Cows is killing me and other fun Thursday things.

Another ride up to Whistler today. Crankworx is going on. It's very busy, dirty and things somehow cost more. Take note, tourists..

Also Cows is catching up with me, as I can no longer eat a cone of their beautiful ice cream, even with Lactose pills beforehand. I spent most of the trip home trying to be beautiful and fragile in the car with Caleb while dying with gas pains.

Christ.

Caleb was mad anyway because I might have cuddled with Dalton a little bit out loud and since I did that he wondered what the hell I must have done in private and since I'm a lady I didn't tell him anything. I kept changing the subject. He kept changing it back. I shook him down for ice cream and he hardly noticed what flavor we got (coffee) or how bad traffic was for a Thursday or the fact that I rushed him along. He was distracted to a fault with his almost-shaved retribution head, his punishment hair, his eye-for-an-eye.

It will grow back in a couple weeks. It wasn't long to begin with, and he had it fixed professionally from where Lochlan didn't worry about keeping it even or anything reasonable.

When we got back Lochlan was in the driveway.

You look pale. He tells me.

Ice cream, I think. 

You don't do dairy well, Peanut. Never did. One thing a day. 

I only had the ice cream-

Cheese on your sandwich at lunch. 

Aw fuck. That's right.

THIS.

Dalton fell asleep today in the chaise, his head on my lap. Not a snooze-lite but one of those exhausted bottom-falling-out sorts of sleeps where you might die if it happens in a place that isn't safe but you do it anyway. I did it on a sidewalk once in Atlantic City when I got locked out of our motel room. I don't know why I'm still alive. For how unsafe it was or for the profound rage Lochlan went into when he returned and found me curled up against the door. At four in the morning. In the shittiest part of the city. When he thought I had a key. I was nineteen. I had nothing. Had I had a quarter to call him I wouldn't have had a number to call him at. He never forgave himself for those kinds of terrible moments even as I never blamed him for them. I went out when I was supposed to stay put. I never thought to ask for a key. I never thought to find out where he'd be exactly, or when he'd be back. I never thought to find a safer place. I never thought. I never think.

Sometimes I think TOO much.

At least Point Perdition is safe, relatively-speaking, though that depends on who you ask, and Dalton's arms are warm, wrapped up around my waist. He's not going to let go, even as he's not awake. And I feel somehow anchored, comfortable. Relaxed, even. It's kind of nice. I lean back against the cushions, take another sip of my mimosa and pick up my book. Because there are far worse things than to be pinned by a warm, sleeping man who looks far too much like Casey Affleck (one of my favorites) for his own good or mine, especially by the pool on a perfect late-summer day and for once victory is mine because...

BECAUSE....

I don't have to pee.

You can't put a butterfly in a jar.

That was FUN! It's been all fun all the time since I posted yesterday with hardly any time to breathe let alone sit down in front of a stupid computer.

BC Place was great once again. They were stellar for ACDC and they were beyond stellar for Metallica. No lines, no waiting. I wished for my rollerblades a few times. I wished they'd have opened the roof. PJ got me good and drunk early on and when Gojira came on first we rocked our faces off. We were annoyed at the fact that Metallica's 'ad' for watching them warm up remained up on the screen above the camera screens the whole time. Unnecessary. But Gojira stole the damn show with their sweet hardness as they do. I love that band. So so good. The sound was bad. The sun was bright. The band was incredible.

Avenged Sevenfold seemed to be very popular. Can I leave it at that? Okay. Let's do that. Nothing stood out about their music to me but they got the crowd pumped.

Under Ben's beautiful glare PJ went out and loaded up on Gatorade for me before Metallica came on. Lochlan laughed and let it all happen. Dalton let me steal most of his food and lean against him. The host near our section looked the other way while we moved down since the rows around us were empty and then we got more Gatorade because it was so hot and dry in there. I never want to see grape Gatorade again in my lifetime and damn, they make strong highballs but then Metallica came out and blew my face off anyway.

I hoped valiantly, fruitlessly for Sanitarium, and did not get it.

I got so much else though, so did everyone. The sound got a lot better. Don't leave after the encore. They hang out. They talk. It's WEIRD and AWESOME.

When we got home it was almost two in the morning before I managed to pick-axe all of my eyeliner off my face, bring Ben back to earth and go to sleep knowing we had to get up early this morning to go kayaking.

But we did.

And it was even more fun.

I took my boys (on their own kayaks) and I took the dog on my kayak. He had fun TOO. Now I can't lift my arms, I have a broken foot peg someone has to deal with and I'm so tired I would like to cry but too busy having fun to actually cry.

I will sleep tonight.

The memory remains.

God. Here we go. Not sure I'm ever ready for these nights. All of us heading off to the stadium for Metallica. Ben going too. I'm guessing five or six people will recognize him and ask for a photo or throw the horns and want to shake his hand. Some won't approach him (he has a scary resting bitch face), and some will say something shitty about his music or one of the bands he's played in on or some stupid thing and he'll ignore anything negative like he always does and I will feel sad for him and sad for people who feel as if they have to provoke people who hold little allegiance to a flawed business model anymore anyway.

Ben doesn't care if you hate one of the bands he's been in. He hates some of them too. Some of them imploded and tried to take him down with them, some tried to undercut him from the get go. Some tried to climb over him to get nowhere fast, and some were earnest and naive. He's seen everything. So don't be a shit. And God forbid, don't let PJ hear you say something personal about Benjamin. PJ will make sure you leave wearing your beer. Boy, are you clumsy.

I'm really sad Metallica played Sanitarium last show because odds are they won't play it tonight (according to setlists) and I don't know a thing about Avenged Sevenfold except they don't sound like something I'd listen to but that's okay too, we will be open to New Things and hopefully we'll survive. Our last Metallica show (also with Gojira! Hey!) was amazing (HOLY. 8 years ago! and...don't read that entry, I just ambushed myself so hard) so I hope this one will be amazing too.

Wish us luck. I hope to nap between bands.

Jesus cukes.

We didn't get much in the way of shooting stars or perseid meteors last night, as the clouds rolled in covering our fresh blue skies turned inky black turned grey and so instead we took to the dry grasses, did a rain dance, which brought a little rain, a little relief and then we came home. Lochlan promptly did that thing where he took ownership and shut Caleb down and then when I was almost asleep, he kissed my cheek and said he'd be back in a bit. He took my imaginary flaming torches and pitchforks and my army too and headed across the driveway and when I woke up he was there beside me, fully clothed, the whole bed slightly smoky, a stupidly handsome still-smoldering grin plastered on his face in his sleep, payback a bitch and all, score settled.

At Jesus Beach in the fucking wind this morning Caleb explained he got this new radical haircut to go with his new car, a fresh start for fall.

Lochlan smirked at the ground, hands in his pockets, nodding as he already knew.

I'm pretty sure PJ and Duncan held Caleb to the floor while Lochlan shaved his head almost to the brain-level (and Caleb looks a little scary now, truth be told) but we keep a crystal-clear don't-ask-don't-tell policy on those sorts of things. I got lots of compliments on my hair and Lochlan's fingers tracing my tattoo on the back of my neck all through the service making me shiver which counts for something.

I do look like I'm twelve though. That is new. I don't understand.

Sam fought to ignore all of us while he sermonized from up front and gave up quickly, eventually working his way around the crowd, touching us, soothing charges, quieting ires, changing things, personalizing things, calming everyone, doing that beautiful Jake-thing where you know you're seeing something special, witnessing something beautiful. By the time we left the boys were back to rights, my lungs were topped up with salt air and our eyes were all squinted-shut from the sun.

 I was actually ready for a nap but unwisely chose bottomless diner coffee instead and then agreed to make pickles and hang out in the kitchen enjoying the blue skies with Lochlan all afternoon because we need to. He wants to. I want to. If I don't we'll be eating cucumber sandwiches until Christmas. Jesus Christ indeed.

Veritas, Aequitas.

Perseids tonight,  Caleb has Darkest Hour cued up in the new car for the late-night drive up into the mountains. Permission not granted, nothing cleared. No lyrics, no direction, with only the piano and guitar from which to take our emotional cues. Shooting stars isn't hard, not with the ammunition we've got these days, but then when everything is dark and we're trying to find our way by touch, well that's when everything goes wrong.

And everything is sometimes already wrong so while I have my sweater and my camera ready, I don't know if I'm actually going or staying home.

**

Caleb was thinking out loud while I read last night. I had a glass of wine at the island and I was trying to concentrate in spite of his fingers on my spine, on my ears, my lips, my hands, his eyes staring at me. His arms sliding around mine. Doing everything he could to distract.

One more chapter. I want to finish it this weekend so I can pass it on to PJ-

I'm not stopping you. He lifts his hands up in the universal message of surrender and I keep reading.

A kiss lands on my shoulder and I give it to him cold, turning it inward and then twisting it out. I see him smile slightly before I return to my book. He takes my hair, twisting it around his finger. This has grown. 

Mmmmm, I say.

I miss your bob. 

So cut it, I tease. I'm not paying attention. I play into it. I should KNOW BETTER.

Next thing I know, five inches of my hair lands on my book.

I look up into his face with wide eyes. What did you just do?

He shrugs. I think we should let a professional finish this. 

I snatch the scissors out of his hands and leave. A flat run across the back yards finds me in Daniel's room.

Christ, Bridget. 

Do you have a few minutes? 

Caleb cut your fucking hair again didn't he? What is he, four? This is like kindergarten, he gets a pair of scissors and he can't-

Just please fix it. Spare me the lecture. 

Twenty minutes and I have a perfect chin-length bob again. Which is actually far cuter than I remember because Daniel is a better barber than anyone else and does a good job.

But I'm afraid to go home so I kiss his cheek and run back to the boathouse.

Lochlan is going to kill you, I tell Caleb.

Lochlan will probably thank me. For the first time, this has had the opposite effect and now you look younger than ever. He looks alarmed.

You can call him and tell him what you did. 

When he sees you he'll melt. I don't have to do anything. 

Diabhal-

Neamhchiontach, you talk about taking bluffs, well, you know you're not the only one. 

I'm not bluffing about him killing you. 

Wait here. 

He leaves me in his kitchen and heads across the drive. Fifteen minutes later he is back. With Lochlan.

He wants to make sure you weren't harmed. 

I'm fine.

Jesus. 

Daniel fixed it, I tell Lochlan.

Daniel's very good at it, Lochlan agrees.

I nod.

You look beautiful, Peanut. 

Thank you. I just realized I'm shaking.

Let's go home? 

Okay. 

I stifle the urge to laugh out loud. In Caleb's attempt to be right he just fucked himself out of his night with me. He's good but Lochlan's better.

**

Ready, Peanut? 

Lochlan has the telescope and the good camera and all of the lenses too. He has a stack of blankets and...CHILDREN!

The kids are coming. And a whole caravan of trucks, and boys and the Devil and the A5 too.

And we're off. I hope there's a million stars to shoot. I hope it's total carnage up there in the sky tonight. It will match what we have here on earth. Perfect.

The single stupidest post ever. Sorry, it's the heat.

I'm googling hysterectomies while I have my morning coffee. Things have changed. Now they can do them through two tiny incisions, one of which is in your belly button, it takes less than an hour, you go home the same day and you're back on your feet within a week, which in Bridget-time is five whole minutes tops.

No, seriously. Remember the whole don't get up or lift things after a c-section for weeks and weeks? RIGHT.

Or the whole pre-surgical valium party where they tell you not to get up (when I had my tonsils out)? WHATEVER.

I'm a bit of a warship when it comes to that stuff and a dandelion seed when it comes to everything else. But I research today nonetheless because I've grown tired of the SURPRISE every forty or so (sometimes twenty-five) days where I randomly start bleeding to death for precisely forty-eight hours straight with a virtually insane week leading up to it emotionally that I of course don't recognize as different anymore because I'm always emotionally insane and I don't know why I'm telling you any of this but if you've had a hysterectomy maybe now would be a good time to tell me the pros and cons? My email is in profile as always. It's time. There will be no more babies. Maybe I should have just done it when it was offered to me after Henry's birth but no way was I ready then.

Hindsight is a fucked-up bitch of a thing. I mean, we'd never have anything to think about if we could see how it all turned out in advance but I could have save myself sixteen years of periods and all that other stuff too.

And then I wouldn't have a blog..

Blonde & Stormy.

Remember nothing
Let it all go

I dropped his hand as we rushed down the sidewalk, and I stopped. He turned, pulling against the collar of his button-down shirt. Bridget, come on.

Where are going?

Just finding a restaurant.

Well, what's it called? I can help look.

He spins back and gets in my face. Look, I'm just trying to find a place you've never been before. 

Which leaves me grasping for words, as I've hardly been to any of the restaurants downtown and all of the ones I've been to, I've been barred from due to Caleb and Lochlan taking their history to the floor in a hail of fists and feelings.

This looks good. He grabs my hand and pulls me in through a large heavy door. We're whisked to a candlelit table in the back and he rattles off drink orders as he has done a thousand times, except most of those were a long time ago, and consisted of him saying She'll have a small milk, and I'll have a Coke and I would protest and he would say simply Saturday. That's pop day for you, Bridget. Don't argue. 

I never have.

I don't.

Unless it's the hill I want to die on and I don't want to die today. I would never do that to the people here who have fought for my life as if it were their own because it is, so I wouldn't do that. They deserve, he deserves so much more than me. We've gone far beyond fighting this week and into that stubborn stasis where we're just going to wait for things to settle out and it will be okay again.

We've been here before, we'll be here again. I watch him as the food arrives. He's watching me right back, he hasn't taken his eyes from me. His whole face is lined in concern, coloured with doubt and shaded with an ire that makes him seem impatient and rushed but holding back so hard his eyes are bloodshot, focused and worn. His green is darker than mine, like the sea out where it's deeper, roiling in whitecaps, churling in a storm of it's own making.

This is a story about a man who has figured out how to live with the ghosts and the demons and everybody else too but doesn't like it one bit.

We don't speak as we eat. We walk back to the truck holding hands. We drive home in silence. We say our quiet goodnights to those who are still awake and then we head upstairs, his hand on the small of my back as I slowly feel my way up in the dark.

Once inside the room he strips out of his dress shirt and good pants. He strips me out of my clothes too with such careful hands. Then he pulls me under the quilts, wraps his arms around me, kisses me gently and says Goodnight, Peanut. I love you. I love you more than they ever will and so much more than they ever did. Just so you know. 

Waffles.

Caleb is over first thing after Henry's party for a post-mortem and pseudo-assistance cleaning up.

He wants to take me car-shopping. Not because I need a car, but because he does. His forever car is not forever after all. He's grown tired of it. It's a car for a punk and he's not really a punk anymore. It's a new-money hedge-fund manager car. It's an old car, by most standards and he's not using it for much and it's a waste.

I almost cried because the R8 is a beautiful beast of a car but then I saw that the ones he is considering to replace it are pretty nice and yet a little more understated with a lot more class (as he pointed out more than once, in case I missed it the first six times) and he's right.

He's looking at an A5 or an A7, I think. Black on black on black, of course. They're so lovely up close and lovely from afar and probably not a lease because who does that? but he'll watch me and see which one I respond to best, and see which one I stare at longest, and he'll make sure it's easy for me to drive on the one hand all the while telling me I shouldn't be driving any longer, that he'll take me anywhere I need to go.

Yeah, just let me finish up here and we can go. 

Nice day for a drive anyway. 

A test-drive you mean. 

Oh, the car's already ordered. It comes in next week. But you look like you need a long-distance ice-cream cone anyway. 

Cows? 

Cows.

I smile and he knows he's done the right thing. I don't know how he does it. If he had texted me and invited me out for an ice-cream I would have politely declined.

Only sun.

Henry's having his sixteenth birthday party today (his birthday was a couple of weeks ago, I take a while to get my act together). Ten kids. It's thirty-six degrees in the shade. Why I had summer babies I have no idea. I have to do it all again in three weeks for Ruth's eighteenth but she's not interested in sleepovers and will probably pick a nice restaurant for dinner followed by cake and presents at home, like I do.

Hopefully it will be cooler by then.

The girls will go home by eleven tonight, the boys stay over and go home after breakfast. I will have to firebomb the theatre room. That's where they stay. There's enough seating/sleeping space for all of them, it's soundproof and very comfortable once it cools off.
 
Actually it should be cooler within the next ninety minutes, as the temperatures drop into the evening, and the sun sets. The air quality is slightly better and we'll be okay.

Well, I mean I hope we will. I feel outnumbered somehow. I don't know why but this is always daunting. Teenagers are scary. They're all huge and seemingly totally in control while completely out of control. Little children trapped in almost-adult bodies.

Just like the rest of us, I suppose.