Bystander effect.

Change the colors of the sky
And open up to
The ways you made me feel alive
The ways I loved you.
For all the things that never died
To make it through the night
Love will find you
What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me
all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it's lost behind
words we could never find?

It isn't fair to chip away at my resolve or to yank the rug out from under my feet. You forced me to stumble until my hands found the wall and I pressed my back to it and slid down, until I was rocking on my stupid high heels and hidden in the shadow of the wall that cuts off the headlights as they pass the window on the stairwell. I put my arms up over my head so that I was as small as I could possibly be and how is that I'm still the biggest obstacle to you? How is that no one can move forward or sideways even? How is that you can't be kind in a time when I'm relying on you to help keep my spirits up? You took them instead and throttled them right off, drowning them in an icy puddle for good measure.

You admired me and then had the nerve to chastise me for wearing ridiculous shoes for your ridiculous night. Anger always worn on your sleeve for me, right beside the love, because I grew up and left you. Because you pushed me away because you were scared and I just figured that out last night.

You were scared.

Scared because for once you couldn't control every last emotion you had, scared because you didn't like the depth of what you felt and scared because you weren't the one people stared at any more. All those warning signs and you still chose to remain within reach, maybe because you couldn't help it or maybe because I couldn't. If your memory is that bad, just remember one thing.

I wasn't the one who wanted to let go.

This is your fault. Instead of being a coward, instead of shoving me away, you could have been a man like your friends were. You could have saved me from three lifetimes of pain and instead you're here to feast on my carcass like some kind of sick fucking vulture.

Every last time there was something difficult to do you weren't the one to do it, instead doubling back and reaping the spoils in your throwaway manner, forcing others to stand up and be men while you acted as if you were above all that. Well, you weren't, and I begged you to step in and show that perfection in your adult form, because you can't coast on sunburned-freckle fast-car teenage-curls forever.

Maybe you're the one who isn't strong and that's why I can hide from you, still on my feet, curled into a ball, avoiding the carnage when you land on your ass. Christ, I can see it from here but somehow you don't. Somehow you're blind, caught in a bright light but can't you see that everyone is passing you? They're stepping around you and in front of you like you're not even there.

I asked for one thing from all of you to help me through this. One simple thing. One thing to help me ignore my pliable resolve and keep me focused on the end in sight. A bigger picture for once instead of the here and now. Don't take too much. No looking back, no stepping sideways, no doubling around and sneaking into the dark to see me through to the morning. I asked for help because I needed help and instead you've taken advantage. I wanted one single happy ending in my life and instead you've worked hard to see that it never happens for me. Is it worth it? Can you sleep at night knowing that I don't feel safe with you anymore, knowing that I never know which end is up when I'm with you and that I'm not able to make any decisions at all anymore? Knowing that I'll never pick you?

And then you show your beautiful contempt for me and you look down your nose and tell me I'm slow and indecisive and irresponsible. Exactly as you raised me to be. You take pride in the fact that I tremble when you touch me, instead of seeing why I really do it. You refuse to see anything but what's right in front of you. You're as ruined as I am but there's no reason to your destruction so capitalizing on mine isn't going to save you anymore than this will save me. When are you going to get out of my way so I can stand up again? Who's going to let go first?

It should be me, only I can't do it, and that's why I asked you to do it for me. Why didn't you just tell me you couldn't do it either? Why didn't you tell me I was the strong one? That's it's the courage that makes me flutter? You forced me to grow up fast and yet you haven't changed a bit. Get out. Just go. Just take your leave from my life and stop coming back. I can't do this, I need you to. It can't be that hard to let me go, hell, all your other friends have done it. Just have some fucking courage for once in your miserable life and listen to me, please, Lochlan.

For once.

Dirty Little Secrets, edition#485759372-D

1)PJ's surrogate husband status.

PJ went on date number three with eharmony girl number five last night. She gave him the "it's not going to work out" speech and cut the night short before dessert. Why? Oh, because PJ thought his dinner conversation about Ruth's science fair project and his work on revamping the workshop in my basement was perfect dinner conversation. Apparently his date told him he should have listed his wife and children as his interests. He said he didn't have a wife and kids and she told him he most certainly did and he was a jerk for trying to pick something up on the side. Did we not go through this six times already? But I tell him to go away and he just stays around longer. Ironic, the ones I want to leave won't and the ones I want to keep don't stay.

2) Behind and above my fridge.

Please know I'm a neat freak. Everything has a place. Everything. I used to be worse, every dish in the sink would be washed or I couldn't fall asleep at night. I'm training myself to leave the empty mug on the coffee table overnight just to see if I can.

But the top of my fridge is a whole other story. I don't know if it's a fallback to the days of childproofing (or maybe dogproofing), but important papers and things I need to read are placed on top of the fridge. And since my fridge is six feet tall and I am five feet tall, I try to shove new papers up on top and that pushes all the other papers back further. Eventually they begin to fall behind the fridge. It's built into a cupboard so I don't notice.

I knew I had a problem when someone asked for a copy of Jacob's death certificate and I was out of them (Make copies. You will always need copies) and so I said I would grab one, that it was probably behind the fridge and she looked at me funny and of course, I got PJ (fake husband #1) to pull out the fridge and it was there, along with Cole's softball schedule and Ruth's first origami project. Lochlan's missing vehicle registration from 2006 was there too. Oops. Condoms that expired a year ago. Church proofs. God, it was a time capsule from hell. Everything went into a bin for sorting and there is now a stack of empty baskets on top of the fridge. They will remain empty.

I'm thinking of shoving the bin full of papers under my bed.

3) The lyrics.

I got a very imaginative letter from a reader who wonders if the song lyrics I post are actually secret messages.

Well, now, hello, my pretty.

You're half right and really this is the FIRST time ever in almost five years someone has contacted me to ask that very question and I'm really proud. I should have had prizes prepared. Also stellar are the two people who may have guessed right on a few other topics of great mystery and intrigue but I won't address any of them because great mystery! Intrigue!

Is this the most annoying entry I have ever written? Yes, I think so too.

I got to be Diane Lane for a night. Don't laugh too hard.

Notice I'm not sleeping in, which is kind of ironic and not surprising at all. I'm so used to the kids getting me up earlier and the pets wanting to be fed that I am up regardless.

Last night was fun. I played third wheel on a date with Daniel and Schuyler and they took me to see a movie in another language (Korean, I think) with no subtitles so it was very difficult to figure out what happened. Then we went to what had to be the world's most dimly-lit Italian restaurant, where they make these GIGANTIC overstuffed tortellinis and at every bite you promise you're done. But then they pour more wine and bring more baskets of olive-oil-soaked bread, and before I knew it, it was after midnight and they had pulled the tables back and turned the music up and we were dancing.

Okay, they were dancing.

I was watching for a long time and eventually the bread ran out too and Daniel gave me his coat because they had opened the doors to the patio for some air and the elderly owner came over and offered me his arm so I did a waltz with him, very slowly. Twice around. Older men have no issues, he stared into my eyes, a delighted smile on his face, sure feet, sure hands. Schuyler has video. Everyone stopped dancing and I got this twinge as we moved. Like why am I here? What in the hell am I doing in this fun and dark little place wearing my husband's little brother's suit coat over my dress dancing intimately with a seventy-year old (at least) man whose name I don't even know and I felt like there was a rock in my stomach and a lump in my throat.

Eventually the music faded and I was passed on to Daniel's arm for the walk to the car, through the snow in my little high heels and thin black wool coat. Lochlan was waiting up. He asked if we had a good time and I said it was the best, save for the homesickness. I was halfway up the stairs and I stopped when I realized he was still talking from the living room below.

It sucks, being a grownup sometimes, doesn't it, princess?

No, Lochlan, it really doesn't. I just danced with a man who is far away from home, too. If I could give him a moment from his memory when he was a young man, dancing with a pretty girl while people clapped, and have the music, the food and everything else the same? Then it definitely didn't suck. By default, I think I learned something.

What's that?

I definitely need to have more fun.

He didn't say anymore and I came upstairs and had a hot shower, tossed my beautiful dress in the hamper, noticing for the first time exactly how much wine and olive oil I had spilled on it, decided I didn't care, and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

No dreams.

Redefine pulse.

Spring break has descended on the house once again and this morning the excitement was palpable as the kids gathered up their backpacks and most treasured books and their new digital cameras for the flight home. They get to go on the little plane with their Uncle Caleb, who is taking the week off and will puddle-jump them from Nova Scotia to Newfoundland before returning them to me at the end of next week.

(Don't ask. First one to say Mafia Uncle under their breath swims with the fishes.)

I would have gone but I don't go, this trip is not for me, it's a chance for the kids to be free of me, free from my rules and my moods and free from the darkness that keeps a fairly tight grip on this beautiful house.

Ben called last evening and talked to each child for a very long time, asking them to be safe and listen carefully to their uncle and their grandparents too and to have fun, that he missed them badly. He talked to me too and then he even talked to Lochlan and then he talked to me again.

And I realized about an hour ago that all of my anchors are now gone.

Crumbs in the guitar.

I can't focus when I'm near you.
Do you notice me at all?

Three-year-olds always know when you're distracted. And my house is no longer childproofed nearly enough for this little tornado of a boy. Gabriel, who is going to piggyback on the rest of my day because his mom got stuck at work this morning and has a chance to take another shift until she can have her husband pick her up on his way home. For those who are new to the story Gabriel is my little neighbor across the street. I look after him when there is an emergency, which amounts to about once every six or eight months.

Gabriel has tried seven times to make me share his peanut butter and jelly.

Share? Bridgie? Some? Eat some? Have some?

No, thank you.

Hungry, Bridgie? Here, half. I have half. Do you have cookies?

Yes, I have cookies and apple slices when you're finished your sandwich.

Chocolate cookies, Bridgie?

Yes, sweetheart. Chocolate. We like chocolate in this house.

Me, too.

He keeps things simple, you know that? Lochlan walked past the living room earlier on his way to get a glass of milk and stopped and watched us. We made a ramp with books and we were driving little bulldozers up into the plants and rearranging the dirt. Okay, I was, because clearly Gabe is a animal-lover and my cats are terrorized beyond belief, having been picked up and hoisted over his shoulder so many times in one morning they have gone off to hide until the tornado warning has ended.

I'm kind of hoping he stays for dinner. It's awfully nice to be with a cute guy who wants to share his sandwich, with no expectations or innuendos otherwise. Of course someday Gabriel is going to grow up and use these blonde curls and blue eyes to wreak all kinds of havoc on hearts everywhere so maybe I'm just tilting at windmills again.

I'll just enjoy it while it lasts.

Because I'll look cute in flannel, that's why.

They make me laugh. I woke up today, the coffee was ready. The paper had already been stolen and dissected, sections spread from the kitchen to the living room to the den. August was in the den with the life and times. Lochlan in the living room with the headlines and PJ had the sports section but was folding it up backwards and he got to me before my toes touched the floor at the bottom of the steps and I looked up at him and muttered a morning greeting that had nothing good within it.

Hallo. There is snow, Padraig.

It won't last, princess.

Did you see how much snow there is?

Yes. I drove over.

I'm moving. Where should we go?

Stop complaining and come eat. Want to run?

No. I won't get anywhere today.

Treadmill?

No.

You're such a little bitch in the mornings. Have some coffee.

Offer me Ben and I'l be nice.

I would if I could just to shut you up.

Ouch, PJ.

I didn't mean it.

Hug?

Sure. Come here.

I could feel his chin pressing against my forehead. PJ hugs so hard when he's in the mood. He wasn't asking me something, I could tell.

What is it, Peej?

Hmm? Nothing?

Liar.

Fine. Did he call?

You already know the answer, one of these turkeys probably filled you in already.

You okay?

Do I get to pick if I am or not?

Always.

I'm actually fine, just don't bring it up.

You brought him up.

He lives in the front of my mind like a giant billboard. A flashing one. In Times Square even. LEDs and everything. Viral. Pick something.

Give him some time.

You guys need to give Ben some time.

We are.

Some of you are.

You're the first priority here. Ben can look after himself.

Ha. Of course he can't. We're the children, aren't we?

Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?

Did you see how much snow there is?

He paused then, realizing the conversation was going to be a loop and changed tactics instead.

You want some coffee?

I would love some coffee.

What do you want to do today, then?

Wallow.

Sorry, you're not allowed. I have a plan.

Oh, God.

Yes, be afraid.

Is this going to be like that time we burned down the campsite?

Nope, better.

The hazmat-suit weekend?

Even better.

I give up. Tell me.

You're going to help us finish your kitchen.

You mean like with tools? And wood...and...tools?

Yes. It will keep you busy and you'll learn something.

I'll have you know I helped build muscle cars before I could drive.

No, Bridget. You sat on the table in your short little skirt and polished chrome and looked adorable. Like a living pin-up poster in a mechanic's garage. Teenage heaven.

Why can't I do that while you finish the kitchen?

Because you need something to keep you busy, that's why. And we're not teenagers anymore.

I turned and eyed Lochlan and he was smiling.

Is this your idea, pretty boy?

Serves you right, princess.

You do realize this won't make me like you MORE. Probably the opposite.

I'll risk it.

You're risking all kinds of things lately.

Some things are worth taking risks for.

And some aren't. Remember that when I saw your fingers off.

Can you hear me now?

What the hell have I meant
If this how the day ends, I regret,
Close your eyes and dream now the world so far
Your heart sounds alone and I connect,
In all the ways I've dreamed you,
I chose a song to reach you,
But why it's sad again,
Only now I see it,

Ben's call kind of threw me off. No, I mean it really threw me off. Alternately, I expected the charming, everything will be fine Ben or I expected the stripped-down bare bones I can't do this Ben. That's what I got. Yes, both. Everything. He talked a mile a minute, one minute planning our future into old age and the next minute giving me away again, dropping that permission between us that he would not blame me for a second if I ran for the hills, or to one of his friends, one, in particular. Telling me he was relieved to be there and the next minute he was crawling out of his skin because he was there.

It's beautiful, no, baby, it's horrible. I love you, I hate you. I wish you hadn't done this to me, go away. I need you. I'm fine by myself, got this far didn't I? Are you okay? I don't care if you are or not.

I've been reassured by virtually everyone on the planet (and then some) who know much better than me and at this early stage, for once, it means Ben is doing well. Really well. And I have been promised that they'll put him back together so I will still recognize him when he makes it back to me. Sometime at the end of April, but hey let's please not talk about how far away that is because Bridget will put her head down between her elbows and slide right out of your grasp, okay?

Because seriously, I've been picked up off the floor enough since that call.

One bad thing to come out of this was Lochlan's attitude, which was a take-charge kind of resolution because his spin on the confusion was to decide Ben is too messed up to be human and will never come home and the time has come to take back what he had before Cole came into my life and maybe do it right this time.

And Lochlan maybe is going deaf now that he's in his forties and maybe he's not paying attention but I didn't take Ben's advice and I'm not going to be forced or coerced into being with Lochlan in any kind of permanent way. In fact, I would prefer that he stop with the proposals and stop forcing my head around, making it move so that I am looking in his eyes and I wish he would know that no, well it means no. It means stop touching me like that. It means I don't want to play games and it means get your priorities straight and it means even though it appears everyone else has?

I'm not giving up on Ben.

I'm not letting go of him, I'm not letting him go and once again I think it's time that I shore up my strength and I ball up my fists and I invoke every last measure of borrowed expectation that I can find, and I'm going to wait. Wait for my husband to get better and come home and be the man he promised he would be and wow, if he manages to come back and we follow through with even half the plans he spelled out in one of his more hopeful moments in which we could hear each other's voices, well, then I will be a happy girl. I will be a happy girl if he can lay some of his demons to rest once and for all, plans or no plans. I don't care. I want him to get better and come home to me.

And if he never makes it and never comes back and none of this works out and I pop another attempt at a fairy tale like a bubble landing in the tall grass on a hot summer day?

Well, I'll tell you right now, the plan will not be Lochlan.

Bridget and her third world kitchen.

Somehow yesterday I found myself in a swanky home furnishings place, in the kitchen section. Little did I know I was supposed to have all this stuff to make my life easier. I had to buy fuel for the fondue burners, because fondue=fun and I needed a hamper because the laundry basket, filled to overflowing, always sitting in the corner of my giant bathroom, looks ridiculous.

I used to have a saying, that when you felt like decorating, it meant you had no problems left in the world. And though I am prone to never taking a single thing in my life for granted and constantly waiting for the telltale footfall of that other shoe dropping, sometimes I want life to look nice and be slightly easier, too.

But not enough, apparently.

We wound up being ambushed by a saleswoman who steered us away from the unknown fly-by-night ninja-manufacturer blender and toward the Cuisinarts, because they chop and blend. And frankly Ben has wanted a blender around here forever because he is big on smoothies and floats and scratch soup and guacamole and whatever else provides the health-nut yang to his McDonalds-penchant yin. So surprise, when he gets home there will be a blender here.

Now, apparently the deciding factors in buying a blender are that it's by a reputable brand name (check), it has dishwasher-safe attachments (I have no dishwasher) and it matches the appliances (WHAT).

I'm much better at buying cars. At least they haggle and throw in fun things. This was $149.99 (OMG Bridget you can't NEGOTIATE at the checkout) and the only fun thing included was a recipe booklet that I don't think included a single thing that I already have on hand. Which means, now I have to go grocery shopping.

I thought this thing was supposed to make my life easier.

I am assured that all things look easier after you've downed a few of the mocha frappes in this booklet. I will report back later and let you know, even though I know my collective public is aghast that I have just revealed that the castle is indeed as medieval as you all have feared, since, I mean, come on, the appliances don't even match.

I have my priorities in order. I'd much rather have a butler, and then he can deal with the fact that there's no dishwasher around to put the swanky new blender parts in.

Sky captain.

The finale of Battlestar Galactica was EPIC.

I know, shut up already, that's all the entire internet is talking about. Well, maybe you should have watched it. It was pretty profound for a science fiction series. After the first hour of total space carnage, that is.

Some of my boys cried. I won't say who or why, for those of you who have TIVO or similar devices and haven't managed to catch it yet (Chase/Andrew/Schuyler). I won't go on about it too much, really, for I'm busy living my own incredibly profound life that has an equal amount of action and carnage and hope, death and resurrection too.

Bravo.

Echo.

November.

My much-anticipated phone call came last night and for once it wasn't what I expected. Well, half of it was expected and the other half complete surprise, cleaved down the middle in a firm dividing line of opposites and it left me confused and somewhat happy and somewhat sad and I haven't talked to anyone about it. Not Daniel. Not Lochlan and not anyone else either. Quiet once again. I don't know where to begin and so I won't even try until I figure it out for myself. I don't mean to worry people, hell I was the last of several to talk to him this week and I have a feeling my call was a whole lot different then theirs were. And so the party line goes something like this: He is working very hard, and we are very proud of him.

I guess for you coming to gape and to gawk at my life the highlight of this post is knowing that yes, Ben is okay and he is still where he needs to be right now and that is the only bottom line I have for you, so please don't ask me for any more than that and I promise not to spoil the ending of Battlestar Galactica for you in return.

TBSGF.

Instead of writing about my wet run this morning through a spring taking it's SWEET TIME to arrive, to the point where I think my hair grows faster than the snow is melting, and instead of telling you about that time (yesterday) when PJ forgot that he was supposed to spend the day with me so I wound up alone for too long and got into the home movies and oh just FAIL already Bridget, you stupid, drippy, unpredictable sentimentalist, I'm going to do something different.

(For the record, PJ did not actually forget to hang out with me. His email said ten and I assumed he meant ten in the morning, not ten at night. I never clarified and happily sent Lochlan off thinking PJ would arrive any minute. I wound up spending most of the afternoon at August's office and then PJ came and got me and by eight last night I had a whole collection of men hanging out in the living room watching home movies. Which made it far less difficult in the end.)

Now, let's move on.

It's Friday.

It's the vernal equinox, which means the sun will cross the equator, day and night are suddenly the same length and this marks the official end of my seventh winter here. One small step for Bridget, one giant leap for the rest of you who have to listen to her complain.

It's above freezing. Did I mention spring is coming?

Seriously. It's just hard to get past that part.

Tonight is the very last episode of Battlestar Galactica. Did I mention the winters here are long and cold and the boys have officially hooked me on all kinds of things I couldn't stand before. I laugh every single time someone says "frack!". Did I mention I'm also looking forward to the Tron sequel?

Did I mention my birthday is forty-six days away and the boys say I'm just finally getting cooler as I get older? Did I mention they're all huge liars and cringing at the thought of me walking around repeating the number of years I am old in total disbelief, wondering how I got to this place when my brain is forever seventeen years old? The hype is unbelievable this year. I do unbirthdays. I am worried now.

Tonight we're going to have something without vegetables for dinner. Because we can.

Tonight I'll listen to music that is attached to no one and brings forth no memories.

Today I noticed my ponytail does what it used to do and it made me feel like me again.

Today I noticed that black nailpolish has incredibly short wear time, even though for once I put it on myself and used topcoat and everything and still chipped all to rock-club junkie hell within twelve hours.

Today I noticed I'm singing along with the stereo again.

Today I turned down a lunch date from Satan and accepted one from Jesus (Sam).

Today I will vaccume the living room. I'm a thirty-something-year-old writer who can't spell that word for the machine that sucks lint out of my lovely Turkish rug. Fuck it. Some things can't be helped.

Today I'll have the last cream soda freezie from the freezer. That leaves all the orange and the coconut.

It's a good day. A surprisingly damn good day.

This has nothing to do with the once-rumored now-confirmed phone call scheduled for tonight from Ben. I just hope he doesn't call during Battlestar Galactica.

Oh my God, I'm kidding. Geez, lighten up.

A different sort of hotness.

Last night saw a trip to the hardware store to look at fixtures and more fixtures and floor coverings and sometimes taps, though the salesman called them faucets, and almost flinched when I asked if the three-hundred-dollar coating on one was any stronger than the $69 chrome plate. I was asking from experience, because if you've ever tried to lift a pot over the sink and accidentally dinged the new expensively-coated faucet, you would know it chips even more easily than the previous cheap chrome one that made it through a good three decades before you took up cooking in there.

As John led me around by the hand, my other hand clutching a hot cup of coffee, I people-watched endlessly. It wasn't until we were leaving (empty-handed because John cannot settle on exactly which plunge-router he is going to purchase) that I realized I had stumbled on a new phenomenon sweeping the men of this city.

Overbearding.

Yes, that's what I called it. Overbearding. You know, when a man grows a beard that seemingly comes up past his nostrils, almost covering his cheeks? You're not sure if he's that unaware that he is growing wall-to-wall facial hair or if he's desperate to cover up the dark circles under his eyes or maybe, perhaps, he just doesn't know any better.

John had the answer for me, as we drove home in the dark.

We've just come out of a long cold winter, princess. Trust me, if you could grow hair all over your face, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Makes sense to me.

Please don't let me fall forever.

(Hi, it's one of those days where it just all pours out. Like a flood. Don't be alarmed. I'm actually fine. Well, if fine is relative. I'm relative, then. And I have no idea what that means, exactly.)

Henry's hair is getting long. So much so that I used a half a can of hairspray this morning on him because he wanted a fauxhawk for school and his hair is heavy and reluctant and I don't keep gel in the house. I don't use it (okay, Ben would eat it if it was just sitting around). I'm certain Henry's hair will be flat again by the first bell because in a few minutes he has to put his winter hat on to go to school.

Tonight it will take several washes to get all of that out, so I'm guessing today is going to be all about make-work projects and about compulsively checking my phone in between rings to see if it is on. Does that make sense? Yes, I know. It will ring and be Duncan or Mark or Dylan on the other end and then if ten minutes goes by after I hang up I'll check status again. Do I have capital EDGE? Okay, good. Okay, no, that's bad, Bridget. Because I haven't talked to Ben this week. He moved on Saturday and that was when I spoke to him last. This place doesn't allow for cellphones. They do have nightly phone times available but he hasn't called. The last thing he said was Go away.

Maybe this journal has become about rejection. Rejecting reality, rejecting life. Rejecting Bridget. Maybe Bridget is the one who is the problem and make rejection is teaching me more about time and space and control and choices better than death, better than religion, or better than that pearl-blue western sky. Maybe I'm going about it all wrong. Maybe the clear and present temptation does nothing but allow me to fail time and time again, while time fails me.

Or just maybe I'm doing fine, and this is life and I've simply run out of luck, which is something I think I said I did in 2006 but no one listened back then because they thought I was ungrateful. I wasn't ungrateful, I was predicting the future. A future with an empty place at the dinner table where my heart is supposed to sit and an empty can of hairspray from trying to pretend everything is completely normal.

Who was I kidding, anyway?

This isn't to say I don't have hope. I don't know exactly how I feel. Maybe he'll never change and maybe he thinks I never will. I just know that I am here bookended by some of the most together, stable, handsome and caring men on the planet and all I can think about is that messed-up, unstable, handsome and completely-self-centered one who isn't here.

Maybe he feels the same way. That's my hope, anyway. And I might not be the only one with hope seeping in around the cracks, since the past couple of days, all the boys have been showing up with black-painted fingernails, a small and quiet show of support for Benjamin, who has no idea how much he is missed by everyone.

They look completely ridiculous and I love it.

I tried to save you but
I can't find the answer
I'm holding on to you
I'll never let go

Okay, I have no idea what the sweep part means.

Drunk on failure's regrets
Letters of silence confess burdens within
Speaking as loneliness listens
While hopelessly feeling
Casted out

One of the joys of this morning was shopping with August.

August sets his own schedule, and he's been an absolute godsend to me lately (maybe that's a Jakesend), hanging out, encouraging me to talk just a little more, not because he wants to get inside my head but so that everything inside my head can get out. He's listened to me prattle on since I met him, he thinks my head is extraordinary, and he thinks I'm beautiful. He's also one of the few who just hugs without asking, and for that alone, I'm going to get a very large jar, stuff him in it, and put him on the shelf as the one and only miracle product of Bridget's tiny apothecary.

We stopped at the tailor he uses, who is actually an ancient and wizened little Chinese lady who lives on the second floor of the most run-down building I have ever set foot in. She had him strip to the waist and she took about eight hundred measurements and she's going to make him four hemp dress shirts. Seriously. Bespoke hippie clothes, people. She asked him if his beautiful wife would like anything made, that she would be honored but I'll be damned if I could understand her and August repeated her question to me and I didn't want to be rude so she's going to make me a lovely olive-green wrap skirt. I think he is paying for it. I don't know, we go back in ten days and everything will be ready.

I was just very happy she didn't ask me to strip to take measurements. I think August was very happy I might someday be planning to wear something that isn't black, though I've become rather attached to my ability to walk into a room and suck the light out of it.

I suppose now you'll tell me that's not a good thing...

We finished our shopping by heading for the global market, as August is also hunting for a dress belt, the caveat being it has to be vegan. After an hour of looking and asking and googling on the go even I finally looked up, slightly crazed and asked him why the belt had to be vegan, if he had steak at my house last night? What code of ethics ran that show, anyway?

Hey, there was a pretty girl standing there holding a plate piled high with steak. Show me a Vegan who will turn that down and I'll show you a fucking idiot.

Except, once again I had to get him to slow it down and translate because his accent is still thicker than that of the tailor. I'm hoping that with time, that will change too.

There is absolutely nothing going on today but people seemed nervous that I didn't post.

The sun is out, the snow is melting, I had a long catharsis of a run this morning, and I don't feel nearly as gloomy as I usually do. I can see the end of having to wear practical boots and my heavy wool coat and a hood that perpetually flattens the perky chin-length hair cut that is so flat it's almost shoulder-length again. Or maybe it grew. I don't know, spring is coming, so who cares about anything else right now?

Even the kids are losing their ever-loving minds. You would think they've never seen sunshine before.

Trust me, living here, sometimes that's what it feels like.

I'm about to go wedge myself in the corner of the couch under John's elbow and finish going over Christian's writing, and then hopefully if all goes well I'm going to make an early dinner of steak and baked potatoes and be in bed by nine.

I will try to write earlier tomorrow, for those of you losing your minds. I feel loved. Which is kind of creepy when it comes from total strangers on the internet.

This might have a soundtrack by Prokofiev or someone whimsical like that.

Is there an easy way? Great. I'll be over here under the sign labeled "danger". You requested honesty and here, have it for fucking breakfast and then leave me alone.

I will love him, thoroughly and unapologetically. I will throw down my guard and my trust and he will gobble them up and spit the bones back out and smile in the half-assed, charming way that he smiles and splits the crack in my heart open just a little wider, in order to wedge himself in deep. Go ahead. Deeper. Please.

It hurts, you know. It burns and it aches and at the same time it feels good in the most twisted way.

Just like in order to weigh down my fingers, I wear so many rings. Rings that are borrowed and bought and given freely and with conditions. Rings with skulls and roses and words and scratches too. Rings that when you squeeze my hand too hard I may squeal because it hurts and my knuckles are bruised in between.

Will I take them off?

Not on your life.

This one from him, is all skulls and darkness. It's my tie to him while he's gone. Another spins around and around, wearing a bell sound into my skull. He has a matching one, and he left that for me too, for twice the comfort but his is so big I wear it below mine, so mine will hold it on. Others include my wedding ring, and more rings that mean different things. They serve to provide a nice heft to keep my fingers remembered in their tasks of spelling properly and using punctuation and then I sound less crazy because I have dotted the i and used a comma where a comma should be and I'm rather presentable because I'm beautifully accessorized even if it is in an over-the-top rockstar boyfriend format. It's okay, I won't apologize if you don't ask to see them up close. There are so many now that I keep a little blue pottery bowl by the sink to hold them when I wash dishes, wash my hands, wash an apple. Wash away the hurt part.

In the event that it is needed, I could simply use them as tools, wedging them far into that crack in my heart to hold his place. I've done it before, I'll do it again. In the event that it is needed I will melt them down and fashion a silver bullet and save us all.

But I will not apologize for loving him. And I'll be really proud of him for getting through detox and then moving to a slightly closer program, one that has a family weekend once a month.

He always wanted a family.

Now he has one.

And we'll be there in April to spend that weekend with him, which I think falls on our very first wedding anniversary. I can't remember right this second. Emotion overload, okay? I don't mind talking about things that are over. It's things that are ongoing that are so difficult in a watchful public eye where people pass judgement without fully understanding the gravity involved. I worry. I'm afraid. What if I self-destruct while he's gone? What if I forget him? What if he comes out different? What if he comes out the same? What if I miss him too much, hell, what if I miss him too little? What if neither one of us can get through what is going to be a very long and painful separation?

My head is unpredictable, and therein lies the reason behind holding that place with as much silver as I can find, a representation of something good and pure, like the very incredibly overwhelming love I have for someone I'm not sure that I don't hate right now.

That stupid half-charming, half-fratboy Tucker smile will fix everything, and I can't wait to see it again.

Treasures. Two for Saturday. This never happens.

Oh my goodness. Fuck the previous post. Look what was found for me on the 'tube. God knows, I still have the hugest crush on Jesse Hasek's voice and this doesn't help matters any, now, does it?

Beautiful, acoustic.

Okay, now, enough with the youtube links. I promise.

Wow.

Fastball.

Anyone could see the road that they walk on is paved in gold
It's always summer, they'll never get cold
They'll never get hungry
They'll never get old and gray
You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere
They won't make it home
But they really don't care
They wanted the highway
They're happy there today, today

Here, since we're being goofy today. This is one of the very few songs Lochlan will sing out loud. I have more to say but instead I'm going to be smart and just go dress shopping instead.

Sugar burns.

He declared the food fight officially over after a particularly violent ambush left Daniel with a fruit loop up his nose. Whoops. The kitchen looks like a talking toucan exploded in it, there is fruit loop shrapnel all over everything, in the plants, in my ears, my hair is candy-coated and the box on the table is empty now.

Daniel started sweeping up while I started trying to clean up from breakfast. He failed to notice when I put the milk away I found the perfect ammunition-a leftover juicebox that was open but still full, because sometimes I grab one when I'm on the go. No one else likes them. I don't like them either. I would have thrown this one out in a week or so.

I rose up from behind the fridge door and let loose all over him, squeezing the box as hard as I could. He screamed, running around trying to block the spray, finally taking cover near my laptop, threatening to hug it close and get it all sticky and possibly ruin it forever.

So I did what any self-respecting outlaw girl would do. I dropped the box, put my hands up and surrendered. I give up. You win.

It's not over, though.

Not by a long shot.

To keep.

Your Cinderella stories, for a price.

Jake used to tell me I could have made a career out of missing Benjamin. If only someone would have paid me.

He's probably right. I started waiting for Ben before his plane took off, I started marking days and counting hours before he was settled in and I decided I was going to take it personally within seconds of being told where he was going, and when he would be back.

Lucky for all of us, I have since changed my mind on that last point.

I won't take it personally because it isn't personal and it has nothing to do with me. On the other hand, it has everything to do with me and in my universe you need to be tough and you need to step up and swing for home because I can't. I don't care if you score, I don't care if you foul out, just make the damn effort on my behalf and you've already won.

Be my hero because you are my hero.

Ben has won his war, he just needs to clean up the collateral damage and that is what he has gone back to his battlefield to do.

Lochlan is taking good care of me, because he promised Ben that he would. He made similar promises to Cole and to Jake and for some reason I wound up with a great bunch of guys I owe my life to. Lochlan made some difficult and incredibly unpopular choices for our benefit, on our behalf, and I was too selfish and too blind to see that he did this for us, for Ben and I, that he knew I would hate him and he sent Ben away anyway, because Ben needs to get better so that Bridget can have her Happily Ever After finally, at long last. I didn't see that, and I'm sorry.

Heroes come in many forms, and I am a lucky girl. I'm just usually thinking too loud to hear you when you tell me.

Blink.

I never made it anywhere. We'll just call it yet another impulsive action that serves to prove that I still need heavy-handed guidance. Do you think they know what I need? I doubt it. They don't listen.

They act, however, and in an ironic twist of fate, Ben is going away and I am not. The next few months are clear, the opportunity is being taken and he's going somewhere to clean up his act. As in, he's gone. Now. Already. Seth moves fast. Not quite fast enough, however, because Ben got himself back into trouble right under everyone's nose and it took a lovely dramatic set of events for them to see how much trouble, precisely.

If you remember, it was a little less than a year ago that Ben went away to dry out and showed up on my doorstep four days later. This time things will be a little different and he won't be able to come home until he's finished. We get that. We can deal with that. Just fix him. Please.

In a further ironic twist, Lochlan will be staying here indefinitely now. He can do that (dumb freelancing) and I should be grateful, he says, that he's here to help out while Ben goes to Emotherapy.

Bear witness.

I'm standing here right now with plane tickets pending on my screen, fully charged phones and packed bags and I'm paralyzed and Lochlan, if you take this one down I'll never speak to you again.

In a nutshell, Ben's been drinking for days and I don't know why. Probably because he had a momentary wobble of self-esteem and decided that he wasn't tough enough and didn't deserve us and maybe Lochlan should be the one to just step in and take over finishing what Cole started and Jacob ran with but couldn't manage either. Last time I checked, any total moron could manage to have a family and a normal life but this isn't any normal family so silly me, I should know better.

Why aren't they strong enough? What is it about me that makes them fight like dogs and love like men and behave like total creeps?

Because gee, I don't know, Lochlan egged Ben on (just like he did with Jake) until he had nothing else left and then moved right in to collect the spoils. Only he doesn't want me to write about his actions because he would much prefer that everyone believes he is here in town, working hard to secure a future and pining for his own estranged fiance and baby girl back East and that he's here as a friend, and such a smart one so he can keep everyone and everything pulled together and then everyone thinks that BRIDGET is even more of a mess than usual or BRIDGET can't get her act together.

It isn't BRIDGET. And it certainly isn't BEN and TOUGH FUCKING LUCK, LOCHLAN, I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE.

Please, God, just hear me this time.

Oh, and one more thing.

Don't follow us. I don't know where we're going yet but you're not invited.

Because I thought I could handle it.

Last night I woke up to angry voices. I went down to the den, and lo and behold, Ben is there with his fresh bottle of whatever, and he and August are in each other's faces and Lochlan is standing away from them, arms crossed, staring out the garden doors into the dark like he's looking for something, and then when I made my presence known, Ben lurches out of August's airspace and heads for me and they were all over him before he could get to me.

I yelled Leave him alone! and then Loch somehow figured he could fix this. Whatever this was. I don't know. I was hardly even awake. He pushed me out of the doorway and shut the door and I heard August yell at Ben to figure out what he was going to do and fast and Ben yelled back that he had it under control. Lochlan just listened with me and stared at me. I could have slapped him but instead I took one look at him and pointed out how what they worked out doesn't work and they should just leave us alone. Then I walked away from him, down the hall, made it almost to the kitchen before I lost my nerve and went back and went through the door behind Lochlan as he walked back into the den and I went to hold Ben and he pushed me away and said Don't let her see me like that, get her out. I'll hurt her. I always hurt her.

Only it wasn't the slightly confident Benspeak that I know by now when he's had just enough to soften the edge on his life. It wasn't anything I've heard before and I waited while my brain was sorting out what my ears told it they heard and when all the words were in order and straightened out and the consonants and endings were added. I waited too long and by then he was screaming at them, staring at me and really to lurch again, fighting to get to me, probably to slam the door on me so I wouldn't have to see him.

This time when I turned to leave Lochlan was in front of me and he put his arms around me and I caved in. This time I could hear Ben yelling that I should have gone with someone who was normal and maybe it isn't too late, that he's so sorry he couldn't take the pressure and he got greedy and then Lochlan put his hands over my ears and I couldn't hear anything else, but I knew that Ben was still screaming because I woke up this morning, still in Lochlan's arms with Ben's voice was still in my head but he isn't here and I need him and I think they've taken him away from me and if they did heads are going to roll. Probably mine first. Oh, too late. Nevermind.

Good enough.

Apparently a few rather quiet days at home with fresh snow and extra fruit were needed, and sorely. They helped to shore up the eroding mental strength required for me to just deal with things people deal with every day. Maybe I keep myself in a bubble too much. Maybe I should just listen.

The flu is not the flu and I'm not pregnant. I'm taking some amazingly kick-ass iron pills that in order to make me feel human and have energy, first they must suck the life out of me and leave me miserable, ready to vomit at the first sign of heat, oxygen or hell, pick something. I have to eat more. They told me to take with food. Apparently coffee is not food. I now take with bagel.

I don't plan to address the whole pregnancy topic with you anymore, internet. If you were around when I was pregnant two years ago then you get that. If not, then next time work on your punctuality.

This morning also brough the sting of hot tears of disappointment, when a tiny little story I had a lot of hope for made it's way back to me from a publication I wanted to be a part of. It's funny, too. I was just describing last evening in an email how this industry is not for the faint of heart and here I am, faint of heart like nothing you've ever seen before, smack in the middle of trying to call it a life. This story was very close, rather personal and it was out for four months and the letter said they considered it and then considered it again, and ultimately they passed on it.

Par for the course, but the sting is still always there and always fresh. In amongst the vomitish, overtired, non-pregnant, freshly-ironed tearful feelings for a Monday morning, you might just catch a glimpse of what keeps it going.

I sit on my knees, hunched over to the ground, my hands cupped around a tiny candle, keeping the flame from the wind. That stupid flame makes me get up, dust off my skirts and take another goddamned iron pill, write another story that's going to take me on a rollercoaster of hope and accomplishment and failure too, and spend another day raising my children without the genetic shackles of faint hearts and fragile egos. Stomping out the fire that licks up my skirt because as always, I'm standing too close.

Back on the horse. I am the lone ranger. Only I'm not lone, nor do I range. Do I range?

I do ramble, I know that much.

Level with the weather instead of still under it.

There is some random blessing in having the guys around tonight, piled into the living room, sprawled out on every soft surface they can fit, playing Halo Wars. Even if my presence is only useful in the sense that, every fifteen seconds, someone calls out to ask if I'm sure the internet says that in the fourth mission, the skull is next to the bronze statue, on the steps near base two.

I should start making things up.

Okay, it says for this one, it's next to the gilded unicorn, at the top of the hill west of the stone turret.

What the...unicorn? There's no unicorn here, Bridge.

Keep playing, it must be there somewhere...

Believe me, I've resorted to treachery and misinformation only out of sheer boredom. I must be feeling better.

Don't rush this, baby.

She said
I don't know why you ever would lie to me
Like I'm a little untrusting
When I think that the truth is gonna hurt you
And I don't why you couldn't just stay with me
You couldn't stand to be near me
When my face don't seem to want to shine
Cause its a little bit dirty well
Don't just stand there
Say nice things to me

Hmm, it's Saturday, it's still dark out and I still feel like someone ran over me with a tractor. There is a dirty guitar sound layered from the speakers that makes me check my phone every fifteen seconds because I think I hear it ringing but it's not. This is why most of the boys use conventional rings for their phones, since my penchant for using the bridges of my favorite heavy alternative songs (not the one quoted above, for it's pop) end up blended into the mix, getting lost.

It's okay, what I miss I will catch with the blinky light that tells me I missed it. My phone is just like a butler, only it doesn't bring me orange juice after sex. Which means Ben is my butler. Sorry, mom.

I'm in skinny jeans and a big black hoodie today with my fortune cookie long sleeved T underneath. Saturday socks. No, really, they say Saturday on the soles. I have my corporate sellout cup from Starbucks pushed in front of my nose and my coffee is almost gone and why I'm posting before anything has happened instead of after things happen so I would actually have something to write about is anyone's guess.

I have stopped wearing earrings. Every five years or so my body rebels and I wind up pulling out all the steel and going bare. Then I poke a whole new round of fresh holes and begin again. Right now the only thing left is the barbell in my tongue. Maybe I should just stick with the tattoos and be done with it. They don't get red or migrate or drive me nuts. They just are. A living canvas. I didn't even tell you about the latest one. Choose your words, choose them wise. Tiny but profound, it makes me happy. The grammar sucks but the sentiment blows my mind.

As it should.

Words are what it's all about, and I have so many. Take a large pin and stick it in my head and I will burst into a silent explosion, letters raining down in a ten-mile radius of devastation, covering everything.

You'll be able to read it perfectly.

At the bitter end, I lost my nerve.

Heaven help you.

There is always a song in my head but today it plays slightly muted and it skips a little and jumps here and there, I can barely hear it, almost like how when you duck under the surface in pools that play music you sometimes catch a melody but it's always full of bubbles and distortion and I know my hearing is bad but is there a point to piping songs into water in the first place?

I vote no.

August and I are drawing cartoons again, music on low, a fire stoked high, not so much talking as just hanging out, no obligations, no personality clashes, no egos to coddle or soothe, just space and time and sharpies with fine points and the scanner somehow legoed to my laptop long enough to make files to send to Ben's phone and every hour or so I get a one line text message that says ahahahahahahahaahaha and then another hour goes by and another message arrives with some variation in the number of those two letters. Ben and Seth have gone somewhere private hopefully to remove Ben's head and re-position on his neck, but straight this time, I think it gets habitually cross-threaded and he holds it up with effort. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if I see him later today and his eyes are level pools with the bubbles in the middle, showing he is straight and true. While that would be nice, it isn't possible because humans are human and princesses are notoriously princess-y and life is amazingly unpredictable at best and so in the future I think people would be best served to learn how to deal with change and how to expect the unexpected and why you should never try to put a box around your life because just when you have it all taped down and secured against the wind you realize everything is going to change and you just wasted all that tape.

The Haptic Response Team.

Why, yes, I think I will have t-shirts made that say that.

Visually you're stimulating to my eyes
Your Cinderella syndrome, full of lies
Your insecurities are concealed by your pride
Pretty soon your ego will kill what’s left inside

(Beautiful)
It’s so pitiful what you are (Pitiful)
As beautiful as you are
(Should have seen)
You should have seen this coming all along

I got a lovely email last evening that reassured me that my brother-in-law has no interest in scaring me or ruining my life, he simply wants to maintain an unbroken, unrestricted line of sight to us because we are family. That everything is fine but frankly after considering my actions for a full month, he's decided they should be ignored. Oh and when I wrote about how well the children were doing at school, that entry served as the straw that broke the devil's back, as it were and he's afraid he might miss out.

Mortality is having an interesting effect on this man. What a lovely, public midlife crisis he is going through, because I don't think anyone has ever seen him this unraveled. He blames me. And we could go back and forth forever in public and in private and none of it would matter. He gets to see and touch us and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it now because I have exhausted all my legal avenues and I have listened to all the ideas and I have invoked every last measure of protection I can find and it was all for nothing.

And I'm relieved but you know that and I don't believe I still have to explain it. It just is what it is. They come and they go and I am the centre axis. Lochlan likes to say I'm the singularly unpredictable haptic girl. Touch me or hell, push me and then stand back because you're going to get a different reaction every time.

I think my life would have been easier overall had they not all figured that out so damned quickly.

Oh hell, there's a million ways my life could have been easier. Regrets are better left on the side of the road, discarded and forgotten, as quick as you can, now, come on, we've got places to go!

Thirty days to breathe.

(You must be slipping.)

By virtue of having more money and more connections to a ridiculously inept justice system, and further compounded by pressure from Cole's family for me to 'do the right thing', Caleb has managed to fuck up my life beyond belief. He now has access to us again. You know, because he moved here to be close to his dead brother's wife and his beloved niece and nephew and get this, has been 'financially supporting' us since last fall, among other things. Last time I checked that was income from working for him which I don't get anymore because I thought I had finally gotten away from him.

In any case, it's been determined that he's good for us and life is great and we should all just be one big happy family and we apparently deserve no protection whatsoever because Caleb is a such a fine specimen of humanity who can single-handedly corrupt anyone he chooses, whether they want to call it that or not.

I wonder exactly how much it costs these days to bend the sympathetic ear of a judge who would rather facilitate the obsessions of a mobster instead of protecting a widow and her two young children who wouldn't hurt a fly. Maybe I'll go down there and ask. Oh wait, I just came from there. They can't answer me because they know this isn't right.

'Love You Forever' still makes me cry.

Not only am I having a devil of a time keeping my happy zig-zagging head in one spot, but at lunchtime I was informed that both my children had extraordinary numbers in the February Reading Race at their school. Extraordinary. Ruth read a third of the total page count for her grade, and Henry's class won the school contest for most pages read altogether.

In a way, I shouldn't be surprised. Cole was a reader. Ben reads constantly. And I started with them from birth every single day, reading and re-reading Are you my Mother? and Love You Forever until I was so sick of P.D. Eastman and Robert Munsch I thought I might turn blue.

We raced through the lyrical The Lorax and Green Eggs and Ham and then in one winter we covered the entire Little House on the Prairie set. We did some CS Lewis and some Stevenson too and now we're currently on book four of the Harry Potter series and that's only counting the books that get read aloud. The children go to bed at night and continue to read for as long as they possibly can, and most nights I am halfway up the steps before I hear the lights clicked off and everyone pretends to be asleep far too late for the average under-ten set to be awake.

But I'm still surprised because I thought everyone read the way we do. I always wonder how everyone else seems so together and so busy and so accomplished. Then I look at my kids and they have all the answers because they read them somewhere wonderful, and then I don't really care about everyone else anymore. Maybe we're the together ones.

This is awesome. That's all. Give Bridget her proud mother moment. (God knows, most days I feel like I'm doing everything backasswards.)

Whatever else I planned to write about can wait, for today, at least. Ben and Lochlan have gone to the airfield, Christian is here working in some sunny corner of the house with his laptop and I'm making egg salad for tomorrow and plotting new curtains and dishes because I am bored.

Not a slow news day, just a good news day. They should all be like this.

When you forget what you were going to say.

Today I sat down to write a poetic ode to something or other that involved negative butterfly photography and cherry-red lip stain but I've been ousted, since the space where I currently like write is occupied with junk.

The junk is from Ben's luggage that somehow gets emptied all over the kitchen table, much to my chagrin, but today I found something that made me laugh for half an hour and I forgot to be all mopey and damp about life just for long enough today, and that's a good thing.

You see, the items on the table are the same items that Ben hastily shoved into his suitcase in order to make his flight Thursday night. There are clothes. Everything is black and inside out and maybe covered with some diet coke from the empty bottle I also found, wrapped in a t-shirt and at one point leaking profusely. There are four pencils, eight guitar picks that are a thickness he despises, seventeen loose leaf sheets with words scrawled illegibly on the back only of each one. There's three tea bags (china black) and two snickers bars (melted and refrozen) and a stack of blank CDs. Two silver rings that should be on his fingers (not his wedding band, thank heavens) and the watch he hates wearing. A broken Nintendo DS lite and two matchbox cars that Henry gave him for luck and "if you are bored". An empty lip balm tube and a crumpled and diet coke-soaked CD insert. His phone charger. Four sharpies and yes, another pencil. A vintage John Saul horror novel that he doesn't read but it seems to go everywhere anyway. Two notepads and a picture of the kids in a huge ziploc bag, the only things in the bag worth protecting from the soda, I guess.

I know he was in a hurry but really he pretty much always goes out neat and organized and comes back to me a teenage boy. None of that was the strange part though. The strange part was the drumstick.

Bitten in half.

Just the handle end arrived at the bottom of the bag and I could ask about it but really? It doesn't surprise me in the least. He did say when he gets hungry he'll eat anything.

I think I finally believe him.

Last of the clary sage.

Or, how one city-dwelling transplanted beach girl exists in a land of obstinate Newfoundlanders and ubiquitous Americans.

This morning was busy as all get out. Christian (!!!) reappeared on my radar last evening, home from his very long time away, and we opted for a write-in this morning because wow, he's been busy and I never did slog through all of it with my red marker so he let me bring it home and I will spend the next few days giving him a hand with it.

Then church, with just about everybody and I sit in the crook of Ben's arm, jabbing him in the ribs with my pointy little elbows when he pulls out his phone and starts replying to emails halfway through the sermon and then toward the end Sam abandons his all-capable facade and tells the congregation with so much emotion in his voice that his prayers have been answered, that he and Lisabeth have reconciled and thanks everyone for their prayers and their support and I didn't even have a breath to consider how wonderful that was when I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt and tears spilled out because the happiness for them could not be contained and I didn't know and I wished so badly for that to happen, you wouldn't ever believe it. Problems are just that, problems. Things to be fixed. Things to be dealt with. Nothing is worth being apart when you love someone the way they love each other.

Selfishly, it was also a huge moment of vindication for me. I wasn't the other woman, I didn't cause their issues and I got a very long hug from both Lisabeth AND Sam as they saw everyone out. The whole neighborhood saw those hugs, and subsequently, the whole neighborhood can kiss my sweet little ass.

Sam, true to Jacob-form, is now taking on a second community minister, because just like Jacob, he wanted to come in superhuman and handle everything and the church is a soul-sucking business that will bleed you dry, burn you out and turn you over before you crawl away from it in bits and pieces. At least this one is. The addition of a second in command will greatly relieve the pressure on Sam and give them time to repair the damage that's been done. I wish them so much of everything, they deserve it.

Hell, Lis even took a hug from Ben, and she's terrified of him.

And it's March first. And I really hoped when I looked outside this morning that it wouldn't still be -30 Celsius with two feet of ice and snow still on the ground but it was and my little car was plugged in and the trucks were plugged in and everything is pretty much as I left it the last time my brain was engaged this beautifully. Present and accounted for. Fevered with spring and spring missed the memo.

And now I have the last-of-my-garden-herbs bread in the oven to go with the asparagus frittata casserole that I'm going to make shortly and lunch is going to be delicious. Even if I set a place and spring is a no-show.