Esoteric.

Friday night after a few stops and starts and one incident in which the friendly giant couldn't help himself and took off, leaving me to navigate the hill alone after having never navigated a hill quite that large that didn't take place on skis and subsequently yelling at him when he caught up with me, he had a few more surprises up his sleeves.

Reservations at a dimly-lit upscale restaurant. Lobster. Sparkling water after which he asked me what I would like for a drink and after I said water I realized it was a test. A pretty velvet box that he put on the table after he ordered for us.

I'm thinking, what is this?

The high-maintenance princess who never is allowed out of my brain was hoping for a Breitling Starliner. Even though they're $6000 and Jacob isn't that kind of man. Heck, I'm not even that kind of girl. I saw one once in real life and it was beautiful. But it was also just a watch, nothing of any real consequence.

People say that about me too, I suppose. Beautiful but of no consequence.

The logical princess won out, to match her logical prince. There was no Breitling in the box. What was in the box was two new hearing aids. The tiny ones I wear inside my ears, replacements for the one I lost at the cabin and the one I threw away in a fit of frustration.

Jacob happily spent thousands on those. This man is unpredictably predictable.

Jewelry would have been more romantic.

You've got enough jewelry. Put them in, Bridge.

You make it hard to hate you.

Wouldn't it be easier to talk if you can hear me?

Sometimes.

Then put them in.
I excused myself and went to the powder room to do it. When I returned Jacob whispered to me.

Every man in the room watched you come back.

Sorry.

Don't be. I bet they've never seen a more beautiful woman, either.

Please, Jake. I look washed out in black, my eyes are tired...

You couldn't look bad if you tried.

None of my cute dresses fit anymore.

They aren't looking at your dress, Bridge.

They're probably all gay and seeing what the competition is for you, mister gorgeous.

Well this table is a veritable sugar bowl, isn't it?

If the shoe fits, preacher boy.

What would you like to do tonight?

What are my choices?

Anything you want.

Be careful what you...indulge me in.

Anything, princess. I mean that.
And with that, I knew it was going to be a long night.

Let's worry about all that after dinner.

It proved to be a two-hour dinner, we carried on the quietest conversation, savored the best food I have ever tasted and finally left to return to our room, where a fire had been built and chocolate-dipped strawberries had been delivered, a treat courtesy of Loch, who is in the Irish Mob along with Jacob and who may or may not have had a lot to do with the last-minute reservations.

Jake did indeed indulge me in anything and everything I asked him for and as usual he made himself stop because he has a herculean sense of self-control not seen often in mere mortals. And so Friday night ended in one of those stupid quiet arguments that we dropped in favor of pure simplistic intimacy in the end, easily found after losing our way over more awkward affections.

Damn that, anyways.

The next day we almost didn't leave the room, but we didn't want to miss the entire day and so we lounged around in bed until close to lunch, then ordered mimosas and brunch. Jacob coaxed me into the shower easily with a promise to wash my hair and then we hit the village to poke around a little, because we both adore nighttime snowboarding, it could wait a little longer. We got matching tattoos.

Oh, don't roll your eyes.

Matching. We're a set now permanently. Salt and Pepper. Bonnie and Clyde. Jacob & Bridget.

To commemorate the biggest single surprise and amazing moment of our lives because although he won't admit it, I'm positive there were times over the spring and summer where he really did second-guess his heart.

We somehow surpassed being comfortable with each other and graduated to completely exposed to each other, whether it hurt or not, cementing a mutual trust that we've been fighting for.

Maybe we just needed to find a safe place to achieve all this in a neutral setting. And I realize I'm not making any sense. Confidence can make everything sharper. Time makes everything better. Trust makes everything extraordinary. Exploratory time, successful or not, can be a catalyst for a positive change.

Jacob's innate goodness eradicates all things dark. Like me.

As God intended. I have resorted to laughing about it now because rather than curse out loud the constant barrage of tests God is putting me through, instead it's rather amusing to believe that maybe he put me here as one big test for Jacob. One that Jacob is determined to pass.

I may continue to sabotage his efforts. I laughed at a quote I saw last week while reading reviews of the new Switchfoot album, it said,

    Somewhere in there is the idea that good things happen to bad people, not bad things happen to good people.

In any case, Jake came back a very confident, trusting man, having confirmed to both of us that no matter how hard I try I can't break him, and me, well, I'm still melted butter and vaguely as depraved as ever.

And mostly unfixable.

Retrograde.

I don't think I know where to begin. Everything has an opposite, right? And so I bring many stories to the table, and I'm not sure which direction to head in first.

I could go with the awesome boarding, the amazing food, the hedonism, the sheer largess of the lavishness with which I lived the weekend, the..uh..(oh God, cheese alert) matching tattoos, losing my fingerprints all over that man, and not being permitted to join any clubs, mile-high or otherwise.

Party-pooper.

Or I could go with the name-calling, walking out, being ambushed and the exposed rawness of assorted emotions that run on full constantly, wearing us down, wearing us out. The tears which leave us dehydrated and depleted. The exhaustion of trying to make our relationship work the way it should instead of the way it does.

I think I'll start by saying my face is wind-burned and pink, my hair is straw again and I am happy to be home. I need new goggles, I scratched mine all to hell, and Jacob is limping just slightly, having twisted something or other in his hip on his final kamikaze run down the hill alone.

Hanging out with an adrenaline junkie is exhausting. But for all the yin and yang of the trip it turned out wonderfully and we worked out a bunch of things and I would do it again in a heartbeat. I'm just too worn out to talk about it tonight so I'm going to bed and I'll start tomorrow, after my run.

Everyone say goodnight to the stupid girl.

Restoration.

I feel like hardened pull-taffy. Stiff and vaguely sore in places that generally aren't sore but my insides are melted butter.

Your girl doesn't have a care in the world.

Dear God, can I just stay this way forever?

The snowboarding was groovy beyond words, the flights and drives went without a hitch, and everything here at home went smoothly. Jacob went so far as to have hot chocolate and warm cake brought to our room both nights at midnight, I had my very first hour-long massage. By him.

I have been loved so hard I think our fingerprints wore off some time over the weekend.

    Let your love be strong, and I donít care what goes down
    Let your love be strong enough to weather through the thunder cloud
    Fury and thunder clap like stealing the fire from your eyes
    All of my world hanging on your love

No rain, just words.

No rain, just words.

I'll start on the negative and end on the positive.

To the reader who attempted to rain on my parade by telling me I was a spoiled girl, throwing a brat-attack after your husband busts his ass to make magic for you, it was less of a bratty moment and more of a moment in which I had to do something before I cracked in half again and it would have occurred regardless. It's not like I was only attending therapy in hopes that he would reward me with a trip. Don't forget he tried to take us away for Christmas and I asked him not to, preferring not to travel during the holidays when things are so hectic. He likes to plan surprises, he doesn't dangle things in front of me. Attacking me while you have only half of the information is a fruitless endeavour, my friend, just because I post some revealing moments doesn't mean I share everything.

Jacob doesn't need anyone to defend him, I take his criticism when he gives it, he doesn't require help in that department. In fact, he's one of the few people in this world that I can't distract at all when it comes to having his say. He's not afraid to cut me down, piss me off or leave me sitting in a room by myself when he's had enough bullshit. Trust me, I can't fool him any more than I could lift him. He's good at handling life. He's good at...handling me.

And so on to the sunshine.

We're all packed! There is a mountain of gear in the back porch and all that's left now is to pick up Bailey after dinner tonight and then we leave very early tomorrow morning, back late on Sunday afternoon. I won't be posting again until Monday. Will you miss me?

We haven't had a block of alone-time like this for a while now and we're both looking forward to that moreso than anything else.

While I'm gone, here's something to tide you over, A list of 25 of my favorite bloggers. There is more, of course, which I'll save for another day. Enjoy!

Blue Poppy
The Boyfriend Files
Broken Cow
Diaries of a Pumpkin Princess
Elation
Evil Heshley is Dead
Geek, Inc.
Hard to Believe I did it Again, Eh? I know, not really.
In my Element...
Ice Queen on Defrost
Kikiville
{love, Joleen}the blog
Madhatter
Paravonia
Potor Can't Write
Rising With Grace
Rockstar Mommy
Rude Cactus
The Sound of your Heart
Thimble
Sweetpeas
Switchfeed
Waiter Rant
Waiting for my Husband
Yah Lah Yah Lah

Ollie ollie oxen free.

(Because normal isn't good enough for this man.)

I was sitting at Jacob's desk writing yesterday morning, stealing his laptop. Sunglasses perched on top of my head because I always forget to leave them by the door, pencil clenched sideways in my teeth, hair on top of my head in an updo that was half undone by then, turtleneck, snowpants, sipping a cup of coffee and singing Beautiful Day as loud as I could while I wrote, because I write with very loud music playing.

    Touch me
    Take me to that other place
    Teach me
    I know I'm not a hopeless case

Jacob walked past the den and I waved and said Hey handsome without looking up while I typed and resumed singing. He smiled and then stopped and stepped back to look at me.

You look adorable and happy, Bridge.

A temporary affliction, I'm sure it'll be fixed by tomorrow.

You're too hard on yourself.

No, I'm being prepared.

Girl Guide?

Brownie, actually. I never made it up to Guides, was too busy figure skating.

Oh, you know what we need?

Brownies? I could go for something right now.

No, a vacation.

What did you say?

Your New Year's eve, princess.

My new...It's January 9th, Jacob. We'll get a date night soon.

How about this weekend?

Sure, I can call a sitter.

Already have Bailey.

What? What do you mean?

Bailey's coming out.

Isn't that a lot of effort for a date night? I'll call PJ.

PJ can't really swing two nights.
I stopped typing and stared at him. Pencil still there, eyebrows to the moon, which made him laugh.

Take that thing out of your face, Bridge.

What are you up to?

How does two nights in Whistler sound?

Oh my fucking god! Jake! Are you taking me snowboarding?

If you want to go.

Are you kidding me? Of course I want to go!

Pack your stuff, baby.

Oh, seriously. Are we?

Only if you can stand a few days of carving up the slopes and then afternoons at the spa and evenings by the fire with me.

I can stand that and the...Oh my God! Kidless trip! How in the world do you do this stuff?

I have connections.

You're in the mob, aren't you?

I can't tell you that.

Seriously, you're in the freaking Irish mob. You pull strings no one else can even reach.

No, I just know people who know people who like to help make you happy.

Jacob, I'm happy here with West Side Story on cable and the ghetto cake.

I know you are. Which is one of the reasons I want to make our life together memorable.

You already did. Seven times over, baby.

Well then let's make it eight. And then nine after that. We'll keep going til we reach twenty-nine hundred million, okay?

You don't need to do things like this to make me happy, Jacob. I'm happy. So happy.

I know that, princess. I don't ever want you to settle for happy when you could have breathtaking, because that's what you are to me.

You just never do anything halfway, do you?

Not when it comes to you, Bridget. And I think I'll keep it that way.

You do realize if I write about this no one is ever going to believe me.

Then stop writing about it on the computer.

No way! It's too good not to share.

I should check with my guys and see if we can whack the internet connection.

Oh, see, now, that's mob slang right there.

Just take the schwag, sweetheart, and don't ask questions.
He winked at me and left the room, and I couldn't write a freaking thing for the rest of the day.

Talking to herself.

Hey.

So tomorrow is Wednesday, girlie. Day of reckoning, if reckoning could be a weekly thing. If you're so inclined, maybe lend me a little strength and just a few extra good vibes so that I don't fall apart like I do every single time. I am working on it but it's slow going. It's hard to hold everything together when you get flayed wide open and picked apart until there is nothing remaining save for a pile of gristle left on the floor. A pathetic lump of former human bean.

Such is me.

The good news is that I have some good news, a wonderful, unexpected surprise, but in the event that tomorrow proves to be far too difficult to process, I'll leave it to tell you then.

Have a great night.

Layer cake.

    Privately divided by a world so undecided
    And there is nowhere to go

    In between the cover of another perfect wonder
    and it is so white as snow

    Running through the field where all my tracks will be concealed
    and there's nowhere to go


There's something to be said for waking up only to spend most of breakfast negotiating the quantity of clothes to be worn that day and a mini-lesson on temperatures. I feel like a hostage negotiator, keeping my kids' health as collateral against their imminent need to get outside to play more quickly at recess.

I win.

I always win.

I don't really have a choice. Someone has to be the bad guy.

And we lead by example. So today I'll give you a rundown of the average wardrobe today, because there will be no anthropologie swing dresses and stiletto heels on this day. Today is brought to you by Mountain Equipment Co-op. My second most exciting membership after Greenpeace, because I need to be warm while I help save the planet.

I'm sporting underwear, a camisole, two pairs of wool socks, silk longjohns, a thin t-shirt, a thick long-sleeved tshirt and a wool fairisle sweater. Flannel lined jeans. When I go outside I add a fleece shell, a windproof jacket, skipants, sorrels (my sorrels fit INSIDE Jacob's giant ones) and thin gloves inside line waterproof mitts, wool scarf and hat.

By the time I've got all this on, I can barely walk and you might not be able to tell if I'm a boy or a girl, it depends on if the braids wind up inside or outside of my coat.

This is why I run so goddamned fast. I can't wear all this stuff when I run and I freeze my ass off at first.

Yeah, living here is a just a riot.

The speed of sound.

It's a form of sensory deprivation.

Running for me is like being in a tunnel filled with water. I rarely look up, I hear nothing except for my songs, loud in my ears to feel them right through me and knock out everything else. I don't look around except to check for traffic. The city passes me by in a wet smear of urban grit. I count the intersections I cross, I don't make eye contact often and only when the pain starts do I look up at the moon that is still awake or the stars if it's clear and I beg for the release of endorphins, the inalienable runner's high, my rush, my prize for a grueling solitary marathon.

I am not allowed to run at night, for fear that I might be attacked. It's a big city.

I am not allowed to join a gym, because the fresh air is best. So sayeth those who know better than I.

When I get 45 minutes out in any direction, I must turn and come back, because sometimes I want to keep going and some day I might and so I turn.

When I'm out there, without rules to bind me and emotions to weigh me down, it's just me and my body (which responds nicely even when I take long breaks from running ) and the cold dark morning air, and I am free.

And I no longer think about anything when I run. Instead I tune into my senses. When you lack so much of one you want to overdevelop what you have. Sometimes it's a quiet obsession.

My nose begins. When I leave my neighborhood I inhale the woodsmoke from my own house and that of four nearby houses, rotten leaves, exposed once again by the melting snow. Newspaper, briefly and then my nose wrinkles up when confronted with fresh dogshit that someone failed to pick up. I smell my own patchouli oil, a gift from Jacob so I would stay out of his things, the warmer I get, the stronger it smells, beautiful stuff. And then cold snow, which stings my nasal passages with it's icy blandness. I run through hints of toxic clouds of gasoline and motor oil, the Ethiopian restaurant and their ever present lingering odor of cooking oil. Below my feet the wet asphalt smells like tar.

Taste. As I run the only tastes within my mouth are a film of toothpaste and the heady aftertaste of early-morning traffic. So instead I think about the tastes I like the most. Jacob's cognac kisses. Chocolate cake. Ruth's sour gummy worms and their skeptical assault on my tongue. The tart surprise from a plum or an orange, and the overwhelming sweetness of bananas and icing. The gooey bitterness of very good cheese mixed with the comfort dirt-taste of fresh mushrooms. Exquisite antipasto. Salty sweat from kissing Henry's forehead, hours after he has fallen asleep. Biting acrid champagne bubbles and not being able to describe the taste at all. Spicy cracked pepper chips and sharp rye bread.

Sight is easier. Kilometers of black and filthy grey wind an infinite ribbon beneath my sneakers. I see my socks bunched around my ankles but over my tights to keep blisters at bay. Trash, so much of it, discarded fast food wrappers and paper coffee cups and sale flyers that I wonder how anything ever makes it to the landfill. My reflection in glass windows, a blur of navy blue and blonde flies right by and I wonder if I really know her. Rocks of all sizes, sort of like people in their various shapes and colors. Dented traffic signs perched in the black snowbanks reflecting their warnings in headlights . My fists, balled into fury against my will, pumping in front of me like we are having a race. Shop owners, setting up their paper stands and changing their doorhangers from CLOSED to OPEN nodding to me as I pass, in a show of solidarity to a fellow early riser.

And then there is touch.

I have almost been run over turning this one over in my mind.

Jacob's hands sliding across my flesh underneath my clothes, a contradiction of gentle movements and calloused hands. Feeling his rough stubble on my lips, once past the initial barb of contact, a softness that belies the ruggedness of his demeanor. My fingertips fluttering a constant pulse on the car window as he drives and plays anything I want to hear on the truck stereo. Always fluttering, tactile thinking that I cannot seem to quit. Fierce battlehugs from my kids, who compete to see who can squeeze mommy until she squeals. Reaching under the deck for the shed key and brushing away months of long-abandoned cobwebs, now for rent if they survive the winter intact. Kissing Cole's warm cheek after he died, his face bloated from the efforts to keep him alive so that he would live to condemn me. The silken flax of my children's hair, precious gold spilling over their skulls to bring visual halos to their beautiful souls. The gritty paper of dollar bills. Jacob's skin, soft like a shell over granite. The feel of my own skin inside my running clothes, beginning to crawl ever so slightly as I begin to sweat. My bangs, grown down to the tip of my nose again, which stab my eyes whenever they get a chance and so I rake them out of my sight for the seven millionth time in a day. It isn't seven a.m. yet.

Of course the missing puzzle piece is the hearing. Eventually I will give away what I have left due to the constant assault of my headphones, because I want to feel those songs and the only way I can do that is to pull the volume as far as it will go. I miss the whispers and innuendo but I will anticipate your feelings because I study you even though you don't quite notice that I was. I will anticipate how you feel, what you need and why you need me and with few repetitions we will land on the same page and do what has to be done.

I have lived life in a gilded cage like a birdgirl, sheltered, protected. Everyone who heard my song was hypnotized and yet no one could set me free.

Until now.

Because I am not worldly does not mean that I am naive. When I was released from my subjugation I wasn't so sure and so I hung back when the world became too large and too loud, fishing for a way to balance that shelter and protection and attention with being free.

I stopped and I returned to the cage but I left the door open this time because I don't want to hear you and I don't want the fear of the unknown but it's certainly nice to step out and fly around for a bit and hone what senses I do possess.

And with that, I turn and run home.

Bridget emerged.

I was lying flat on my back on the hardwood floor in the front hallway.

(No, this isn't porn.)

Jacob walked by and stopped and we listened to the crackle of the fire from the living room. I can only hear it when I hold my breath.

What are you thinking, princess?

The usual existentialist thoughts.

I don't think you even know what that means.

It's one of my favorite words.

But can you define it? I have a hard time with it, which is why I'll never teach philosophy.

Mr. Kerouac, the point is not to define but to blow your mind.

You write just like him sometimes.

I come from a long line of hippies, gypsies, beatniks and freaks, preacher boy. It's expected. I'm just too cynical and jaded to admit it.

Right, and you're much easier to philosophize with over wine or hallucinogenics.

Since that day has long passed, let's mourn for it then, and find a new pastime.

Naked twister?

I was just going to say that.

Elevators.

Not such a good day here for Miss Bridget. I'm on an elevator that goes up and down and every time I try to get off someone tells me it's not my floor, or the doors simply close in my face. I could spend all my time sharing Jacob-stories but that doesn't get me anywhere, at least not anywhere else except here, clinging tenaciously to a beautiful and terrible past because I can't let it go because if I let go of all the bad things, then the good things might go with it and it's a risk I will not take.