When he walked into the room I rushed over, wrist held up, bracelet out with a silent request for an extra hand to put it on. I can't fasten the catch with my left hand. It frustrates me every single day.
The Christmas whorenament needs help? No problem. He reaches for the bracelet but I snatch it back.
What the fuck.
Do you need to publicly detail your evenings?
Do you want a job as editor? Because I can't pay you and volunteers aren't given censorship authority.
Bridget, you're incorrigible.
How many times did you read it? Be honest, you filthy pervert.
Four. Now are you ready for dinner?
No. Ben is still dressing.
Did he read it?
I turn and just stare at him. He was there, he doesn't need to read it. And you know that. So drop it already.
You're going to kill him, Bridget.
It's the offhand comments using phrases involving death that derail me. I slam the closet door closed and drop my coat on the floor and I march right over until I am up in his face and I point out quietly, harshly that I'm not the conductor of this orchestra. Caleb laughs at my euphemism, coffee and whiskey breath coating me in surprise.
I know you aren't but at the same time he is still testing you and nights such as those are ultimately going to make you fail your practicum.
Oh my God. Don't run with allegories, please. They're sharp. You might hurt yourself.
Isn't that what life has become, princess? Running away with the shred of an idea and letting it get out of hand before we realize not every idea is a good idea and we're in pieces on the floor?
Such as? I'm picking fights now. May as well, no one else is ready to go yet. Our reservations are going to be missed, which becomes complicated when you book a table of seventeen. I have to call the restaurant and warn them we are running late.
Your commune.
Is a well-oiled machine.
It's an incendiary device waiting to explode.
Sour grapes, Cale.
Obvious signals, princess. I'm looking out for you because you can't juggle so many hearts.
Two. Only two. I'm trained for five, fully.
Four. Or maybe seven if you want to be specific.
What the? Oh my God. TWO. Jesus Christ. Two. You make me sound like a party favor.
I'm not blind, princess. I see things you don't think I see. I know what the others want.
Oh, do tell because now you're composing your own melodies. You're ludicrous. And you're wrong.
He opens his mouth to say something and then abruptly checks his expression as Ben comes crashing down the steps, in a black suit with a steel-grey shirt. No tie. He looks like a pro hockey player arriving for a game. A suit on him looks so amazing considering he lives in tour t-shirts and jeans 360 days of the year and the missing four days consist of nothing (if I'm lucky) but plaid flannel pajama bottoms (Damn!) that make me want to put a bucket under my tongue.
Ben refused to join the argument or listen to accusations, instead scowling at Caleb. He pointed one finger at him and said one word.
Don't.
He then took my hand, pulling me out to the front hallway to get our coats on. It's late. We've got to go. The others will have to catch up.
I call the restaurant and let them know we're going to be trickling in gradually over the next half hour to an hour and they're very gracious, appreciative of the warning. Unlike me, who takes warnings as direct challenges. Every time someone levels one I leap into my fighting stance and become ridiculously indignant. Or maybe that's defensive. Oh, wait. It's guilt. Guilt and shame and yet I hold my head high, because the show must go on. Because this is what he wants and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth when it's presented on such a grand scale?
***
(He sat in the chair in near darkness, eyes focused sharply on the scene that played out in front of him. He missed nothing. Not a centimeter of bare skin, not a kiss, not a whisper. Not a lock of hair or a long breath exhaled over a shoulder taunt with effort. He uses the darkness to torture himself, to bathe in his proclivities and marvel at the power he holds now, the ability to give and take away, like the Jesus Christ of Bridget's universe, gifting favors that breathe and laugh in exchange for total compliance. His own private little world, engineered as a means to an end. He found a red and white tent, deceptively small, complete with a fully working circus inside. He shook out the participants and onto the dry grass fell a blonde and a redhead and he found them intriguing. It's a carnival of madness and he is the ringmaster now. Can't take your eyes off him, I know.)
Thursday 22 December 2011
Wednesday 21 December 2011
Solstice (Wait for it).
(This will just be all conundrums and confusion to you. Tough.)
His good hand comes up under my chin, pushing my head up.
Look at me, he whispers.
If I do that it's all over. Obediently I meet his eyes. We are squared and there's a far-away sound of everything falling into place.
His arms pull me in, pull me down into the cool cotton sheets and I break his gaze by closing my eyes. I don't want to love too much or fall too hard but there are some things far beyond my control and this isn't one of them. Oh no, this is engineered by fate and fuelled by history. His skin smells like gasoline, his hair is soft fire in the dark.
The cast is gone again only I don't ask what happened to it, I just watch for him to favor that arm but he does not. He is too busy sharping the points he wants to prove and building up his strength for next summer, the summer he always said he would return to busking full time and go back to his physical showmanship instead of designing and creating things other people will ultimately take the credit for. Twenty-twelve was always a far-away goal for someone who doesn't set goals any more than he makes resolutions. This was an exception to his rule.
Kind of like me.
All he wants is the adoration of a faceless crowd, no commitments and no rainy days on the horizon. No deadlines, no locked windows and no indoor yellow lighting when he could be outside under the fire of the sun.
His lips dance along my earlobe, across my eyelids and come to rest on the tip of my nose. I turn away, it tickles and at the same time it's the most familiar feeling in the world to me now. I hold my breath as he pulls down the zipper on my dress and then he pulls the blanket up over us before I begin to shiver. His skin is warm, so as long as I stay right here I won't get cold.
He kisses across my shoulder, my clavicle, and back up to my jaw. I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer still. I'm going to give up on breathing now, I think I can live on love instead of air. He puts his head down against my ear and begins to rock against me. He's so fierce all I can do is hold him close and hold on tight.
He has my head locked in his hands, pressed against his chest. I am tense and silent. He pulls me up and whispers a command that I breathe for him, breathe with him, breathe him in and I nod furiously. I can do that. I can manage that, even though I can't manage a grip on reality or good graciousness or loyalty. I can manage a breath. He presses his mouth against mine and I can breathe fire now too. His kisses are hard and slow, intensity burning our lips raw but I don't turn away this time.
I can ride the darkness on through to the sun on this longest night of the year and then when the flames lick across the water bringing the blinding light to warm up the morning I will slide off the bed and hit the floor, returning to spend my day with aching limbs and a fractured heart in a reality no more real than the words in some old standard about making believe.
(What did they make it out of and how did they make it hold?)
What do you see? He asks me.
My eyes fill with tears and I shake my head. Some revelations are not meant to be shared. I can't tell you, I'm sorry, I whisper. He understands, oddly enough. He knows precisely what I see in his eyes. Clear as daylight, quiet as candledark, lit by a single torch and so plainly visible to all.
Some things are never meant to be admitted out loud.
(Leave us in the dark.)
(Stay where the light is brightest.)
(In between is safest, peanut. You can still be warm but you can step into the shadows to hide, if there is a time that calls for that.)
(What? I couldn't hear you, Lochlan.)
His good hand comes up under my chin, pushing my head up.
Look at me, he whispers.
If I do that it's all over. Obediently I meet his eyes. We are squared and there's a far-away sound of everything falling into place.
His arms pull me in, pull me down into the cool cotton sheets and I break his gaze by closing my eyes. I don't want to love too much or fall too hard but there are some things far beyond my control and this isn't one of them. Oh no, this is engineered by fate and fuelled by history. His skin smells like gasoline, his hair is soft fire in the dark.
The cast is gone again only I don't ask what happened to it, I just watch for him to favor that arm but he does not. He is too busy sharping the points he wants to prove and building up his strength for next summer, the summer he always said he would return to busking full time and go back to his physical showmanship instead of designing and creating things other people will ultimately take the credit for. Twenty-twelve was always a far-away goal for someone who doesn't set goals any more than he makes resolutions. This was an exception to his rule.
Kind of like me.
All he wants is the adoration of a faceless crowd, no commitments and no rainy days on the horizon. No deadlines, no locked windows and no indoor yellow lighting when he could be outside under the fire of the sun.
His lips dance along my earlobe, across my eyelids and come to rest on the tip of my nose. I turn away, it tickles and at the same time it's the most familiar feeling in the world to me now. I hold my breath as he pulls down the zipper on my dress and then he pulls the blanket up over us before I begin to shiver. His skin is warm, so as long as I stay right here I won't get cold.
He kisses across my shoulder, my clavicle, and back up to my jaw. I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer still. I'm going to give up on breathing now, I think I can live on love instead of air. He puts his head down against my ear and begins to rock against me. He's so fierce all I can do is hold him close and hold on tight.
He has my head locked in his hands, pressed against his chest. I am tense and silent. He pulls me up and whispers a command that I breathe for him, breathe with him, breathe him in and I nod furiously. I can do that. I can manage that, even though I can't manage a grip on reality or good graciousness or loyalty. I can manage a breath. He presses his mouth against mine and I can breathe fire now too. His kisses are hard and slow, intensity burning our lips raw but I don't turn away this time.
I can ride the darkness on through to the sun on this longest night of the year and then when the flames lick across the water bringing the blinding light to warm up the morning I will slide off the bed and hit the floor, returning to spend my day with aching limbs and a fractured heart in a reality no more real than the words in some old standard about making believe.
(What did they make it out of and how did they make it hold?)
What do you see? He asks me.
My eyes fill with tears and I shake my head. Some revelations are not meant to be shared. I can't tell you, I'm sorry, I whisper. He understands, oddly enough. He knows precisely what I see in his eyes. Clear as daylight, quiet as candledark, lit by a single torch and so plainly visible to all.
Some things are never meant to be admitted out loud.
(Leave us in the dark.)
(Stay where the light is brightest.)
(In between is safest, peanut. You can still be warm but you can step into the shadows to hide, if there is a time that calls for that.)
(What? I couldn't hear you, Lochlan.)
Tuesday 20 December 2011
Zen and the art of shopping.
It's 11:15 and Lochlan has poured me a honey Jack Daniels and eggnog to drink so that I sleep tonight. It's so strong I can feel my brain crackling as I take small gulps even after being warned multiple times to sip it slowly. They say the same thing about coffee. You should SEE how fast I can drink a boiling hot cup of coffee. It's just DUMB.
What a glorious day. I walked around sipping my coffee and admiring things in stores. I took my time. The only people who spoke were clerks offering to help me find things, but no thank you, I'm not buying today. I'm done. Wrapped and loaded for bear and Santa too. I leaned way over the glass on the second floor and he looked up at me and waved this morning and I waved back and took his picture before moving on. I admired the most beautiful dark green satin strapless dress and then I picked the hanger up and held the dress out and realized I don't need it, I have one almost just like it. My Christmas dress. A Valentino that Caleb had altered and sent to me, tied in a box with silver ribbons. He did this many years ago without being asked. It fit perfectly and I wear it every chance I get. I don't know how he knew my measurements. He's never asked. The story goes that he held it up when the alterations were finished and studied it and said it would work. He's spooky like that. I'm still never sure if I should be flattered or run screaming.
I looked at platform shoes and decided I really need some new things. A lot of new things. Or do I? I do but maybe not platforms. Maybe just standard heels. Maybe flats. Maybe a new pair of Angel boots. At least.
I sat and read the paper on my phone when I got tired, watching the young mother beside me feed her baby daughter lunch. I marveled at how small babies are and how glad I am that my children are tweenagers and sort of silly but how there is only one gift under the tree that is a toy, since Henry is ten years old still even though sometimes it feels as if he is much older than that.
I considered buying a new set of bobby pins since we've reached the end of the year and I don't know how many of my gold and silver pins will make it back to me. The boys have an unspoken tradition of collecting them right through the end of the year and then presenting them back to me in neat little containers and boxes, treasures found and collected the same way I collect sea glass. They learned it from Jake. I think I'll wait and see how many reappear. Besides, the stores didn't have gold or silver. I only saw brown, black or white on my travels.
I ruminated on how deliciously wrecked my goddamned knees are from so many years of running. If I sit too long or walk too much on hard floors now my knees and hips ache. And I wore sensible flats to walk in today. I thought I was being smart. I guess it doesn't make a difference, everything aches tonight. But not for long.
I vowed to pare down my belongings to what I dearly love because there's just so much STUFF out there. Stuff won't make me happy, people do. Feelings do. This freaking eggnog and Jack Daniels does. Like, in a hurry. Time for bed. Very long day after all, even though it's probably one of the more relaxing days I have spent lately.
I really like that. I could get in to this relaxing thing. Lets hope it continues.
What a glorious day. I walked around sipping my coffee and admiring things in stores. I took my time. The only people who spoke were clerks offering to help me find things, but no thank you, I'm not buying today. I'm done. Wrapped and loaded for bear and Santa too. I leaned way over the glass on the second floor and he looked up at me and waved this morning and I waved back and took his picture before moving on. I admired the most beautiful dark green satin strapless dress and then I picked the hanger up and held the dress out and realized I don't need it, I have one almost just like it. My Christmas dress. A Valentino that Caleb had altered and sent to me, tied in a box with silver ribbons. He did this many years ago without being asked. It fit perfectly and I wear it every chance I get. I don't know how he knew my measurements. He's never asked. The story goes that he held it up when the alterations were finished and studied it and said it would work. He's spooky like that. I'm still never sure if I should be flattered or run screaming.
I looked at platform shoes and decided I really need some new things. A lot of new things. Or do I? I do but maybe not platforms. Maybe just standard heels. Maybe flats. Maybe a new pair of Angel boots. At least.
I sat and read the paper on my phone when I got tired, watching the young mother beside me feed her baby daughter lunch. I marveled at how small babies are and how glad I am that my children are tweenagers and sort of silly but how there is only one gift under the tree that is a toy, since Henry is ten years old still even though sometimes it feels as if he is much older than that.
I considered buying a new set of bobby pins since we've reached the end of the year and I don't know how many of my gold and silver pins will make it back to me. The boys have an unspoken tradition of collecting them right through the end of the year and then presenting them back to me in neat little containers and boxes, treasures found and collected the same way I collect sea glass. They learned it from Jake. I think I'll wait and see how many reappear. Besides, the stores didn't have gold or silver. I only saw brown, black or white on my travels.
I ruminated on how deliciously wrecked my goddamned knees are from so many years of running. If I sit too long or walk too much on hard floors now my knees and hips ache. And I wore sensible flats to walk in today. I thought I was being smart. I guess it doesn't make a difference, everything aches tonight. But not for long.
I vowed to pare down my belongings to what I dearly love because there's just so much STUFF out there. Stuff won't make me happy, people do. Feelings do. This freaking eggnog and Jack Daniels does. Like, in a hurry. Time for bed. Very long day after all, even though it's probably one of the more relaxing days I have spent lately.
I really like that. I could get in to this relaxing thing. Lets hope it continues.
Monday 19 December 2011
Shooting stars.
(I don't have to remind you at this point that I don't actually call him 'Batman' to his face, do I?)
Batman has outfitted his floor to ceiling windows with those incredible lights that drop color down the line in stages, like the lights on the big tree at Kitsilano. All of the windows. I'm so hypnotized by Christmas lights, it almost isn't fair that they're going to conduct their Mine is bigger argument in this way but I have become used to the unbearable tension between Caleb and Batman.
What I have not become used to, however, is the sudden realization that Batman is wearing Tuscan Soul. I know that scent very well, and I'm proud of myself for my ability to pick out a man's signature fragrance from three yards away and have yet to be corrected when I hazard a guess to the wearer. Bergamot is a giveaway in this case, and it's worth noting that Caleb sometimes wears it too.
What do you think, Princess? He's pleased with himself, I can tell. He's smiling out of one side of his mouth, trying to suppress the grin. I make note of the use of my nickname and shake my head vaguely.
It's nice. Looks very pretty.
It really shines when the sun is rising. Maybe you should stay and see that.
I turn around. What is that? What are you doing?
Capitalizing on Satan's tricks of the trade, Bridget. Isn't this how it works? How does he have unlimited access to you no matter what and I can count on one hand the number of times-
Don't do this. Why can't I just enjoy the lights? My whole face is sad. What bullshit. I can't believe he's going to pull this six days before Christmas.
You didn't come here for the lights, Bridget.
No, I didn't. He starts to smile again but I keep talking. I came over to bring your present. I wasn't sure if you were going home for Christmas.
Too far for a few days. I have meetings.
Your family will be disappointed.
I haven't gone home for Christmas for years, Bridget. Home is where your heart is and I'm never there on the holiday.
Where is your heart?
I don't know exactly. His eyes turn darker and he walks to the kitchen to pour himself a scotch. I lost it decades ago. I guess I don't want to admit that I thought I was immune to something and it turns out I'm not.
So what do you do now?
Spend Christmas in a new place, I guess. I'm going to check out Woodward's windows and order a list of movies to watch and get some takeaway. You know. Just try and not work for a few days. Get some rest. I think I'm coming down with a bit of a cold.
He's watching me to see what I do next. I'm known for letting all the words come out before my brain is engaged. And I'm known the world over for not wanting people to be alone at Christmas, above all else. That's how we got Duncan and even Jacob, for fucks sakes.
Yeah, rest will be good for that. There's a bad cold going around. Take care of yourself. I am putting on my coat. My brain is in gear, I need to leave before I am drowning in Salvatore's dreams.
Bridget- Batman grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. Merry Christmas.
I throw my arms around his shoulders and put my head down against his shirt. I inhale deeply while I have the chance. Merry Christmas, Batman. Take care of yourself and call if you need anything.
What would I need, Bridget? I step back and he holds the door. We're just staring at each other. The lines we don't cross hold nicely most of the time. Like tonight. Actually, you know what I need? The name of something I can take that will let me sleep. I can't breathe when I lie down. What should I take?
Nyquil. Get some Nyquil. The green liquid. It's the best.
You've tried it?
Yes, It's the only thing I buy for us.
They're really lucky to have you. We're, all of us, you know? Really lucky. You're a gift. You're like the best Christmas present of all.
I walk to the elevator and turn and when the doors begin to close I say goodbye. I blow a kiss. I feel thankless and flighty after everything he has done for me. For all of us. I resolve to call tomorrow and see if he feels better. Or maybe I'll just bring him some breakfast and coffee before the sun rises, so I can see the way the silver lights look bathed in the orangy-pinks and purples of the early dawn. And check on him. People shouldn't be alone. Not this time of year. Hard to believe Christmas is less than a week away.
Batman has outfitted his floor to ceiling windows with those incredible lights that drop color down the line in stages, like the lights on the big tree at Kitsilano. All of the windows. I'm so hypnotized by Christmas lights, it almost isn't fair that they're going to conduct their Mine is bigger argument in this way but I have become used to the unbearable tension between Caleb and Batman.
What I have not become used to, however, is the sudden realization that Batman is wearing Tuscan Soul. I know that scent very well, and I'm proud of myself for my ability to pick out a man's signature fragrance from three yards away and have yet to be corrected when I hazard a guess to the wearer. Bergamot is a giveaway in this case, and it's worth noting that Caleb sometimes wears it too.
What do you think, Princess? He's pleased with himself, I can tell. He's smiling out of one side of his mouth, trying to suppress the grin. I make note of the use of my nickname and shake my head vaguely.
It's nice. Looks very pretty.
It really shines when the sun is rising. Maybe you should stay and see that.
I turn around. What is that? What are you doing?
Capitalizing on Satan's tricks of the trade, Bridget. Isn't this how it works? How does he have unlimited access to you no matter what and I can count on one hand the number of times-
Don't do this. Why can't I just enjoy the lights? My whole face is sad. What bullshit. I can't believe he's going to pull this six days before Christmas.
You didn't come here for the lights, Bridget.
No, I didn't. He starts to smile again but I keep talking. I came over to bring your present. I wasn't sure if you were going home for Christmas.
Too far for a few days. I have meetings.
Your family will be disappointed.
I haven't gone home for Christmas for years, Bridget. Home is where your heart is and I'm never there on the holiday.
Where is your heart?
I don't know exactly. His eyes turn darker and he walks to the kitchen to pour himself a scotch. I lost it decades ago. I guess I don't want to admit that I thought I was immune to something and it turns out I'm not.
So what do you do now?
Spend Christmas in a new place, I guess. I'm going to check out Woodward's windows and order a list of movies to watch and get some takeaway. You know. Just try and not work for a few days. Get some rest. I think I'm coming down with a bit of a cold.
He's watching me to see what I do next. I'm known for letting all the words come out before my brain is engaged. And I'm known the world over for not wanting people to be alone at Christmas, above all else. That's how we got Duncan and even Jacob, for fucks sakes.
Yeah, rest will be good for that. There's a bad cold going around. Take care of yourself. I am putting on my coat. My brain is in gear, I need to leave before I am drowning in Salvatore's dreams.
Bridget- Batman grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. Merry Christmas.
I throw my arms around his shoulders and put my head down against his shirt. I inhale deeply while I have the chance. Merry Christmas, Batman. Take care of yourself and call if you need anything.
What would I need, Bridget? I step back and he holds the door. We're just staring at each other. The lines we don't cross hold nicely most of the time. Like tonight. Actually, you know what I need? The name of something I can take that will let me sleep. I can't breathe when I lie down. What should I take?
Nyquil. Get some Nyquil. The green liquid. It's the best.
You've tried it?
Yes, It's the only thing I buy for us.
They're really lucky to have you. We're, all of us, you know? Really lucky. You're a gift. You're like the best Christmas present of all.
I walk to the elevator and turn and when the doors begin to close I say goodbye. I blow a kiss. I feel thankless and flighty after everything he has done for me. For all of us. I resolve to call tomorrow and see if he feels better. Or maybe I'll just bring him some breakfast and coffee before the sun rises, so I can see the way the silver lights look bathed in the orangy-pinks and purples of the early dawn. And check on him. People shouldn't be alone. Not this time of year. Hard to believe Christmas is less than a week away.
Sunday 18 December 2011
Waiting for the angels of Avalon.
Oh war is the common cry,We have a tree! It's up even. It's in the corner of the living room and it's a Grand fir, which was far nicer a tree than I expected we would get, but when I saw the sad soft Douglases and remembered trying to keep my heavy heirloom porcelain and glass ornaments from bending to touch the floor I set about picking something much sturdier and since it's so fucking close to Christmas, the tree man gave it to me for a song.
Pick up you swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad
that mortals never know.
Oh, well, the night is long
the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise,
waiting for the eastern glow.
The pain of war cannot exceed
the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall,
the ring wraiths ride in black, Ride on.
Sing as you raise your bow,
shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night
that lights the face so cold.
He remembered us from last year too. Huh.
But I have no energy anymore. I supervised some wrapping tonight, watching Henry struggle with neat folds and the terrible little tape dispenser, and I offered to cook a big dinner but Ben took one look at me and dialed the Chinese restaurant. I am asleep on my feet, approaching that weird stasis where I have let go of worrying about whether or not Christmas will be a success and instead reassured myself that working doggedly at it for the past six weeks straight means I really did try my best and it's okay to relax and begin to enjoy the holiday now. Hard to believe it's still a week away, maybe we're doing better than I thought we were.
I want to sleep more than I am but it still feels as if I'm breaking the surface when I wake up, gasping for air. I'm sure I hold my breath in my sleep and that frightens me but I don't know what to do about it and once my eyes open they remain open for the day. I'll take the dog up the street, walking slowly in the quiet early morning and marvelling at how warm it is and then we come back and I start the coffee and draw a picture or read the newspaper. Then the exhaustion creeps back in around the edges of me and it gains more purchase over the course of the day until it is resting on my head and shoulders, a weight pushing my heels into the ground, compressing my spine, dulling my eyes against the light.
Maybe that will change this week. I have to be careful not to let the night owls keep me up so late, I have to remember it's just fine to sit down and read a book or watch a movie without it being only after it's too late to do anything fun and everything not-fun is done, like chores.
I have to remember to have some coffee in the middle of the day again. That really works, only the boys don't want me to have any bad habits at all. Good luck with that one, I say.
Oh and in other news, Caleb put lights on the boat. Well, he had them put on. Seventeen sets in all. It's a floating carnival. He pronounced it tacky. I said it was perfect.
Saturday 17 December 2011
Through glass.
Standing on the grass sipping a hot coffee, I am smiling at the lights. Many of the boats have Christmas lights up. I am gleeful about it. Everything looks so beautiful. The lights are stunning, doubled in the reflection of the water, punctuating the night with LED sparkles. Mentally I will my whole body to turn to stone so I can stay here, and be a slight, regal version of an Easter Island statue, gazing out over the beloved blue-green sea toward the future or the past or some semblance of life in between.
Caleb's boat has no lights on it. I'm not sure if I should request it or not.
***
The clerk at Tiffany & Co. informs us that, due to a busy afternoon, there is a waiting list to see a salesperson. If we'd like to add our name, she can see that we are taken care of. Ben defers, and invites me to look around first. I head off to do the diamond loop, beginning with the signature pieces and the bridal counters and ending with the leather goods and the Elsa Peretti collections.
He says all I have to do is point to something and he'll have it wrapped.
I walk straight out the door and turn right. In the window with the yellow diamonds they have a tiny snowy pink and blue carousel that spins around and around and around. I want that. I would never stop watching it.
But it isn't for sale.
***
I'm trying to emulate the girl on the other side of the ramen shop. She's using her spoon and her chopsticks in conjunction to eat the noodles. I'm good with chopsticks but every time I pick up the spoon with my left hand my right hand fails to work properly. I put the spoon down and I'm fine. It's so messy but so delicious. Ben is finished so I need to worry less about soup winding up on my dress and more about eating my spicy akaoni miso so we can go home. I'm tempted to ask for some gyoza to take away, just to eat in the truck on the way home. They are so delicious. It's like I haven't eaten in days. I can't remember if I have or not but for tonight the soup will suffice.
***
It's beginning to rain and we have returned to the house empty-handed, having set out seven hours ago with firm plans to go to the Christmas tree lot and bring home a tree. We have driven past ten different tree lots but somehow we needed to just lose a day, give it away, not become slaves to the hours, minutes and schedules of others.
PJ and Ruth present matching facial expressions, rife with disappointment but they are not bound by the same constraints of desperate timekeeping. We vow to rise early tomorrow and head straight to the lot. Ben will again tell me to pick out whatever I like best. Easily done, since these are not designer trees, unless you walk to the center of the lot where the Noble firs are. I will stick to the edges, where the misfit spiny Fraser and Douglas firs rest against wooden saw horses.
I want one that is perfectly imperfect, a tree for a home that is also perfectly imperfect.
I will give the man a handful of twenties and he will make a fresh cut and offer to help Ben get it safely into the truck bed. We will make small talk about Halifax, and compare readiness for what has become a dizzying carousel of holiday madness. We will promise to come back next year.
Next year seems like a million miles away but I know I will wake up in a week and it will be here already and Christmas trees will be the last thing on my mind as I fight to honor the resolutions I've been working on so diligently.
Ultimately I will fail, but I always try my hardest. And that's what counts, isn't it?
Caleb's boat has no lights on it. I'm not sure if I should request it or not.
***
The clerk at Tiffany & Co. informs us that, due to a busy afternoon, there is a waiting list to see a salesperson. If we'd like to add our name, she can see that we are taken care of. Ben defers, and invites me to look around first. I head off to do the diamond loop, beginning with the signature pieces and the bridal counters and ending with the leather goods and the Elsa Peretti collections.
He says all I have to do is point to something and he'll have it wrapped.
I walk straight out the door and turn right. In the window with the yellow diamonds they have a tiny snowy pink and blue carousel that spins around and around and around. I want that. I would never stop watching it.
But it isn't for sale.
***
I'm trying to emulate the girl on the other side of the ramen shop. She's using her spoon and her chopsticks in conjunction to eat the noodles. I'm good with chopsticks but every time I pick up the spoon with my left hand my right hand fails to work properly. I put the spoon down and I'm fine. It's so messy but so delicious. Ben is finished so I need to worry less about soup winding up on my dress and more about eating my spicy akaoni miso so we can go home. I'm tempted to ask for some gyoza to take away, just to eat in the truck on the way home. They are so delicious. It's like I haven't eaten in days. I can't remember if I have or not but for tonight the soup will suffice.
***
It's beginning to rain and we have returned to the house empty-handed, having set out seven hours ago with firm plans to go to the Christmas tree lot and bring home a tree. We have driven past ten different tree lots but somehow we needed to just lose a day, give it away, not become slaves to the hours, minutes and schedules of others.
PJ and Ruth present matching facial expressions, rife with disappointment but they are not bound by the same constraints of desperate timekeeping. We vow to rise early tomorrow and head straight to the lot. Ben will again tell me to pick out whatever I like best. Easily done, since these are not designer trees, unless you walk to the center of the lot where the Noble firs are. I will stick to the edges, where the misfit spiny Fraser and Douglas firs rest against wooden saw horses.
I want one that is perfectly imperfect, a tree for a home that is also perfectly imperfect.
I will give the man a handful of twenties and he will make a fresh cut and offer to help Ben get it safely into the truck bed. We will make small talk about Halifax, and compare readiness for what has become a dizzying carousel of holiday madness. We will promise to come back next year.
Next year seems like a million miles away but I know I will wake up in a week and it will be here already and Christmas trees will be the last thing on my mind as I fight to honor the resolutions I've been working on so diligently.
Ultimately I will fail, but I always try my hardest. And that's what counts, isn't it?
Friday 16 December 2011
Apple. Tree. Far. Blah blah blah.
I knew for sure last night when I asked Ruth to return her scissors, markers and tape to the basket on her desk. This morning when I went into her room to put her folded laundry on her bed, the scissors, markers and tape were sitting on the desk right in front of the basket.
Who does that? Goes all the way to a different floor only to be too indifferent to put the supplies back where they belong, to the point of leaving them directly in front of where they belong?
Lochlan does, that's who.
Drives me nuts.
Now times two.
Who does that? Goes all the way to a different floor only to be too indifferent to put the supplies back where they belong, to the point of leaving them directly in front of where they belong?
Lochlan does, that's who.
Drives me nuts.
Now times two.
Wednesday 14 December 2011
Let's just cover shock, awe and Tahoe all in one go. I don't have much time.
Thank you for your concerned emails, I realize posting an entry Sunday and then nothing since would throw the Internet into a tizzy, I just didn't realize how large. So in order to put your minds at ease, I didn't do any of the following, in case you heard otherwise:
1. Die.
2. Eat so much rice from the new rice cooker that I explode like a wren at a spring church wedding.
3. Run off with Robert Redford to live out my dream of lap dancing on Sundance while he pulls his gloves off one finger at a time. With his teeth.
4. Join the circus.
5. Get killed in a sex game where Caleb cheats anyway and then pretends not to hear my safe word (which almost happened in what..85? 95? 05?, oh, just pick a year and we'll go with that.)
6. See the new Rock of Ages trailer and turn Amish, eschewing all media forever and ever amen because it looks that bad.
So all of those rumors are false, save for the ones I hope for. (Mostly #3 or #4).
Nope, in this case I was buried in presents, parties and pageants and lost track of the week, mostly because I've found lots of alcohol, wrapping paper and carols but very little hot food, sleep or cuddles.
That last one, well, that's a doozy. I am off to empty the contents of our traveling bags into the washing machine, cook something wonderful, and then turn and lock myself into Ben's arms for the night so I can dream of pine trees covered with snow and men in red coats with white beards. Or maybe that was men in white coats with red beards. Or maybe it's black coats and brown beards.
Yes, that sounds just about right. Goodnight, before my face hits the keyboard (again).
1. Die.
2. Eat so much rice from the new rice cooker that I explode like a wren at a spring church wedding.
3. Run off with Robert Redford to live out my dream of lap dancing on Sundance while he pulls his gloves off one finger at a time. With his teeth.
4. Join the circus.
5. Get killed in a sex game where Caleb cheats anyway and then pretends not to hear my safe word (which almost happened in what..85? 95? 05?, oh, just pick a year and we'll go with that.)
6. See the new Rock of Ages trailer and turn Amish, eschewing all media forever and ever amen because it looks that bad.
So all of those rumors are false, save for the ones I hope for. (Mostly #3 or #4).
Nope, in this case I was buried in presents, parties and pageants and lost track of the week, mostly because I've found lots of alcohol, wrapping paper and carols but very little hot food, sleep or cuddles.
That last one, well, that's a doozy. I am off to empty the contents of our traveling bags into the washing machine, cook something wonderful, and then turn and lock myself into Ben's arms for the night so I can dream of pine trees covered with snow and men in red coats with white beards. Or maybe that was men in white coats with red beards. Or maybe it's black coats and brown beards.
Yes, that sounds just about right. Goodnight, before my face hits the keyboard (again).
Sunday 11 December 2011
B-Lister.
I found Santa sitting in a plush throne at a virtually empty shopping mall. It was late, past the dinner hour and the crowds have all but vanished.
He was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, an airport paperback concealed inside a larger, hollow book that purported to be the list of all of the children in the world who had been naughty or nice. The Book of Lists. I always wonder which one my name is on, even though I'm pretty sure it's at the top of the Naughty list, especially if the list is in alphabetical order. B is second to first. And I bet all the As are total Santa ass-kissers, leaving me to head up the line that stands slack-jawed and casual, weaving side to side, hair messed up, clothes and fingertips smoking black.
I stood and watched his irises scan the words. Back and forth, back and forth. I know it's an engrossing book, I've read it myself and so I was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt him but at the same time I had precious minutes to get this done under the guise of picking out a present without witnesses so as to save at least a few surprises for Christmas Day.
I took another step forward and he checked himself, smiling and tucking the book under his chair before pretending to be surprised, thrilled to see me.
Bridget! How are you?
I'm doing okay, Santa. Just finishing some shopping.
Come over and sit with me, then.
I smiled and walked behind the velvet rope. I put my coat and my bags on a hook and stepped up to the chair. Santa held his arms out and true to form I went into them. I sat on his knee and he laughed and asked me what I wanted this year.
Not like it matters, the naughty kids don't get presents. How do you think Santa knew my name? Yeah, the top of that stupid list.
I'd like my ghosts to come back from the dead. Sometimes I want to talk to them. Sometimes I wish they were still here.
Bridget. I'm the spirit of Christmas, not a maker of miracles. For that you're going to have to go straight to the Big Man.
Does he have a chair at the mall? I'll be first in line.
That elicited a huge belly laugh. No, my dear, I'm afraid you need to go to church to talk to him.
See, there's another fallacy right there, poking holes in Santa's red-and-white facade. You don't have to talk to God at church, he's supposed to be everywhere at once. Unless your name starts with a B and can be found at the top of that goddamned list.
So is there anything you can do? Anything at all?
Honey, most people want an iPhone, or a new car, or a raise. Do you have anything tangible that I could leave under your tree to retain enough credibility in your eyes to bring you back to see me next year? I daresay I've never seen anyone work so hard at wanting to have Christmas spirit, and I'd do anything to be able to help you out.
My eyes catch the glowing red sign of the liquor store across the promenade. I can't believe I'm going to let Santa Claus off the hook but I do because I tend to exit gracefully after I bring people to their knees with my pleas for clarity.
Sure, bring me a bottle of Crown Royal Black, and we'll call it even.
I can do that, Bridget. You've got fourteen days to get your name on that other list and you'll see your present under the tree on Christmas morning. Just do me a favour and don't drink it with that other legendary character we all seem to half-believe in, because God is a lot of things but tolerant with those who defy his good graces by cavorting with the Devil isn't one of them.
I won't, Santa. I promise. Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas, Bridget. Now take this candy cane and smile. The elf is going to take our picture. You can purchase it at the counter for fifteen bucks on your way out.
He was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, an airport paperback concealed inside a larger, hollow book that purported to be the list of all of the children in the world who had been naughty or nice. The Book of Lists. I always wonder which one my name is on, even though I'm pretty sure it's at the top of the Naughty list, especially if the list is in alphabetical order. B is second to first. And I bet all the As are total Santa ass-kissers, leaving me to head up the line that stands slack-jawed and casual, weaving side to side, hair messed up, clothes and fingertips smoking black.
I stood and watched his irises scan the words. Back and forth, back and forth. I know it's an engrossing book, I've read it myself and so I was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt him but at the same time I had precious minutes to get this done under the guise of picking out a present without witnesses so as to save at least a few surprises for Christmas Day.
I took another step forward and he checked himself, smiling and tucking the book under his chair before pretending to be surprised, thrilled to see me.
Bridget! How are you?
I'm doing okay, Santa. Just finishing some shopping.
Come over and sit with me, then.
I smiled and walked behind the velvet rope. I put my coat and my bags on a hook and stepped up to the chair. Santa held his arms out and true to form I went into them. I sat on his knee and he laughed and asked me what I wanted this year.
Not like it matters, the naughty kids don't get presents. How do you think Santa knew my name? Yeah, the top of that stupid list.
I'd like my ghosts to come back from the dead. Sometimes I want to talk to them. Sometimes I wish they were still here.
Bridget. I'm the spirit of Christmas, not a maker of miracles. For that you're going to have to go straight to the Big Man.
Does he have a chair at the mall? I'll be first in line.
That elicited a huge belly laugh. No, my dear, I'm afraid you need to go to church to talk to him.
See, there's another fallacy right there, poking holes in Santa's red-and-white facade. You don't have to talk to God at church, he's supposed to be everywhere at once. Unless your name starts with a B and can be found at the top of that goddamned list.
So is there anything you can do? Anything at all?
Honey, most people want an iPhone, or a new car, or a raise. Do you have anything tangible that I could leave under your tree to retain enough credibility in your eyes to bring you back to see me next year? I daresay I've never seen anyone work so hard at wanting to have Christmas spirit, and I'd do anything to be able to help you out.
My eyes catch the glowing red sign of the liquor store across the promenade. I can't believe I'm going to let Santa Claus off the hook but I do because I tend to exit gracefully after I bring people to their knees with my pleas for clarity.
Sure, bring me a bottle of Crown Royal Black, and we'll call it even.
I can do that, Bridget. You've got fourteen days to get your name on that other list and you'll see your present under the tree on Christmas morning. Just do me a favour and don't drink it with that other legendary character we all seem to half-believe in, because God is a lot of things but tolerant with those who defy his good graces by cavorting with the Devil isn't one of them.
I won't, Santa. I promise. Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas, Bridget. Now take this candy cane and smile. The elf is going to take our picture. You can purchase it at the counter for fifteen bucks on your way out.
Saturday 10 December 2011
Waiting for Morpheus.
In this life, you're the one place I call homeI am consuming song lyrics in overdrive, every arrangement better than the next. I'm scrambling to hit the repeat button so I can hear them again and memorize them by heart as I lay in the feather bed under the struggling sunrise. Soon enough the sun will disappear into the clouds and it will be time to rise and glint with a dull reflection, instead of shine. No one shines when it's cloudy, we just readjust our plans and take a moment to grab an umbrella, just in case.
In this life, you're the feeling I belong
In this life, you're the flower and the thorn
You're everything that's fair in love and war
But I am loathe to get up. The words, the melodies are pulling me back down into the soft folds of cool cotton, stitches neat and perfect in a row, a stark contrast to the those who sleep on into the morning, the one on my right with a smooth peaceful expression and tousled black hair, sticking up straight at the crown, sheets thrown off his shoulders. His skin is so cool sometimes I still count his heartbeats before I'll believe he's mine. He dreams of all the songs he's going to write when he's finished disengaging from the corporate business and returns to working for himself. He dreams of life without lawyers, royalties, art direction and sycophancy but there are no perfect days like that.
On my left the other one sleeps fitfully, tense. Red curls fighting order, his skin flushed and feverish, stacking his mastered skills in his dreams, watching for traps and ensuring a smile on every face. I'm one hundred percent sure every dream he has involves a perfect full performance and he'll replay the same dreams every night until he gets it right. Only you can't get it right, and there are no perfect days, just great days and not-so-great days, like those with rain or tough, heartless crowds or conflict or equipment failure at a popular attraction.
I don't sleep enough to dream anymore, I just drop off while listening to a song and wake up with words that seem to be arranged in a particularly extraordinary way, or when the music ends. Nothing startles me more than dead silence anymore.
And nothing soothes like a song.
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