Bother.

We went to see Christopher Robin. I might have cried harder during the Dumbo trailer than during the Pooh movie, thank heavens but thanks to a decided lack of lingering Poohisms (the sweet endlessly long quotes I've shared here so often. They used mostly the same three multiple times.) I didn't hurt too badly. Oh my God, Eeyore was so fucking funny. Pooh was a little weird, but isn't he always? Kanga and Roo and Owl were exactly as they should have been and Piglet, well...that was me in a nutshell.

Through and through, Pigalet. I heard it though Lochlan swears he said Peanut.

Red hot Canadian summer.

Watching Lochlan swim this morning as we have been quarantined to the house from lunchtime on and it's like watching someone extinguish a spark underwater only to see it spring back to life upon surfacing. He goes in golden-orange and comes out rustened, darker only to fade back to golden once he's dry. He's got a crazy tan this summer so far, just from using the pool and looks like a maniac. A really adorable maniac, though.

Our East Coast lobster day is being postponed and the quarantine is because the air quality here is less than garbage. I've already lost my voice. I sound like Tinkerbell after a few bottles of whiskey and so the boys pulled the plug on being outside. PJ quoted the newspaper as saying being outside was the equivalent of smoking three cigarettes a day under the current air quality measures and I am fine to head indoors, frankly.

The fans are gently spinning and the house is cool. Thankfully the smog has beat back the heat index just a little. We're plotting to make tortellini from scratch, bolognese from scratch and garlic bread from scratch for dinner and then we'll watch a movie or finish a series and I'll sleep through the shows and then be wide awake all night after.

Gild that lily.

Today was SUCH a Vancouver day. We waited in a line to buy Uncle Tetsu cheesecakes. We went to Uniqlo and stocked up on not-even-winter jackets that weigh NOTHING. And then we toured all of IKEA. I got a new catalogue and a sudden hate-on for every stick of furniture in our house that isn't IKEA, and then we sat in shitty traffic the whole way home because in Vancouver rush hour starts at nine in the morning or something and doesn't seem to stop until ten at night, and we followed a bright red forest-fire sunset all evening long and admired it even as they declare a state of emergency here because that's what Vancouverites do.

Or something something mountains and craft beer.

*Roll eyes*

The verdict? The cheesecakes are better ice-cold but still not as good as mine. Thankfully when we arrived the lineup was only 5 people. When we last looked it was over thirty or so deep. I don't get it. Hype? Something. Fast food cheesecakes? I can't make one for thirteen bucks so maybe that's the thrill.

Uniqlo is my new favourite place though. It seems their prices are cheaper than when they first popped up around the Lower Mainland. The coats weigh NOTHING. Seriously. All clothing should be this light but as a Canadian child who grew up on the East Coast where a good winter outerwear set weighed twenty pounds or more, this is incredible. Granted it doesn't get 'cold' here so we will see. But I'm going back there with bags of cash.

IKEA just..I don't know. I love it there but I hate putting furniture together and someone always suggests that I 'help'. And if I try to go it alone my brain explodes from determination and effort so it's better I just make phone calls and furniture...arrives and is placed just so. Without me having to do it.

God. This place is starting to get to me. Or turn me into a West Coast version of the Bridget everyone knows and loves and she's just horrible and picky as fuck.

Tomorrow I would like an East Coast Day! A Halifax day. We need lobster and darker sand for that though. Colder seawater. Blueberry buckle (because nobody eats cheesecake back home).

And friendlier strangers.

Caleb made good on his word, and when I woke up this morning the deep freezer in the garage (I caved, ok? I hate deep freezers but this works really well) was full of ice cream, there was a huge box of cones in the pantry and on the couch in my room was a dress box.

Inside it was Valentino number three, or rather My First Casual Valentino, which isn't casual at all, but it's a far cry from my original green velvet or from the red floor-length number that I wear at Christmas. This one is bright grass-green with stripes and tiger faces all over it which sounds just fucking weird but it looks amazing and it's exactly something I would wear. He had it altered somehow overnight because it was three sizes too big by the tag and it fits like a dream.

Lochlan might have tried it on as well, alas it was a little tight for him but the colors worked well and he said I could keep it.

He also said the ice cream is his, though and I would have to ask for some.

What if I beg instead? 

The thought of knowing that you're begging me for access to something Diabhal bought for you is too much to pass up, Peanut. 

I love this dress. 

What does it mean though? 

I relayed to him the whole stupid ice cream thing and he laughed and agreed that it's a perfectly normal Caleb-response.

I win this Tuesday. For once everyone is amicable. For once, everyone is generous. For once, there is enough ice cream for everyone. For a month. Maybe more.

For once, I can wear a Valentino dress to the grocery store and not look out of place at all.

They only have one or two scoops, and I can't pick just one.

He made sure to spoil me, made sure to covering all of my usual nit-pickings, made sure to clear it with the other alphas and then there we were, on the way up Highway 99 in search of overpriced ice cream.

Whistler is packed this time of year but it's a lovely drive all the same. He lets shotgun pick the music and he never complains much anymore as I cycle through my favorite songs of this summer.

He smiles, sunglasses in place, hair in place and enjoys my company, buying me a double-scoop, chocolate and coffee in a sugar cone, and we stroll around enjoying the village, enjoying the ice cream. He got butter pecan, also a sugar cone. We enjoy each other, but just a little, as absence makes the heart grow fonder or in Caleb's case, more desperate and he delights in telling me of his most recent cardiology workup, everything coming back perfect, or better than expected. He works hard at fixing his heart, as if he can, by remaining strong and exercising, eating right and living by the book. He is stronger than anyone I know and I am thrilled with his good news, and the fact that I get to hear it first. My joyfulness at his good news is contagious and he laughs, almost shy suddenly as he finishes his ice cream and takes my hand.

Or rather, a hand full of ice-cream-sticky napkins that I am using to negotiate my way, as the other hand is holding the cone itself, ice cream melting almost faster than I can finish it. There's a few drops on my shoes. Some on my dress. There is a smear of ice cream on my nose and yet, I'm loving every single lick of it. It's just maybe too big and my track record for being able to finish one is almost as amazing as my ability to finish a can of pop: nonexistent.

He swears and leans in to take a big bite, stealing my treat and earning a huge brain freeze at the same time. I turn away, spraying him with melted ice cream in the process.

Bridget! He cries out. Jesus! You've weaponized ice cream! 

Sorry! sorry! My bad. I turn back, spraying some random couple walking up the opposite side of the road and they laugh (thank God) and Caleb wades back in, taking the ice cream from my hand, tossing it into a nearby garbage can and taking my sticky hand. We find the washrooms under the shops and both head to our separate ones to wash up. I think my outfit is beyond help and settle for washing my hands and wiping the visible ice cream off my face (and ear) and when I come out he offers to take me shopping tomorrow to replace my clothing.

My washing machine will work just fine. 

True but it would be fun to spend another day. 

Well, you do owe me. 

How is that again? He is bemused, curious.

You threw out my ice cream and it wasn't even finished. 

Next one will be a kids' cone. 

Thought I had graduated to man-sized ice cream. 

Yeah, I thought you had too. Guess we were both wrong.

Tiniest of snapshots for a rainy Sunday.

Tahlequah (J35) finally let go of her calf. It's been heartbreaking distraction to watch her progress for three weeks straight but now she's chasing fish with her pod and is healthy and vigorous. Scarlet (J50) received her antibitoics a couple of days ago and is being watched closely. She has a depression in her head and has lost weight, they say.

I know how she feels.

The orcas are a wonderful miracle of an animal and the rain has reset the point at last. I'm wearing a sweater today with leggings and a t-shirt but I'm not hot at all. I know that will change again but for today I'm thrilled to step out on the patio and find everything soaked through. It means no sprinklers. It means no threat of fire jumping the highway and racing through my neighborhood to my house. It means clearer air, as the past couple of days it's been hard to breathe and I've stuck so close to home.

So it means I can visit my beach today. And pick beans. And help move the woodpile. And make a huge pot of rice for pork-fried rice tonight. And not go to church because I'm too tired for sitting up on a hard wooden surface, too tired to sit in an upholstered vehicle, too unwilling to do anything I don't want to do and this morning I'm taking my coffee out onto the front porch to listen to the rain and finish this goddamned book already and that's more than enough excitement for me.

Lochlan is sleeping in. He made me promise to wake up (I'm a human alarm clock but I always blame the dog) but I refuse to comply because he needs rest too. He'll thank me later.

Ben has him in a spoon so I suspect they'll sleep for days. Ben is the comfiest of large spoons that ever lived.

It's RAINING!

He's got his arms around me. I can't sleep. I keep getting up to look out the windows, somehow expecting the fire to be at our doorstep. Our woods are so dry. So, so dry and we soaked the front of the house, driveway, everything but we can't soak the woods.

Lochlan isn't worried. Fire is no stranger, Bridget. If it comes to us I can control it. 

Not this one. It's wild. It doesn't know you. 

We won't let it burn this down. I promise. Everyone's doing everything they can. It's not getting bigger. It would have to burn through everyone else to get to us and no one will let that happen. 

You promise? 

I said I did. You need to sleep, Peanut. And I did. The sleep of a ten-year-old believing lies as reassurance, the sleep of someone who doesn't know any better. We resort to easy roles when things are tough, but he's right. The fire isn't getting bigger. It's somewhat contained. Enough, anyway. And it would be catastrophic if it burned through the whole neighborhood and we're at the very bitter end, before the sea. No one's going to let that happen.

I woke up this morning and looked out across the smoky skies. I read the updates. I fretted a little and then Lochlan got up and reminded me of my work in not thinking about it. I said I would try but I also am praying for rain. I'm praying for silence from the constant drone of the helicopters and I'm praying for the safety of those involved in fighting fire, because fire is a formidable opponent. I used to relish it, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed.

#HorseshoeBay

Watching the smoke rise from an uncontained forest fire that started last night. It's burning through the trees. They've closed part of the highway just north of us. Supposedly it's human-caused by campers who don't seem to understand their actions have consequences. Nice. Now I'm stressed out and wondering how big it's going to get.

Magic hour.

My hair ruffles in the wind, soft curls sticking up away from my brow as I finish picking strawberries and pick up the bowl, turning to go back to the house.

PJ walks outside to the top of the patio, looks around, sees me and heads back in. A body check, just making sure I'm where I'm supposed to be as I have a tiny circle of independence only because it's a good time (right now) and I can be left.

(For five whole minutes at a time, if you have your stopwatch handy.)

This isn't about Duncan. He didn't take the bait. He's too cool for that. He looked me up and down and then kindly rejected me back to my handlers with an ease that still somehow left me feeling flattered and not outright denied. I don't know how he does it.

Because I'm not happy unless they're in love with me. To a fault. To a debilitating degree far beyond what could be considered healthy, let alone normal. That I've gotten greedy. That my attention is the fuel that fires this space and time, keeping it on idle, filling up the room with fumes that eventually will kill us, choking off the oxygen, dropping us where we stand.

It's an accusation as old as time at this point and yet every confirmation serves to make him a little more bitter, a little less nice. Lochlan will forever be a jealous teenager and I'll forever do so little to quiet his fears as we decided long ago we were going to love each other until death and probably drive each other there as quickly as we could.

That's almost a painful realization these days, on the other side of several decades together, knowing what we know now.

The wind dies down halfway back to the house and PJ comes out again, his concerned look shifting into the easy lie of surprise, covering his obvious path.

Oh, hey. I was looking for you. Want to help with dinner? 

I nod. I let him have it. I saw him. He saw me see him. Whatever. If I think coming clean is going to save us or even help us at all then I'm as delusional as they are in thinking I'm worth wasting a minute on in this lifetime.

They're not here for me, they're here for each other. It's a thought that warms me and at the same time leaves me in the past, running to catch up, desperate to be a part of their circle. It's something I can't seem to break into, no matter how hard I try. I should know, I've been trying since I was eight years old.