Prevengeance.

(Roll with it, Bridget has a headache.)

Home is on and the stereo is turned up to distortion level. I drank fourteen ounces of coffee this morning far too quickly and learned that there may just be a lifetime maximum for coffee the way there is for our dental insurance. I might be close to the coffee one. When I reach it I don't know what I'll do, but I know that I really looked forward to running into Starbucks Sunday afternoon while we were out and then paid for it later feeling queasy all through our movie night, resorting to curling up in a ball against Ben and fighting to escape into the film and forget how much my stomach hurt. I think I succeeded and I didn't fall asleep. It was lovely, actually.

Bonham doesn't mind the volume on the stereo. He is on the floor in the hall on his back with all four legs up in the air, quite resembling a sheep that someone has tipped over. He is probably dreaming of radishes and of other dogs' rear-ends. His two favorite things.

If I could sleep right now I would dream of a world where Ben has a week or two off. Hold tight, we are waiting to see if next week or the week after might be a good time for a little break before the next project, even though he has already started not one but two new projects at the same time! I believe I was good enough to Caleb on Saturday to warrant a little mercy but then again clemency from the devil is a tall order requiring a heaping side of grace and the laptop incident didn't earn me much of that. It earned laughter, because every now and then I will exhibit the behavior of a total brat and it's out of character by far for me.

No worries, Caleb did earn the damage I did after all. I should have filled his car with wine. Perhaps next time.

Magic markers.

Every light is on in the city now, it seems. It feels alive. It feels like all the people are these little carnivorous ants gobbling up the energy, the gristle of emotion, the meat of this night. I can hear the noise if I press my ear to the glass. Sirens. People laughing. Horns honking. Music. The low rumble of the white Ferrari that just inched down the street, seeing and being seen.

Amateurs.

It's contagious, a drug. A fine light that entices me to come forward. Dance. Take your turn at the trough of life. Have your fill. Grow fat off the moment, live in the now, Bridget.

I am standing still in the center of the chaos. It swirls around me in a blur and I am dizzy from trying to focus. I stifle a yawn and grin. I am so tired. I press my forehead against the cool glass and wonder what the night holds, when the noise will die away, when I will go to the place that makes me forget that I am here, whether or not I will meet the devil or the angels tonight, I am never instructed. Heaven, hell or purgatory. It's a roll of the dice and I was never a lucky girl.

I turn around and Caleb passes me a glass. A sip confirms my suspicions. Hell it is. He apologizes and tells me he has a quick conference call that he will take in the living room so would I mind retreating to the study until he comes to collect me? I can surf the internet or perhaps write something in that infamous, infernal blog of mine.

Yeah, I can do that.

He kisses my hair and looks at me, waiting for approval. He is trying so hard I want to cry, but he has also taken my phone and my wedding ring and they won't be returned until morning. I force the smile again and take a sip of the wine as he walks away. All the way down the hall and he is gone.

I slosh the wine around in my teeth and then spit it into his keyboard. I return to the window, where I count the people walking up and down the street and hope for true oblivion. Writing it is only wishful thinking.

Getting there, well, that's going to take some effort tonight.

The same words. The same ones, goddamit.

I am drifting. Lying on a raft of weathered boards, tied to the dock with ropes thicker than my wrists. Bobbing gently and sometimes softly, violently on the sea. I can hear the birds. Stupid seagulls, replete with french fries from the tourists who don't know any better but mercifully have gone in town for supper. The sun bakes me into a pale golden hue and I am working from my toes to my nose, to make every muscle relax completely and keep my mind clear at the same-

Bridget.

I am waking up, loathe to leave my place in the dream. Ben is over me. He is kissing up my throat, his hands are pulling back the sheets, I can feel his hunger from the raft and am still looking for purchase.

Oh hell. I'm fully awake now, returning his kiss, putting my arms up around his neck, opening my eyes to see that he is naked and beautiful. I am lifted off the bed briefly and returned and I cry out and then that won't happen again because his hand is over my mouth and his lips are against my ear whispering to be quiet. He's so intense and he forgets that he can't be like that. Sometimes it is too late and I have to talk him back down from his black cloud.

We are finding our cadence now. His arms are locked around me and then I am pushed down and turned over and strung out on his initiatives. He is unrelenting. Sleep is for the weak, love is for the broken. Bridget is for Ben. He just whispers Everything is alright. I am here and you are safe.

There is no mistake. There are new rules. We keep changing and testing and trying life in different sizes and colors just like he is trying different ways now to make me scream, choke or tremble. I can't handle him, this. This is too much and I burst out with his name, abruptly halting his trip to heaven in which I am in danger of falling back to earth, slipping from his hands, slick with sweat and tears and he reaches down and pulls me back up to him, secure this time. Safe this time. So much better. I am in no danger anymore. I bite hard into his shoulder when I come. I never thought heaven would feel like this.

***
Not surprisingly, the other boys are backing Lochlan. Ben again wants to enforce the plans we made up over the summer so that we can have more time together, ironically so there will be less fighting, clearer definitions and no hurt feelings. Only look how well Bridget does when she has unrestricted access to Lochlan and why fix something if it isn't broken (but isn't it?) and Hey Benny, have you asked Bridget what she wants or are you just arbitrarily changing things up because you feel threatened?

Threatened? Broken? I look up, eyebrows raised in irritation. What the hell, guys? I'm trying to be happy, and that's very hard to do when everyone is pulling me in different directions. I feel like a stuffed bunny being fought over by two determined children. Eventually I'm going to have my ears ripped off and then no one's going to want me.

They are choosing sides. Loyalty to Lochlan, to history. Ben still reigns as the outsider, the new guy and God help him, he doesn't do anything to ever change that.

I argue that it's my life and they don't get to choose and maybe I believe in what Ben is trying to do here, maybe finding some peace and eradicating some of the constant tension would be nice. Why wouldn't you want that? They have reasons and they begin to throw them out, one after another until the tears are streaming down my face and even Lochlan says enough.

Just enough.

Ben touches the back of my head. He runs his hand down my hair and then my hair is gone and his hand is on my back. I am shaking, dabbing at my eyes with the napkin and attempting composure. We are in public. They have already sent the wait staff away numerous times, the restaurant is virtually empty at this time of day anyway.

Ben levels a threat at Lochlan. If he doesn't like what he is being offered he's free to go.

Lochlan swears and then Ben does the most frustrating thing ever. He abruptly stops fighting and throws an entire buttered croissant at Lochlan. Lochlan asks him what the fuck his problem is as the pastry hits him square in the chest.

This is bullshit.

Ben shrugs and throws a grape, and then an apple slice too and Lochlan warns him to fuck right off.

From quietly across the table, PJ wields a pancake and suddenly they are playing extreme frisbee with breakfast items and then finally Lochlan gets pissed off enough (he hardly ever participates) and picks up his entire bowl of fruit salad and aims. I protest, I'm sitting right beside Ben. Lochlan's not going to miss but that's a lot of fruit and I have this pretty dress on. Lochlan says, look at you Bridget, you're a goddamn mess anyway and lobs the bowl toward us. Fruit salad rains down everywhere. I am grabbing handfuls of the fruit off my lap and throwing it back at Lochlan and the manager rushes over, horrified. We are asked to leave. Ben is grinning from ear to ear. He's very good at turning one thing into something else entirely. He is unpredictable and childish and wonderful. And it's those same qualities that worry the others so.

He takes out his credit card and asks the restaurant to charge the costs for cleaning and time to him and adds a significant amount for their graciousness. The manager tells Ben he can come back anytime but the rest should not return. PJ is completely impressed with that. It was his idea. He loves that place. I could defuse it but I say nothing. I am still shocked and angry that they would gang up against Ben like that.

We drive back to the house in a caravan. Like a funeral procession. I am bearing pall and somber in my duties. I know what needs to change, everyone knows. This isn't new. Ben just needs to learn to approach conflict, touchy subjects with a less aggressive approach. Only I don't think he has that sometimes. We talk about it a little and he promises to work harder. We get to the driveway and I ask if we can just keep going. Just drive for a little while. Ben complies and steps on the gas and we are winding through the mountains above the house soon enough. I look for my owl while we talk. The drive is short though. Soon school will be out and I like to be there when that happens. I tell Ben it's time we head back. In short order once again we are at the driveway. Ben pulls in and parks. It seems like no one else came home either yet.

Out of nowhere, Lochlan pulls in behind the truck and gets off his bike. I am just opening my door when I hear shouting and his helmet rolls to my feet. Dammit, I think and I pick it up. Now it's going to have to be replaced. But I don't have time to think very hard about the helmet. Lochlan and Ben have squared off on the other side of the truck.

Lochlan has decided he isn't going to play by the rules anymore.

At all.

He won't have his access to me restricted, he won't allow for only seeing me when Ben is busy or away, he won't be told when he can and can't see someone he has looked after and loved his entire life.

His eyes flicker to me. Looked after, he said. The fucking nerve of that.

I stand there, holding my grudge. It is so heavy and awkward. I am straining under the weight and yet I refuse to let go. He sees this. He is so angry at me. I love him and I can't help this. This is the way it is. I promised my twelve-year-old self something and I keep my promises. Every last one.

Ben watches the exchange. It makes him crazy that he can't hear us when we talk without saying anything.

I repeat Ben's earlier threat so that Lochlan knows nothing is going to be different. I obey my husband because it's my choice too but I can frame it in this way and magically piss off the ENTIRE UNIVERSE in the process. And then maybe everyone will leave me the hell alone.

When he's busy, Lochie. When he's away, okay? I can't do any more than that but if that's enough for you then that's what I would like.

I go inside. I drop my grudge on the polished floor and grab one of the handles. Inside, I drag it around behind me because it hurts less than trying to manhandle it all over the place.

***

He is too rough, scrubbing my face with the hot washcloth. Cradling my head in his hand while he tries to remove the bruises and scrapes along with the dirt from my twelve-year-old skin, Lochlan is frowning, near tears but still composed. Barely. He is scaring me and at the same time he is trying to comfort me. We'll get you fixed up okay? Everything is alright. I am here. And you are safe.

The food wasn't that good anyway.

Brunch.

Family meeting.

Kicked out of another restaurant.

Blame Ben. He started the food fight when the voices were raised, when things began to escalate. He doesn't give a fuck. He just thumbs his nose at all of them and plays with his wedding ring.

More later. I'm really not in the mood. Unless you have more pineapple ammunition. We're incorrigible. Which is exactly what everyone seemed to be complaining about.

Monsters, Inc.

Caleb doesn't like it when I write about Cole. I can talk about him all I want, in a positive light. I cannot, however, relay any memories to the page because all of them, even the good ones, are singed around the edges, sealed with fire, black with night and God forbid I disrespect someone who isn't around to defend themselves any more.

I can tell you that was the first thing out of his mouth yesterday when the elevator doors opened into his penthouse and instead of having to go look for him, I found him standing there at ease in his perfectly-pressed Hugo Boss pants and shirt, with his perfectly messed up hair and his completely affected stubble, phone in hand, anxiously awaiting my arrival but choosing to begin our day as adversaries instead of cordials.

Bad idea, Caleb. I haven't had any coffee yet.

Little monster and big monster proceed to have a ninety-second staredown and then little monster breaks it off and stalks away to the kitchen to make coffee. Screw this. I'm here to work, not be told what I can and can't write about, think about, tell.

Cole was many things to me, and I tell his life from my perspective. Caleb is free to start a blog, if he likes. Then perhaps he can talk about the kind of brother he was to Cole.

I am slamming things around and it occurs to me after fifteen minutes of looking (slam!) for the (slam!) goddamn coffee (slam!) that he hasn't said anything at all since that one sentence.

(slam!)

WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE NICE TO ME!

I stop. I'm not sure I meant to be that loud. Maybe I did. Little monsters sometimes get really, really out of sorts. And then they blow up. My hands go up to my mouth in horror. I'm a statue. Maybe he can't see me any more. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe I just thought about saying it but I didn't, really.

I'm hyperventilating but my hands stay where they are. No, I said it out loud. His face. His face wouldn't look like that if I hadn't. That much I know. I am close enough that I see the bottom of his eyes begin to fill up with tears and then I watch his self-control kick in and slowly they drain again. He sets his strong jaw and checks his own expression. He's like a well-oiled composure machine and I wish I had an ounce of it to work with but I have none.

I am nice to you. I don't know very many assistants who work three months out of the year and make six figures.

He turns around and heads toward his office. My office. Our office? I can never go in there again. I'm sure the whole thing is on fire. He works comfortably in that sort of disaster arrangement. I would burn, my dress melting to my legs, shoes turning blacker still, hair breaking off in light sticks that glow before turning black as well.

Thank heavens black is my favorite color.

I pour two big mugs of steaming Mexican roast and head toward the smoke. It's billowing out under the door. I kick the door with my foot and in a beat Caleb opens it, framed in columns of crackling flames, his horns visible, sweat on his brow, tail flicking behind him. I wonder if Hugo Boss allows for a tail pocket the way they neatly sew the cuffs as to not have any fray, in a sort of pocket seam.

I swallow down my fear and enter the room, walking purposeful and slow, making sure I don't spill anything. I set one mug down on his desk and then continue on to the window and set the second mug down on my desk. Then I meet his eyes again.

I have tried to be nice to you, Bridget.

It is a soft statement. Defeated. Disappointed.

I do not buy it.

And suddenly my nerve returns. His soft unberbelly is exposed. Strike now. Do it, quick.

Bullshit, Cale.

What?

Your 'nice' is guilt that comes out when you remember what kind of man you are. So then you throw money at the problem and you feel better. When do I get to feel better? When do I get to let go of the past?

I have spent my life ensuring your comfort.

Don't even.

Do you remember when you were nine, and I was halfway through high school? I asked you what kind of job makes a lot of money. That you should tell me and then I would go and do it because I didn't know what I wanted to do and my father was pressuring me. It was almost my senior year and I had to start looking toward university and the future. Do you remember what you said?

Yes.

Yes, I know you do. You said, 'Be a lawyer, Caleb. They wear suits and drive nice cars and everyone is afraid of them'. Well, I did that, Bridget. I did it for you. I wear a suit. I drive a nice car. I make a lot of money.

And everyone's afraid of you. Congratulations.

I managed to spend the next seven and a half hours not talking to him, and then I went home. I collected my things and found my coat in the closet and stole a banana from the bunch on the counter and walked out the door, locking it behind me.

I think we are making progress.

Listen well.

I woke up cold. Alone in the bed, blankets trailing off the frame and across the floor as if they had followed Cole out the door. I stretched my hand across his pillow and it was cool, meaning he had been up for a while.

I got up and found his discarded t-shirt on the floor and put it on. It's halfway down my legs. Good enough. I walked barefoot across the wooden floor and out into the hall, the muted rain-light shining in through the windows, filtered by the trees, now almost empty of their leaves again. The floor is cold. So cold.

I reach the sun room at the end and push the door open. Cole is there, in jeans and bare feet as well, shirtless. Holding his palette in his right hand, brush underneath, studying his canvas. His dark blue eyes rise up over the top of his canvas to greet me and he smiles.

Hello, sleepyhead. Come and see.

I come around and he leaned over and kisses my forehead, hard. I am thrown off balance and I rock back on one foot before regaining my momentum.

The picture is black. At first it seems to be a series of jagged vertical streaks. Abstract. I can't make heads or tails of it. I only feel what it wants me to feel. Despair. Fear. Rage. It isn't a nice picture. It is nothing like his nice pictures, whether they be paintings or photographs.

It's you.

Really?

He traces the line in the center and suddenly I can see my nose and my lips and the soft ridge of my brow and then oh, yes, there it is, that errant lock of hair that always flips out just beside my chin.

But it is so dark.

You don't like it.

No, I like it, it's just so...

Nevermind. I'll be finished up here in a minute. Why don't you go make some coffee?

***

It's hours later, evening now and I am sitting by the wood stove, drinking wine and listening to PJ's latest tale of snowmobiling through the outskirts of the city, complete with close calls of barbed-wire and dogs off-leash. PJ can wind quite a story and I wish I could believe half of it but I know he isn't that reckless. My friends aren't, usually. Adrenaline junkies sure, but not wishers of death or certain injury

Jacob comes in very late, having missed dinner for being stuck at the airport waiting for his bags.

Hey guys, Bridget.

Preacher. What the fuck. The pot roast was delicious. Thanks for your helping.

Don't listen to him, I saved you some. Welcome home. Come with me.

Cole watches me. His eyes are still smiling but they have turned now. Inquisitive. Baleful. I look at him and he does that beautiful move where he nods once and then tips his head to one side as if he is about to shake it, no, but then stops abruptly. I know that move so well. That move is watch yourself Bridget. Watch yourself carefully.

I ignore it like I always do. He no longer has anything. He just doesn't know it yet. My heart got on a ship and sailed far away into the open sea and he hasn't gone looking to see why it's so quiet yet. He has missed the boat. He missed the cues. He thinks he is so clever. My friends are not reckless but I am.

Once we reach the kitchen, Jacob steps to one side and I hurry to the stove, reaching in with the big mitts to collect the pan, covered with tinfoil. Everything was warming for him, just the way he likes it. I load his plate. Carrots. Potatoes. Roast beef. I ladle the broth on everything, almost gravy now anyway and then put his plate on the table. I add a smaller plate loaded with bread and butter and then I pour him a huge glass of milk and put the tea kettle on the stovetop for tea. I know it will take him around seven minutes to wolf this down and by then his tea will be perfect.

He sits down and smiles at me and then picks up his fork. There will be no talking until he is finished.

I sit down across from him and watch. Lochlan picks that moment to walk into the kitchen with his empty beer bottle. He puts it in the bin under the sink and opens the fridge, looking for another. I frown. I think he drinks too steadily. Too much. He wouldn't listen to me and so I say nothing. I don't bite the hand that feeds me.

Outwardly Cole rules this universe. He is dark and creative and a true leader. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't question. He lives so purposefully it's sick. Driven by something even Jacob can't explain. It isn't faith, it's compulsion.

Inwardly, Lochlan still rules everything. We fly that paper airplane under the radar. So far so good. It is rare but there. Once a year, maybe less. Sometimes more. We wait until it builds and then history starts to get in the way of things like trips to the library and breathing and then we go back to the circus, just for the day and everything is okay and Lochlan has no idea what kind of monster he is up against because I don't talk about Cole.

I don't talk about Caleb either. I act cordial and familiar with Caleb because if I don't it will be worse and I am traded to him on a regular basis for bankroll and security and a different sort of preoccupation for glory, unspoken but permitted because this is how curses thrive. This is what gives evil an appetite. Because Caleb won't go away and Cole has something in him that he let out once and now he can't put it back in.

Jacob sees all of this. My eyes are a television and my soul never goes off the air at the end of the night, flickering into white noise, a steady hum and hiss on the screen. It's insatiable, broadcasting all of my secrets to him with the volume on low. I try to change the channel but the knob is stuck and broken off, glued back on and forever locked to this. I stand in front of the screen and he tilts his head around me and sees it all. The nightly news, the horror movie, the carnage filmed for our curiosities.

And Jacob has a hero complex.

My plan is to see that complex fulfilled. It will complete him and save me. Lochlan is indifferent, cold to me. He wants the part of me he always loved best but he can't deal with the insecurities and the fears and the out-loud stream of consciousness that scares grown men into total incapacitation. Caleb isn't going to save me, hell, the brothers have hung me out to dry. Once the refuge from Lochlan's avarice, just-rewards because I didn't know how else to stick it to him at the age of fourteen, they have become the regret of my young life.

Redemption is sitting across the table from me and I don't deserve it, but I'm going to go for it anyway.

Jacob pushes the plate away and takes the mug of tea that I have put on the table, perfectly steeped, a spoonful of fresh honey stirred in just to make it smooth without adding much sweet. He declines the pie but makes sure it might still be available tomorrow if he comes around.

He has watched enough television.

You done yet?

I need to check on the kids, I'll be back in a minute.

Bridget, the kids are fine. Cole is in the living room. They'll hear the kids if they need something.
Are you done yet?

I think Ben is coming home this week. Have you heard anything?

Princess. Are you done yet.

No. (It's a whisper. I'm not done. I am paralyzed because I don't actually have a steady job. I have no savings and I don't know anyone except for the boys in this flat city full of violence and dust and this endless snow-ice. Writing is a thankless low-paying piece of shit. Sure, the cheques are big. Every eighteen months. Not enough to live on and I know Jacob makes pennies. You can't feed children on pennies.)

He pushes back from the table and stands up. I rise too and we meet at one end. I smile because it's comical. I reach for the plate but he already has it and he rinses it in the sink and then puts it down and turns around.

When are you going to tell them the truth?

I shake my head. I have my own signals too, know. This is shutting down, goodnight, bye-bye.

We can protect you from him.

From THEM. My mind corrects him. My mouth says nothing. Never ever ever tell, Bridgie. Just never tell, okay? I will fix this for you, just give me time. I am listening. I listen well.

Jacob pushes past me. This is done. For tonight. He is helpless and frustrated. I have Cole and Cole is what I know and for those moments when he takes my picture and I see something beautiful framed at one of his shows and then I realize it is me, it's worth it because I don't understand how he gets these images of the girl who used to exist because she became whatever she is now. I don't understand how to unlock her from those frames under the glass where he holds her prisoner but I do know that was the girl I was supposed to be.

That's her. No question. I need to stay close to her in case there is a chance I can get her back.

We walk back into the living room and Jacob abruptly says goodbye, thanking Cole for the chance to get some supper but he's got a lot of laundry to start and he's exhausted so he's going to head up the street to his house. Jacob's house is on the other side of the next block up, a pretty little yellow house that he has owned for a year. A whole year of trying to convince me that the grass would be greener in his yard and a whole year of me pointing out that it would be suicide to try and leave Cole because standing behind Cole is someone I never ever want to be on the wrong side of.

Cole says anytime, and reminds Jacob that when he travels I am like a lost puppy. I defer and say that I love having everyone safe at home, and remind Cole that Ben will be back this week. Cole confirms, he has spoken to him already.

Before you go, did you want to see the latest? Cole throws it down like a challenge. Jacob nods and they disappear up to the studio. I hear their voices drop because the children's bedrooms are on that floor.

PJ asks if he can have preacher's slice of pie and I admonish him, placating him with cookies instead. The pie will keep one more day for Jacob. If not, PJ can have it tomorrow. PJ's arms go up in a mock victory celebration.

Cole and Jake are coming back down the stairs. Cole is explaining the new blackest Bridget-painting to Jacob and Jacob is cautiously congratulating him on getting his latest inspiration out, astutely skirting the subject matter entirely. Cole is famous for having huge, painful artistic blocks in which he will stand there holding the brush while the black clouds roil into view all around him and he won't be able to put the brush to the canvas. For months. Those times are dark indeed.

Cole is thrilled that Jacob understands him, and sees him out. I call a goodbye and Jake returns it.

He is gone.

I know the painting will give him nightmares. I'll be having them too. And then maybe I will sleep.

Goofnight indeed.

Okay, so the wine had a bit more of an effect than I would have liked. Though I think they liked it. Hard to fight back when you can't recall your argument.

And in any case, I slept. All night. God love me, I didn't wake up even once, though apparently it wasn't for lack of trying.

This morning I am formatting the media card on my Blackberry because I KEEP PULLING IT OFF THE USB CORD WITHOUT EJECTING. (This never happened with a Windows laptop. Also, Bridget really needs to learn to remember things.)

And I have cleaned all the carpets. With the big carpet steamer-thingie. It is amazing. Everything smells good! Like flowers. Mondays find the princess efficient. Seriously dull even.

Oh, but I have news!

The movie theater inside my house appears to be shaping up quickly now that Ben is back into a regular routine (almost! almost.) They have taken down the paintings I had up. The entire north wall now appears to be a 200-inch screen. I've never seen a movie on a screen that large without paying eight dollars a person and having to sacrifice my shoes when I stick to the floor.

My theater is fully carpeted and plush. It seats enough people to put most theaters to shame and last night we watched Clash of the Titans (again because! so good!) and made pasta and opened a little bit of wine and had the most relaxing evening ever. Ben has a list of things to pick up (like a new receiver and other assorted technological things that I didn't understand a word of) so that, as he explained it, the kids can play the Xbox on it too, Bridget. Because I was all like "It's done? we're ready to roll? Cool." and they all said "Hell, no, we're just getting started."

We're going to get silver screen paint, and velvet curtains, plus blackout curtains for the window. We're going to get a big old-fashioned popcorn popper and build a snack bar. The Tiki/African theme will remain, everything in browns, wooden masks on the walls, etc. etc. I'm pretty sure I blathered on about this room when we moved in. I just never expected it to be THIS awesome.

I'll post pictures when it's done but presently it looks like Best Buy threw up a bunch of hardware and cables in the middle of the floor. Oh and nothing is actually hooked up anymore because Ben took it all apart again to attempt to explain to me why it wasn't ready.

I'm just. Well, I'm a simple girl and really the first VCR arrived in my life at the age of what, fourteen? and I've been charming people to make my movies play ever since.

Snort.

And yes, it's a movie theater. Not a room with a TV. Full projection. The entire wall. I said the house was big. It's bigger than that even. Oh my God, the rumors are true. I sold my soul for square footage.

And after seeing Clash that big, I'm not sorry.

(The BlackBerry is fixed! All hail copy & paste. Thank you Lochlan.)

alrtightpresent. I am!

Oh hello. I'm sorry, I can't type right now. It's rainign and the power keeps going out and the wine keeps going and they're setting u the home theater which is pretyy cool ineven though I don't like spending money all that much really. It's okay though. It rains ALOT.

BEnw as home all weekend and he never let go of me. That I like and it's worth more than meony. Hes awesome. :) goofnight?

Restoration.

It was a lovely rainy day to wake up slow, walk the dog while I was still in pajamas and then climb back into my warm bed with the big sleepy guy still wedged firmly in the middle and drift off again in his arms, only to wake a few hours later to my surprise. I made coffee, croissants, and hugs for breakfast and we lingered forever before deciding to go for a drive. Sometimes it's nice to just get away for the day.

So we did and now we are home early and winding down from a day that involved having no commitments at all save for the one we made to each other. I'm off now to make tea with honey and probably fall asleep on Ben's shoulder while we watch a movie.

Tomorrow I am hoping for more of the same.

Is it Friday yet?

Here's a ramble. People seem to get concerned when I don't really post much.

I am drinking reheated eleven-hour-old coffee (I passed a coffee shop no less than nine times today), listening to Seventh Void cut with High Holy Days and Bif Naked and thinking to make spaghetti for dinner, possibly pizza if no one wants a heavy meal. I'd like a large glass of wine and a deep breath, for today brought the most energy I have had in four weeks.

Routine is a fickle sort of relief. We're barely back into the school year and I find myself thoroughly annoyed by everything from lunches that come back uneaten to last minute party invitations and Other Parents, in general.

Sigh. I am working furiously on being less judgmental. I am losing the battle.

In other news, the grapes are gone. Yes, all of them. There's a black squirrel who was here all last week treating the vineyard as his own personal farm market. We did get to try the grapes and they were wonderful and next year step number one will be installing netting over the top of the arbor to keep out the critters.

I still have the tomatoes to look forward to. And the oranges too. And the dahlias are coming back, the roses never stop blooming and all I have to do is look out the windows and I am smiling because everything is so beautiful.

We were caught in a monsoon today and I'm getting smarter. When I left the house I grabbed the children's umbrellas because the sky looked...well, it looked heavy somehow.

I was right.

My weather-telling skills are so rusty after eight years of tornadoes and blizzards and no coasts but they're coming back nonetheless, slowly and with feeling.

Last week sometime Proud usurped Breath as my favorite song ever. It was inevitable, really. Just like I can pretend to like tea but I'd rather have coffee any day, even if it's ancient. Actually I think I'd prefer a steady diet of Jack Daniels but those days are long over so coffee it is.

I need to have some serious fun. We are overdue.

I need fresher coffee.