (shhhh, perverts!) and mostly easygoing nature (hockey notwithstanding).

I'm going to do a random grab of things you've asked recently. I'll leave your names out, being the guilty pleasure that I am. Here are the questions that have been asked by more than one person:

What's your favorite post?

I have three (you can search in the bar, the links are all there):

1-Public Declarations, because it represents what normal used to be. Normal, happy. Before Cole self-destructed. When we all had our shit still together, or something.
2-Because All I do is Talk, because this conversation shows Jacob at his most heart-rending (to me, I don't even know why) and it's the only time I feel like I've ever gotten that across in writing.
3-Life Very Quietly, because it still pains me to read it and I'm a masochist. I'm not but I shiver when I read it. It's on the mark.

If you notice none of these are the big Event posts, like Jacob's proposal or any of our anniversaries, it's because there was never any way in hell I could adequately describe those days and nights here. In truth, they didn't translate well at all to a page and do better shining in my mind.

What's Jacob's favorite post?

I'll ask him and get back to you on that. I don't even know the answer to that one.
Coasting, because he loves the way I wrote of the wind undoing my braids and the way I described his home planet.

What's your favorite song?

Oh please. Forty Six & 2 by Tool. Though I keep listening to 9 Crimes by Damien Rice over and over today so I can figure out the piano by ear (new talent! if I can hear it maybe I can play it! Weee!)

What's your favorite drink?

Jack Daniels, just plain, in a glass. Hell, from the bottle. I never claimed to be a sophisticated drinker, though I'm not doing that so much anymore anyway.

When does Jacob start his new job?

Not until the fall, unfortunately. August 2007. He's anxious but it's a long ways off. He has trimmed down the number of hours he spends counseling and doing pastoral care, because he has already begun his work as a chaplain. There is no difference only this feeds the whole little-boy-captivated-by-lights-and-sirens-and rushing-around gene.

What won't you write about?

That list is miles long. I don't do so much politics, current events, or news. I'm not exactly worldly. I won't name drop if I know anyone famous. This is not a mommy blog, though sometimes I like to write about the kids but I keep it sparing. I don't name place names so much, I try to leave Jacob's innocent family out of direct mention, and if he asks me not to write about something specific, I won't. There are lines I won't cross out of respect for my husband.

Oh and Cole's genius/madness is censored right down to the bare minimum. I have said only what everyone else can handle. There is no point in freaking the fuck out of everyone I love, he's gone. What's the point? And because Jacob loses it just a little more each time he finds out something else.

Why do you swear so much?

Habit. I always have. Not alot of words but a good 'fuck' can be descriptive. It's satisfying. Shock value for my mother. I have no idea. I was told that I write in a weird, buttoned-up, uptight, intimidating manner in which I appear smart, and the only thing keeping me approachable is all the swearing. Nice. Lord knows, Bridget isn't so smart. I don't talk like this, I only write like this. If you heard me talk, you would laugh. I stutter when I'm very tired, I mispronounce a lot, I just plain miss a lot, I can't find the words I want unless I'm writing them down and it's really frustrating for others. It's hard to explain. I was a bit stunned when people expressed surprise that I write the way I do here.

What's with the song lyrics?

Without the stupid hearing aids, I can't hear songs so much as I feel them first, unless they are played loud. I would feel a song, go and look up the lyrics and study them and then decide if I liked the song. I fall in love with songs in reverse of the way most people would, as a result and I'm fascinated by the ways a song can create emotions in the listener, much the same way writing can. I'm not trying to be 'emo'. (I had to look that up. Jesus, people).

Do you have any female friends?

About as many as you would imagine, a few here and there but no one really close. I would have said a couple of years ago that men play less head games, but now I'm not so sure. I had one very close no-bullshit girlfriend but she died many years ago and I lost interest in seeking out new ones. Besides, Jake filled the void for a very long time. He still does.

What's your favorite color?

Green. You'd think it would be blue, teal, aquamarine. It's not. It's Celadon, Moss, celery, olive, not so much mint, but most of the slateish shades of green between. Not forest green but pine. I'm picky on greens.

What is your real height? How tall is Jacob?

I know I lie about this all the time. Why I couldn't be a 5'7" supermodel is beyond my grasp. I'm exactly five feet tall but I usually say 5'2". Why? I have no idea. Perhaps it's deep-seated baggage from this equation:

Very short + Named Bridget = Midget.

Happy now? Jacob is 6'4" possibly taller. That's what his driver's license says but he can't squish himself into my little car to drive it so I would say closer to 6'5". When he hugs me really hard just about everything cracks. And...

No, I'll stop there for now...