About a girl.

I've lived a strange existence. You would see the sharp contrasts within moments. I am rather proper, a little uptight even, reigned in and expectant that manners and morals (snort) and respect for one another take priority over how one feels. Part of it is a throwback to growing up knowing what was expected, a bourgeoisie/gypsy balanced existence in which you tempered your whims to suit society. So I could maintain my benign monarchist, logical wife and mother persona and then only relax among friends, still demanding that level of respect be present but not, a more freewheeling way to let my hair down, to uncoil my strung-up nerves and embrace my enthusiasm for making mistakes.

I'll be the first one to go, I've made so many. Let me just walk the plank and when I get to the end you can give me a hard push and blow me a kiss goodbye.

Loch is coming out for the weekend. Under the guise of seeing the children and catching up, but really because he and Jacob have been at odds for too long now and we promised, all of us, that this would not destroy any more friendships. This being my supreme unraveling, and all that has passed in the last year.

And honestly I told him I wish he would stay away. Curse these single guys with disposable incomes who can spend thousands of dollars on last-minute flights in order to conduct arguments in person.

But don't curse Loch because he has been there through twenty-five years (or more) of me. Uptight and not uptight at all.

Damn, he should get a medal.

Barry, Robin, Maurice and Jake.

All evidence of normal brain activity has been suspended because I have fallen in love. With the man who woke me up singing the Bee Gees this morning while I stirred oh so slowly in his arms.

Aw man, you know how everyone has guilty pleasures? Like all my uptight friends who love my pornographic entries? Or how people will duck into a store and eat a caramilk bar and then lie about it? (shhh, I've NEVER done that.)

One of Bridget's guilty pleasures would be hauling out the Bee Gees vinyl, baby. But only for one song. And this all was gloriously remembered last night when we were debating the value of whether or not I embarrassed Jacob with telling people he does yoga. For the record, he's not the least bit embarrassed. All the hockey players here do yoga, it's more manly than girly. Go figure.

So it's a bit of a blessing and a curse when people know these things about us, isn't it? A funny existence when those close to you know you can love the sweeter and the hardcore music all at once. I still remember the night he made this discovery, I was playing the song and cleaning up from a party. I thought he had left but he had forgotten his jacket and so there I was singing How Deep Is Your Love at the top of my lungs. He watched until I was done and then clapped. Cole rolled his eyes but Jacob was fascinated.

I thought you were Metallica all the way.

No, it's Tool, actually.

That's not Tool.

No, it's not.

You're so busted, Bridget.

Please. This is a masterpiece.

It's a piece of something all right.

Admit it, you like this song.

I can do that.

Aha!

When I was ten I was going to be a Bee Gee.

You would have made a great fourth.

Yeah. Funny how things work out.

It is.

But did he make fun of me? Or make it into a joke this morning?

Oh, no, he gave it his all. He sang with his characteristic passion, since that's what he does. And I have asked him to sing it every morning to me for the rest of my life.

    I know your eyes in the morning sun
    I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
    And the moment that you wander far from me
    I wanna feel you in my arms again

    And you come to me on a summer breeze
    Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
    And its me you need to show

    How deep is your love
    I really need to learn
    cause were living in a world of fools
    Breaking us down
    When they all should let us be
    We belong to you and me

Pokey the possum girl.

Sometimes late at night Jacob will come in to where I am ensconced cozily on the couch with a blanket and a movie and a fire crackling and he'll sit on the edge in front of me and watch a few minutes of whatever movie I have found. Sometimes he'll repeatedly turn around and give me terrifically comical what the fuck? expressions while I enjoy Ichi the Killer or Thirteen Ghosts, or sometimes he'll wind up engrossed in the movie too (like The Great Escape). I have found when he sits in front of me I keep watching the movie but my fingers will start to poke their way into his sweater, through the stitches to gently needle his back. He loves it. Like a massage conducted by a possum, he says.

I've never seen a possum, Jacob.

Me neither, Bridge.

Then how do you know?

I don't. But I'm guessing that must be what they would feel like.

We're weird, aren't we?

Yes, princess. But it's a good weird.

The very best kind.

Postscript.

And CAKE!

I didn't even tell you there's a cake here.

And it looks very yummy.

You're still thinking about the yoga stud, aren't you?

Naughty.

Parables of Bridget.

Good morning planet.

Bridget is happy today.

With one eyebrow up as the polite boyfight continues. You should see the restrained emails and phonecalls between Lochlan and Jacob as they both struggle to point out how much they are helping me. Me? I refuse to get involved because that choice I will never make. Loch's been near forever and he's never going anywhere unless it's his choice and so he feels very comfortable making his opinions known. Jacob is being so gracious, he's more familiar with the territory, i.e. Bridget's mental health and is nicely deflecting the opinionated rants. Loch's being a tad childish, life isn't that simple and he knows it, I think, no, I know he misses my presence in his life as much as I miss him. So he takes it out on Jake. Which is not fair, but understood.

But for once I'm happy for a little hands-off, and the distance that prevents Jacob and Loch from going down swinging with each other, though Jacob insists he doesn't do that, please. They are boys, and boys fight.

Even when they grow up and know better.

But hey! I have happy news of the most decadent kind.

Therapies that I will talk about, healing engineered to reduce me to jellyfish texture and prevent me from being capable of feeling poorly about fuck-all. Healing that relaxes me, and is good for me in a way that gives instant gratification. Jacob says I leave these with a smile on my face that makes him fall to his knees to thank God for one small light, me and a happiest version of me. Not the hesitant fluttering skeletal elf who flits through his world with barely a murmur.

Because, yeah that was a painful but strangely apt description made at one point.

We're doing co-ed yoga too. Which helps in a surprising way. In a room that feels like a sauna. With about eight other couples who all appear very well-adjusted and in some kind of competition to see who is the crunchiest, earthiest of us all, but I just close my eyes and breathe and work through the classes and every now and then I steal a glimpse of my husband who, like the other guys, have taken to attending in just baggy yoga pants. No shirt, bare feet. In a room that's forty degrees. Flexing every muscle he has and there are a lot of them.

Shall I give you a moment alone with that image?

Yes, I thought so. Snort.

That alone makes it a worthwhile endeavour. If I could take a picture I would but my phone stays home because it would steam up anyhow.

And the massages, though those are only once a week. Those leave me slipping out of my chair and barely able to think past feeeeels sooo goooood. Sort of an all-day orgasm of the most beautiful sort.

And the best part is that all of it is indefinite, a schedule blissfully permanent as Jacob continues to let go of his work obligations, having gone from fifteen meetings a week to about four, and putting us before everything else, and me at home before me in some sort of inpatient treatment, which was where I was headed headlong, running at full-speed into self-destruction.

And it's not working because he spoils me. Lord knows, I spoil him too and by the grace of God he's a very happy man, when most would have run screaming for the hills after deliberating choosing a life with someone like me.

It's working because we're taking our time again. Everything works better when you give things time to work. When you slow life down and start with the basics, only adding things in as you can handle them. As Bridget feels ready, has become the mantra.

There are still days of total despair when I write about marshmallows and poets and you know something is wrong but I won't admit it and days when I'd like to point out the pills sometimes aren't working and sometimes I'm tired of people and industrial places and hearing aids and appointments and days where it's very difficult to get out bed but I'm pushed out anyways and I land on the floor with a thud and Jacob laughs and helps me through the hard parts and he says that I reward him daily not with a smile or a kiss or a promise but with a continued and welcomed effort into getting better. For us, for me.

    So familiar and overwhelmingly warm
    This one, this form I hold now.
    Embracing you, this reality here,
    This one, this form I hold now, so
    Wide eyed and hopeful.

    Wide eyed and hopefully wild.
    We barely remember what came before this precious moment,
    Choosing to be here right now. Hold on, stay inside...
    This body holding me, reminding me that I am not alone in
    This body makes me feel eternal.
    All this pain is an illusion.

Weathering and worn.

There is a hole in my favorite vintage wool car coat.

Not a huge one, but noticeable nevertheless. I noticed it on my sleeve when I lifted my cup in the coffeeshop downtown after yet another random shuffle of a schedule which has gone all to hell now, and what was going to be my therapy day yesterday with Christian playing chauffeur became a Tuesday visit with Jacob by my side. Jacob, who always tempts me with a suggestion of a late breakfast stop at the coffee shop around that corner from the office building that holds so many of my secrets it's become like a second home. Or at least a diary made of columns and cornerstones only I don't have the key.

So there I sit, depleted and exhausted and somewhat satisfied with how the day went as I chattered and listened with Jacob while we sipped good coffee and he ate a cinnamon bun the size of my head and I picked at a butter tart and he pointed to my sleeve and said I needed a new coat.

This coat was purchased at a terrific little vintage store in Vancouver and made it through four decades intact, I wear it for a few winters and it disintegrates right off my bones.

I do that. I ruin things. Just by being near them.

But sometimes things are fixable. Even people. They're sometimes fixable too.

I agree to Jacob's offer and then I sit and study him while he describes something he is working on and I notice the lines around his eyes, what we call squint lines from living in the sun for so long that are very noticeable now. I see also a few strands of white in the strawberry blonde beard he is growing back and his hands, his huge hands which have always shown his age first. Their rough, battered covering of skin stretched tight and strong over his big bones. Capable and knowledgeable, his hands show that he hasn't forged a life of leisure. He could build a house or end a life with those hands and yet he is able to fasten the most delicate bracelet around my wrist or pick up seed beads from the cracks between the boards of the floor, or to trace my flesh and make me tremble with the softest touch ever.

What are you doing, princess?

Just looking at you.

Then why do you look so sad? I thought you said I was okay-looking?
I shook my head and spoke softly, No, I actually find you incredibly beautiful, Jacob.

Then why the long face?

I've made you look tired.

I think everyone looks tired. It's been a long winter, princess.

Yes it has.
He smiled at me with love brimming in his eyes, sometimes we don't have to say a whole lot to understand each other.

So how about the new coat now?

No, I think I'd like to just wear this one for a bit longer.

He looked at me a little funny but he didn't say any more on the subject, and being as tiny as I am, the sleeves were long enough on me to turn under and re-hem in order to hide the hole.

If only I could re-hem Bridget. You know, to hide the places that show the most wear.

Too big, too little and just right.

The shortcut across the ball field proved to be a mistake on a bitterly cold windy morning on the way home from the school. I walked lightly across the frozen crust of snow and ice that sat on top of the layers of softer snow, the result of a brief melt that was cut off by a new storm, a new cold front. Jacob forged ahead with equal ease, despite dropping down through the ice with every step, sinking almost halfway to his knees, making me taller than he is for the first and last time ever, which I pointed out with glee. He just grinned and kept going, hands jammed deep in corduroy pockets, scarf up around his ears, hat flaps down and a curse to grow his hair back as long as it was before.

When we finally made it back, we decided to skip coffee and make hot chocolate instead. I dragged the step stool over to the counter, but he beat me to it, and easily reached the top shelf in the cupboard. He passed me the jar and smiled and I made two cups, with baby marshmallows floating in the tops, and fixed a plate of graham crackers and grapes, and we retired to the study to sit on either side of his big desk, he in his big chair and me on my knees in the Windsor chair halfway across the desk so I can see what he's writing.

Almost at the same time we both felt the need to point out we wanted to stay home for March Break and just do kid stuff. We laughed. We've been tossing short trip ideas around for a few weeks but neither once of us want to really go anywhere. Instead we're going to spend next week schlepping the kids to the library, the museum, the planetarium and probably Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Jacob the lionhearted.

   Cowardly Lion: All right, I'll go in there for Dorothy. Wicked Witch or no Wicked Witch, guards or no guards, I'll tear them apart. I may not come out alive, but I'm going in there. There's only one thing I want you fellows to do.

    Tin Woodsman: What's that?

    Cowardly Lion: Talk me out of it.

Last night we came home in a cab, without the truck and more than a little early. I won't drive medicated. He was half loaded and on a mission. It was the return of Jacob the Pooh.

Bridget, something very important has occurred and I think I would much like to go over it with you in so much as you need to hear this, I think. Listen way more carefully than usual for me, my princess and I'll begin to tell you all of it.

Jacob-

No, Bridget, I have figured all of it out. It's amazing, baby girl. I've got it.

Okay.

Shhh. Just let me while I have so much of this feeling of courage. I can meet you halfway.

Halfway.

Shhh. Yes. Halfway. If I bring the light in and shine it around we can see what we've got.

I waited, listening.

Are you with me? Say something.

I have no idea what you're talking about, Jacob.

You can show me what you want because I tuned you out and now I'm in the dark but I've got the light so you show me where you want to go and I'm open to trying it and I won't draw the line unless you're going to get hurt. Okay, princess, we need to go now before I change my minds. Because in a while I may have a difficult time with this and so it must be now.

Okay Hubbell.

What?

Nevermind. Jake, I don't think you're in any shape to make this kind of decision.

Well you know what I know already and that's that you're mine. You're mine and no one else's-they cannot have you! You're my girl now and I love you and I want you to have everything that I haven't given you yet and I think right about now is a time that would be good for that, don't you think and then you really would be all mine. That's all I ever wanted, princess, was for you to be mine of my own.

Oh hell, now he's slurring himself into incomprehensible whispers. And my eyes are watering from the whiskey fumes he is emanating and from trying to not cry at the generosity of his efforts.

Oh this is great, princess, the ceiling is turning. Come and see this view for ourselves.

Jacob, you're so fucked.

No, it's cool. Come here so I can hold you and I never want to be in another spot except for this one because this one is where I want to be.

He pulled down my jeans (that I opted to wear at the last minute instead of a dress) and then swore because I was still fully dressed while he fumbled with my clothes and his own and I opted not to help him because I never help him unless he asks, he likes it that way. Then he just stopped and lay flat on his back with his arms spread out.

Oh God, princess. Make it stop.

Jacob, it has to wear off.

Oh my God. This is horrible.

No, you know what's going to suck? Tomorrow. Ever heard the saying "The bigger they are the harder they fall?" You're going to fall, preacher boy and it's going to be from very high up.

Oh my God.

How much did you have?

Two drinks. Just two.

You've got to be kidding me. I'm totally ashamed of you right now.

There is not enough of your Irish in me tonight.

That's because I'm so much tougher than most people, Jacob. Right?

Oh my God, you are so fucking sweet. Come here.
He got his hands into my jeans again and promptly fell asleep.

Today is going to be long.

Love song.

Do you think Dorothy Parker knew Jacob in a past life?

I laughed so much this morning over coffee and Baileys while I read this out loud that I can be left with no other conclusion. It's all in jest though, because I wouldn't trade him for the world, but darn it if I don't see him all over this poem.

    My own dear love, he is strong and bold
    And he cares not what comes after.
    His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
    And his eyes are lit with laughter.
    He is jubilant as a flag unfurled
    Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
    My own dear love, he is all my world,
    And I wish I'd never met him.

    My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
    And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
    The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
    And the skies are sunlit for him.
    As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
    As the fragrance of acacia.
    My own dear love, he is all my dreams,
    And I wish he were in Asia.

    My love runs by like a day in June,
    And he makes no friends of sorrows.
    He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
    In the pathway of the morrows.
    He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
    Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
    My own dear love, he is all my heart,
    And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
And to think, as I learn about Dorothy, I had no idea she was the author of a quote I use all the time, Brevity is the soul of lingerie. And little did I realize exactly how much we have in common. Somewhat fascinating and eerie all at once.

You can take a whore to culture, but you can't make her think.
Indeed.

The Irish are coming.

Also, now would not be the best time to remind me that St. Patrick's Day is tomorrow and it's my most favorite day of the year and we've accepted a dinner party invite to Sam and Elisabeth's and had planned to have a whole bunch of very adult fun. Sitter is booked, new dress is ready to roll, green moebius shawl finished to match my eyes.

I get my Irish on very well. And I'm starting to feel a little better. Not a lot but I'll take it.

Happy St. Patrick's Day in advance, dear Bridget.