Santa's real but his beard is red.

Christmas starts at lunch time today! 

UNGHHHHHHH YES! 

Also happy Solstice or warm tidings on the longest night and shortest day. We got through it. We survived. Now Santa is coming, just in time to celebrate the days getting longer and we're not even going to talk about the decided lack of spirit this year or the fact that my primroses and strawberries are still blooming. I tossed them in the vegetable garden pile and covered them with maple leaves in case we got snow but instead we got warmth and tons of rain. I should have left them all out. I did make an executive decision and take the olive and pepper trees back outside. I don't care if they don't make it, truth be told. We all have to fend for ourselves and I have tiny gnats in the window by the doors. Every day I kill four of them and they just keep coming. 

Like an army. 

Kind of wonder where they're holed up but also I don't want to know. I'm a very fussy cleaner but are the boys? Some of them. None of them will be there at six-fifteen in the morning with a butter knife wrapped around a cloth scraping dust out of the grooves on my big American southwest desk though. You'd think I use no dishes for all the crap that winds up in this groove. 

The last load of laundry is in. We might try and hit the Christmas market downtown before it's gone but that's a maybe. I have three different knitting projects on the go and a bottomless list on Netflix so I've cured my shack-whackiness. I bought no good snacks this year and am subsisting on prescriptions, multivitamins, pistachios and homemade wine. 

Caleb says I'm an abomination. 

Ben says I'm a saint. 

Lochlan says I'm a fever dream. 

Duncan said I was a bitch. 

I was so thrilled at that one I laughed. Better a bitch than a doormat, I told him. We've been spatting all December because he can't cure his shack-whackiness. It's a more primal version. I told him he needs a trip somewhere, maybe but he said he'd rather be home. 

Gosh, we're all getting old. 

There's a bottle of tylenol by the kitchen sink. No point putting it away because someone always needs it and takes it out. I used to replace it a couple times a year. Now I buy a new one every two weeks. I wake up stiff and sore, limbs aching and never in a good way. I have resumed doing yoga with Ben because if I don't I just hurt all day. I spend all my downtime in the hot tub, sauna or pool. Same with most of the others. 

I am back to saying less and meaning more. 

I am trying so desperately to find some spirit. 

What would help? Lochlan asks and I want to give him my list of complaints but he's always been one to say Now tell me what might help make that better? A variation on the question between us right now. 

A smoky jazz club, decorated for Christmas, and an old-fashioned, followed by an Irish coffee. Maybe a pastry or some tapas for lunch.

Go change.

Extra pills, fewer words.

Today's t-shirt makes me laugh. PJ brought it back from LA for me. It's got a cartoon drawing of a UFO on the front and a speech bubble that says GET IN, LOSER. 

I feel like it's meant for me. 

Today's breakfast was a handful of pills and oatmeal, black coffee, a badly bruised banana (fuck you, Superstore for your shitty produce) and a multivitamin. Today's lunch was uh, crackers and dinner was a fried egg sandwich with farm bacon from a place in the valley that cuts their bacon so thick I stopped calling it bacon and started calling it steakon. They know what I mean! 

(GET IN, LOSER.)

It's cheap considering it's practically the whole hind leg of a pig in one package. Like fourteen dollars and it feeds eight people, easily. We also bought pepperoni and some aged cheddar but that won't last long. 

I am sober, if you're wondering. 

People say I sound gagged. Like legally or threatened-of-bodily-harm but honestly since Caleb behaves and I am now boring there isn't much to write about save for Lochlan's blissful contentment. His dreams are coming true. Caleb's not evil, I'm not stubborn. Ben isn't scary anymore and Cole and Jake are dead, 

It's perfect. 

I mean it is. We took the money and ran as far away as we could from the circus and the side show too, the midway is a distant sticky, sweaty memory and the music still winds around and between us but we're still here. I'm still here. He still puts up with me. The ghosts haven't gotten me yet but neither have the aliens. 

I'd rather be a loser than a memory. I said that to Loch from my side of the hot tub earlier and he laughed out loud and said Same.

 

Black Tuesday.

 I did all of my shopping early. I stuck with practical gifts instead of fanciful, instead of homemade and I ordered damn near all of it this week and every single day a blue van pulls up early in the afternoon and a pile is left in the parcel box by the gate. I had to have Lochlan go and remove the lock and we added a camera out there because there are so many couriers and if one locks the box then the others have no safe spot to put the rest but I turned on my camera notifications and once the frost burns off the driveway I can go up and fetch things as they trickle in. I bought tape and cards and paper last year. I will make labels and reuse boxes to ship things in and I already remembered to buy an extra roll of packing tape so while I am not nearly as prepared as I usually am, I am getting there, and that's a good thing, as I feel mired perpetually in the quicksand of pills and sleep and routine and pain and I'm okay though, so that's something. 

I went with Ruth today to finally collect her car, fresh with snow tires and it's one less thing to worry about. Henry is secure in his job. Lochlan has so many irons in the fire it's drowning for a lack of air and I discovered I really freaking love knitting. I have knit off and on since I was a little girl but lately it's all I seem to do in the evenings while we are watching movies. Lochlan smiled so dryly the first few times. He asked me if he should bring the rocker in from the front porch. I smiled and said no. I'm a couch knitter, bracing my needles or my loop against my ribcage and I can't seem to break such a bad habit but I'm also knitting top-down socks today and so maybe once I'm better at them. I'm struggling to be a proficient fine knitter. If I can't be a fast one, that is. 

Ben asked for socks. He asked for a hat and a sweater and fingerless gloves too. I'm going to be so busy. We are actually minding the deep-freeze this week. It seems stupidly cold but it's not. 

I made an executive decision this year though that is a big change from previous seasons. No Christmas decorations up and no lights until December first, giving us time to embrace fall. I'm loving the early dark and the yellow leaves and the change. Rather than rushing headlong from Labour Day through Thanksgiving into Halloween then two months straight of Christmas we're enjoying the post-Halloween extended fall season. It feels less rushed somehow and richer, more meaningful. And hopefully instead of being sick and tired of the trees and lights by boxing day I'm hoping it will help extend the spirit into the first weeks of January. If something isn't working it's always good to try something different, I think.

Many years have gone by now and I still dread today like the rain that never stops, and you wonder if you will get swept to your demise or wind up in a new place altogether. I did anyway, as nothing is ever familiar about the way this feels and I have used this anniversary as my own personal monkey bars, and I climb all over it and run around it and sometimes I duck between the bars and sit inside and hope no one can see me, and sometimes, more rarely and ever wonderful, I can stand at the very top, arms outstretched toward the sun and I can reach for heaven and wave, hoping he sees me. 

Some days I can't even make it to the park, but I am not keeping score. I no longer care what year anniversary this is or exactly how many days he has been gone. I don't weep for the man he would have been on his birthday, the day that follows this day nor do I recognize myself in the mirror. 

Things I want to tell him are always on the tip of my tongue. 

I made potato bread today. I bet you'd love it. 

Do you think the world is actually imploding? 

What do you think of this perfume? 

Your son got his contract extended for a year. He's doing so good. 

Ruth is overwhelmed in her amazing career and is finally going to buy snow tires. 

PJ still calls you a coward in his darkest moments. 

Caleb still wishes he had been there to push you. 

I wish you never left. 

I wish I looked the same for you. 

I can't tell him that Amazon now gives me a running countdown to tell me how many stops away they are, or that butter now costs nine dollars for a cups worth, salted or not. I can't tell him I finally stopped drinking, just when our homemade wine was starting to get good. I can't tell him I gained a little weight or that it's because my heart falls out constantly, rolling around on the floor picking up dust. I could show him the new kittens but I don't think they would be enough to bring him back. I could show him what finally forced Ben into the sweet gentle giant role he should have been all along but I could also show him how long it takes Ben to type a text message, or get a joke now. 

Maybe he does see all of it, and more. Maybe he sees how I struggle to conquer this jungle gym and I fall off it so often, knocking the wind from my lungs on the hard grass, leaving streaks of dirt on the back of my shirt. 

Maybe last year was easier. Maybe next year will be too. Maybe the rain will stop but I doubt that just like I doubt everything. It's the new normal. I live with it, around it and in it. And yet I am never comfortable here. And I never ever stop missing him. 

 

I want to write but my brain is mashed potatoes. For my own safety, probably (gestures helplessly at the calendar) because next week is the bad one and while I've been nicely distracted lately (mostly without internet by design), it's not as if they can just turn off time. 

Well, Maybe Lochlan can and this is how we picked up where we left off? I don't know, exactly. I just know that his aubergine waffleknit shirt is too big on me but also it looks better with my colouring and these jeans are at least twenty years old if not older and the clocks go back this weekend. 

Bringing more darkness, earlier. The rain is set to start this evening and not stop until Advent, or maybe later. The world gets so small it fits in the light thrown by a single candle and when that happens I can't breathe. It's such a quiet panic, however. No drama, just slack-jawed, glassy-eyed, sleep-breath, staring-at-the-wall panic. 

Ben will bite his lip and point it it's probably better to say something. 

I let my eyes move so slowly, trying to balance the tears so they don't spill and I keep my head straight and level until I meet his gaze. 

Jesus, Bridge, you're so creepy. 

But his voice is full of admiration instead of horror and with that I am snapped back to the present. To the warm, well-lit kitchen, lights on, woodstove crackling, arms everywhere in case I need to hug someone or fall. 

It will never not feel so heavy, and I have never felt so weak.

October rust.

How do I fill the time, holed up in the shadows of the ones who have left, only to forget those shadows leaving these huge dark spaces where so much light used to be? 

Learn something new, I tell myself automatically, finding solace in working with my hands, keeping my brain so focused on perfecting the task at hand that it remains present, failing to wander away into the night, mistaking that ever-present darkness for a simple shadow, time after time. 

How do I not stay in the past, refusing to move past the dates seared into my mind? How do I not become hypnotized by the flames, so beautiful even as they burn everything to the ground, leaving nothing but a smoky darkness that looks like shadows but with more destruction, more decay. 

How do I put it down when I can't let go?

***

I wrote that a few days ago and didn't post it. It feels like me. Sounds like me, looks exactly like me, a spitting image carved in granite of Bridget's forever psyche, like a greek tragedy represented in stone. The leaves have turned red, the moon orange and the bats have returned to replace to chickadees now rare in the cold October winds. I wrap my sweater tighter around my bones, sip my coffee and listen carefully as the boys talk in their low voices. Sometimes I zone out. Sometimes I sleep sitting up. Sometimes I strain to hear and still can't and other times I want to break out of this stone and run down the grass, leaping into the saltwater, and healing the scratches and scrapes from the days keeping their hold on me. Sometimes I watch Netflix for days on end, another video up on a second screen, teaching myself continental knitting or so I hope in order to be faster at it, since the English way is slow. I'm pretty certain the Irish way of knitting is to say fuck it and pour whiskey over the whole thing, lighting it on fire, but I want to become a fine knitter as it's a brain-calming activity the likes of which I rarely find and it's an easy creative outlet when I don't want to write or paint. 

The pumpkins and leaves outside are soaked. The grass so green now it looks as if someone turned up the saturation on the world and the army has begun to draw close yet again as the calendar rolls around to the truly sad bad anniversaries we can't seem to forget if we tried.

Decade-old cravings and not being able to help them.

What wouldn't I give right now for a bowl of tumeric coconut curry with pineapple chutney and chunks of chicken with roasted roots? Don't ask me that when I'm hungry, but the only place to get the one I want is downtown and no one will drive there and get me some even though I am on day five of the first cold/flu of the season and somehow only Ruth and I have been struck down by it. Ruth goes like a bat out of hell as it is, working like a maniac and then doing extreme sports and escape rooms and day trips on her days off and sees a lot of people so it makes sense. I live in my ivory tower and am not allowed to go anywhere except the superstore and occasionally the yarn or potter supply shops in Surrey so I don't know how I get sick. 

Oh, yes, Ruth comes by to show me things and then I get sick. Or maybe I had the luck of someone breathing on me in the aisle where I let out a mighty expletive upon discovering that, while they took away all of the Stouffers and Lean Cuisine frozen dinners, cosmic brownies and Little Debbie products, they gave all that space to more Global foods and so I can buy pakoras and masala vada and stuffed naan whenever I want. 

When I swear in the grocery store people look so alarmed. It's nothing, I just get excited about new stuff. Grocery shopping is such a chore. Also we have on average only five varieties of pop-tarts in Canada now and I will never understand why. 

Yes, I do. Everything is disappearing from the shelves because supplies can't afford to parse out their wares across the entire huge vast land that is this country, especially ironic when we all live within a stone's throw or an hour's drive of the border. 

My new passport is here and I am sorely tempted to drive down to Bellingham and go to Trader Joes and Target but I also don't want to shop near people with automatic guns so I might stick with Superstore and uhhh wherever else I can get what I need. I don't want to leave the country anymore. Thanks to Amazon I barely want to leave the house and don't have to. They're driving down my street every day anyway, may as well put that to good use. 

They won't bring me the curry though.

Lift me up to the heavens (I can't hear what they're saying).

Your princess finally got to see Atreyu, seeing Drowning and more importantly, Watch Me Burn live were parts of my brain I didn't realize were puzzle pieces and now that section of this weird science experiment that lives inside my head is complete. Or mostly, anyway. You can still see right through it but I love live shows and I'm happy they opened, as when I originally got the tickets for Maiden it said Raven Age was coming back again and I rolled my eyes. Again? Nepo babies in music are a given but after one tour it's a problem. 

Maiden was nuts. Though Bruce looked older than his years at last, and he has grown his hair back out (I saw him last in 2016) and the bangs were my favourite part of his look and they are gone in favour of a white half-ponytail. He also had a bad cold and hid it amazingly well. I was pleased he didn't call it off but also he still hit all the notes and it was the final Canadian date on their Future/Past tour. 

Also the merch was so much better this time. No more disembowelled moose on t-shirts, instead the actual band designs/album covers on shirts. Cotton shirts, one hundred percent. Love it. 

They trotted out Eddie a couple of times. A big inflatable thing came up for all of five minutes before they stuffed it back in its crate. It looked like a red dragon but it's probably not. I don't know the lore. I didn't even know some of the songs this time, but they did play Fear of the Dark and Wasted Years so it was good. I had a sore throat and crowd-fear so it was a challenging night for sure. 

The beer was cheap and plentiful and the crowds were fun. I do have to give a shout out to the gorgeous girl with the black hair, black tank top and black shorts who I saw crowd-surfing not once but twice. From my ivory tower suite I wanted to be down in the pit beside her but also not, as those days are long over. It's not often you see girls surfing. It's not really a safe thing but she ended each round with a huge smile so watching that was as fun as the show itself. Thank you for the added magic of watching your profound joy.

Bruce swears they'll be back. I hope he's right. They range in age from 65 to 71 and it shows. Will I go in seven years again? I don't know. I felt old.

Pumpkinhead.

My, my, those eyes like fire
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre
Come now, bite through these wires
I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher
Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire

Is it obvious I show up every couple of weeks? I don't know, you tell me. I thought it seemed obvious. I would be here all day if not for the Rules. Rules that work, I guess. For who and why? 

I don't know. I'm not in charge.

I scrubbed bathrooms today and did some fall garden cleanup and caught up on laundry too to help Dalton and I talked to Ruth for a long time on the phone and also talked to the old man up the street that also walks his ancient dog each morning.

My reward was the dog sleeping blissfully for most of the afternoon and a date with Daniel and Ben for nails and hot chocolate. Daniel gave Ben matte black polish and I got a really nice french manicure that he did when I said it was his choice. Usually he puts on Chanel Vamp if he gets to pick but this is really nice. Chaotic neutral, as it were. Vamp makes me feel as though I should be putting on winged eyeliner and scowling at everyone and I don't scowl much these days. 

The hot chocolate was really good too. I got it at Wal-Mart. It's a big can and it's really cheap and for some reason it's just good and not sickly sweet like the take-out stuff. 

Lochlan says I am depressed and it's probably just the daylight lessening that is doing it. It's a well-documented problem that I have and very little helps. I have given away half my wardrobe. I don't want colour. I never actually sleep. I can watch movies and clean but I don't do a lot else. 

I don't know. Jacob's anniversary is coming. His birthday is coming. Thanksgiving is coming. The dark is coming. 

Oop, the Devil is coming. He's going to be pissed off. He loves the Vamp shade.

Oh Lantern.

So busy today and we went into downtown Vancouver for a change of scenery after lunch but the traffic. The people. The lineups. Crazy. We went and had Japanese food at our third-favourite place. Went for Tiramisu at another and then went to Starbs and had coffee (I didn't, it was four o'clock! I had a frozen mango-dragonfruit lemonade-thingie). We sat in traffic on Hornby for a stupid amount of time next to the ever-empty bike lane and Lochlan asked me if I wanted to bail on traffic and stay at the Fairmont tonight. 

No, I wanted to be home. I had my empty sticky plastic cup and my paper shopping bag from Saint Laurent and my patience flew out the window on the Iron Workers Bridge at some point just before sunset and it's time for this princess to turn back into a pumpkin. Time to fire up the Netflix and knit for a little while as the boys fire up games and books for the evening. 

It was nice though. Reminds me of old times and cements why I like it here so much, tucked out of the way, down the long driveway past the big black ornate iron gates. Back to having the Devil within reach and the army keeping watch, but not letting my guard down. 

My guard is Lochlan and I made a promise.

It always ends the same way.

I know. Ten days without checking in again and the internet moves along at such a frenetic clip my cycle of news for you barely exists for a moment before dropping you into the next tidbit that you seek out online.

What's happening? My grapes aren't quite ready, the red ones anyway. I eat the green ones by the handful, barely avoiding certain death by the giant bald-faced hornets that seem hellbent on making another summer memory for me. Lochlan says I am hilarious and he lives for this. I go into every summer marvelling at the long light, the warmth, the sting of salt on sweat, the gardening possibilities, and then I run screaming from it just as quickly, resenting the oppressive heat, traffic, tourists and the sheer work of gardening involved. The bugs. The endless mowing. The endless cleaning of the pool. The endless ruination of all of my bathing suits so quickly as the chlorine rips them apart and I tend to sleep in the pool. PJ called me a human sous-vide once and I cracked back an insult about fetishes of sealing people in plastic and eating them later and all he did was laugh until he started to wheeze. 

(PJ doesn't like the heat either.)

By the end of summer I am spilling blueberries out of a mug in a race to get them all, the bottoms of my feet are black from the dust, from the sand and the pavement and the dirt and my skin is faint golden, buried under a million freckles that appear seemingly out of nowhere. I am wild-eyed and now offended by the early end to the evenings and the tourists leaving the town high and dry far too early and the Back to School adverts and the Christmas displays in stores. 

He said it's like the five stages of grief but I go into it mourning summer and then finally find acceptance and even enthusiasm. 

Even as he yells at me to go back outside and scrub my toes before I leave little sooty footprints all over the white carpet, something I categorically denied until he pointed out my feet are size six and the next closest is him at eleven so it's pretty obvious it was me. 

I just shake my head and keep eating blackberries. No wasps in these ones. Only spiders. Yum.

I have four suggestions that might make the world a better place. (Vancouver and LA I'm looking at you!)

1. Lower your goddamn expectations. Expect to wait. Expect life to sometimes not be perfect. Expect other people to have problems too. Expect some things to go wrong sometimes. Be patient and prepared and you'll have an easier time. Do it for your own mental health, which, like physical health, should be looked after.

2. Let's eliminate Air BnB's! If you stay in a hotel they have better standards. And if they have cameras you can get a nice payout. Air BnB was supposed to be for when you were away you would rent out your own home and make a few bucks. Now it's stealing from the available housing supply as people buy up stock for short term rentals. Fuck off with that. Shut it all down. Forever. 

3. Cap rent amounts (and maybe sales too) by square footage. The joke of a video about a 200 sq foot room in an SRO here going for $2000 a month wasn't funny, it was devastating. There should be a maximum rental price you can charge if a unit falls under a certain size, or have a graduated scale in increments. Why the hell not? Nothing else is working and prices are through the roof.

4. Let's get Sam Asghari and Meghan Markle together!! Come on, it will be fun.  They can write books on their experiences and fade away together. Even better, someone introduce Britney to Harry and she can have her life and eat it too. What bullshit. I am somewhat heartened though. Up until a couple of days ago I was beginning to think she was dead.

  (Also whoever said to fill a small water bottle with water and freeze it and roll your feet on it is a fucking genius. It's my new favourite thing. I can't get cool. I am cranky.)

Safe Haven and halfway points.

Devilled eggs and sweat. Bad documentaries and worse romance movies. Nicholas Sparks who never fails to sweep my feet out from under me, even though I am so jaded at this point my skin has a green cast and is cool to the touch. 

I love Julianne Hough. I freaking love her. Even if Footloose didn't need to be remade, though her background means she shouldn't have fallen off the bike at all. Safe Haven was a weird one, though I got chills when Josh Duhamel told her she was safe, and gave her all of that white-knight bullshit romance-novel reassurance women fall for so damn easily, without prejudice. Every single fucking time. 

And it's hopeful, optimistic reassurance at best. Because in the end Julianne (Katie/Erin, whatever she wanted to go by) saved herself. As one should. Or something. Not sure if that works for or against Mr. Sparks but it was a twist I didn't see coming. 

Kind of like Cobie as a ghost. No idea. Completely shocked by that one.

Smash Um forget Um cookies.

 It's cool today. Jeans and no shirts for some, simple linen sundresses for others. I'll let you figure out who's wearing what. The pool and the air seem to be the same temperature, the skies are a pale blue that remind me of Jacob's eyes. The clouds persist, but just a little. There's a blanket folded on the back of the swinging bench on the porch and one on my favourite egg-chaise by the pool, just for me, just in case I get cold and want to wrap myself up like a burrito. 

I've been strolling the neighborhood picking blackberries and picking up litter, petting everyone's cats, dogs and children, talking to Ruth on the phone half the time and my dad the other half. My dad has gotten old suddenly. Gone is the stubborn, unfeeling mean giant of a man and in his place is someone shorter, frailer and more understanding, somehow, as if the wind has been taken completely out of his sails. He's almost fun to talk to now, and I almost want to go back on my vow to feel nothing when it comes to my folks, as they never felt anything about me, other than some sort of smug satisfaction that they could just lie about my life instead of being horrified by it. 

But as I said, I have made the choice not to care.

At all. 

Cole's anniversary came and went. The clouds came and went. The rain came in briefly and then went. I watched like seven dozen movies and documentaries and true crime dramas on Netflix and I don't think I liked any of them. I loved the mom in Run Rabbit Run but not the story. I'm watching American Psycho now just to remind myself that Patrick Bateman is a construct of a construct and Caleb took some stupid cues back in the day, though I feel like men like Caleb are more then inspiration for the writers instead of the result, especially since this movie is only twenty years old. 

I haven't 'done' anything. A little gardening. I stalked a very big beetle yesterday. I cleaned out one of the Jeeps since it was downright filthy and I scrubbed the inside of the pantry (shelves too). I hung more lanterns. I cleaned some baseboards and windowsills and I painted an old set of bookends that my grandfather made and I have carted around ever since and they're holding the cookbooks. I found a copy of Kim's Cookbook for Young People, a treasured first cookbook that Bailey and I studied and copied and cooked before I was one of the boys. I bought it and am waiting for it to arrive. I'm going to send it on to her for her birthday. 

 I haven't made much progress in my own reading. I want to do a lot of sewing and painting and reading and resting but the dog is dying and he needs me. I can't leave a room without him anymore and it's breaking my heart. Fifteen years of having an ever-present shadow and when I don't have a shadow anymore I don't know what I will do. This dog is my constant and my comfort, even sleeping up close to my head when the boys moved here and I was left behind and I watched 30 days of night and got weirdly scared.

I needed him and now he needs me so if he needs me to sleep up by his face I will do it. It's the least I can do for him. His spine is sharp and his eyes are cloudy. He has no idea what his name is anymore and he rarely eats. But it's okay. He can live out his days on love.

I didn't mean for this to be sad. I meant to sit down and tell you how reluctant I have become to be reasonable. I'm back to living in my own head and maybe it's the pills, maybe it's the dog, but it just feels like someone dropped a concrete block between me and life and only Lochlan and the children can get around it. 

That's not a bad thing. Just a thing that I see. But my eyes are cloudy too. Cloudy and rainy, more often than not.

Dumb bitch.

Cole (Trey to me and the boys) died seventeen years ago today. 

Huh.

It seems like it was a movie. It seems like another lifetime. Maybe it was just a lifetime movie that I caught at the end on a fuzzy cable channel back in the day when we had channels on the television instead of apps. On the upside, I don't miss anything I want to see now because I can start it when I please.

Seventeen years, and this weekend Henry turns twenty-two. And he's finished university and already working away in his chosen field and his bosses are very proud of him. 

Cole would have been proud of him too. 

Everyone is. 

Would he be proud of me? I don't know. Maybe. Probably not. He always had this disdain for me, as I deferred to Lochlan forever (and will forever) and Cole felt as though I was marked. That he would always be second place. 

So tonight I raise my glass and pour it out in the grass for another year gone by and say things out loud I never would have dared to say with him present. 

Third. You were third place. Ha.

I still say it quietly. He's probably around here somewhere.

The food trucks in my hood tonight are ice cream and shawarmas. Perfect.

It's a beautiful Friday afternoon and I am soaked to the bone with chlorine, save for George, who is wrapped in a fiberglass sleeve. Wet hair plastered to my skull and my bathing suit is almost dry at least thanks to the eight minutes of Vitamin D allowance I was given in order to thrive without burning. 

In between swims I am emailing around, getting things done, tossing around terms like subrogation and probability. My primroses are about to bloom again. My potatoes are growing up everywhere. The cucumbers and pumpkins are flowering and a squirrel stole all of my radishes before they could fully start. The grapes are green pearls in the shade, protected from the heat and Dalton and Duncan are brown already, in high contrast to Lochlan, who is mildly pink, like me, but has hair the color of recently polished copper. 

It's my favourite time of year.

I'll get a fat cheque from the subrogation nonsense. I am trying not to be hasty. I'll get it all organized. I'm thinking of getting Lasik or PRK or at the very least contacts, and I'm thinking that there are enough festivals with food trucks and live music that I could go all summer without having a single sad thought or at least less of them and every year I say that all I'm going to do is lie on my back under the stars and eat Twizzlers and sing at the top of my lungs. Every year I do it maybe four nights tops. This year I am going for a record. 

The songs are whatever is playing on eighties radio. I don't know anything else, lyrically, I mean. 

PJ made me a large ice with water and grapefruit juice. Dinner is FFY (Fend for yourself) since every Friday night Henry goes out with friends and plays pool and drinks diet pepsi because the pub doesn't have diet coke and so we get takeout lunch on Fridays. Today was A&W but I only had a chicken BLT and I am stuffed. I might have a coconut pineapple popsicle later. I might sit outside on the porch and look at my flowers or out back on the patio and look at my sea. 

Maybe I'll do both. 

This weekend we need to do some yard work if it's not too hot and birthday-shop for Henry. Nothing like leaving it til the last minute. We also need to sleep.

A record.

 Unless I am seriously indisposed, AKA injuried/committed/kidnapped, even in my semi-lucid state I have never gone this long between writings. No, I'm not gone. I'm just busy. I go up to Cows for ice cream. Messie Bessie is this year's favourite. The cones aren't stale yet. Hilarious because it's a busy place. It has some weird affiliation with Anne of Green Gables now, not sure if they are just capitalizing on the island's most popular export or what but I found it strange. 

I finished the second season of Yellowjackets and I made two whole cardigans while doing so. Nice ones. For me and for Ruth. Hers is fall-hued, mine is the colours of the sea. As always. 

I let Daniel cut my hair so short everyone has been saluting when I walk past. PJ keeps asking who the little boy is that he keeps seeing. It wasn't even funny the first time. 

I convinced the boys that we no longer needed the half-broken meteorological station anymore, that we can simply look outside and know what's up, like they did in the old days. 

That did it and I bagged up the pieces from the outdoor sensors, ripped the digital readout panel off the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. That thing was an albatross that we stared at too much, gauging the heat by numbers instead of by feel. Using half-functional technology to decide for us if we were hot or if it was hot enough to turn on the fan or the A/C or whatever. 

One of my fondest bucket-list items in life is to become a serial minimalist but convenience holds me back. Also I am a magpie and collect shiny things so it's tough anyway but now I think very hard before I add to my collections or buy on a whim. 

Not like that isn't hard with the economy the piece of shit that it is.

I finished a defacto bucket list because I had never made one. I had a lot of plans floating around my head mentally but nothing concrete. It's good to have one. Though what happens when you complete all the things on the list? Do you make a new list? Kill yourself? Remember the little things? Become a grumpy oldtimer? Someone tell me please, before the list becomes a catalyst. 

I need to buy some shorts. Mine are all worn out. I need to drink less. I want to sit outside in the evening all summer and watch the flames and read my book and watch the waves and eat cheese and grapes and not talk and not worry about heat or Coleiversaries or the fact that Henry turns twenty-two this month or the damage being fixed on the Jeep this week (not my fault, covered by insurance) and I need to sleep better, more often and just do nothing. I need a lot of things. Been saying this for decades.

I'll try and come back sooner. Probably tomorrow. Spent a lot of time away but I'm home now. Also I learned I refuse to drink liquids that come in containers I can't see through. Who knew?

 Gah. The internet seems broken. The boys say it's only me but they're also not really online as much as me in a way and way more than me in another and so I don't know if they're playing straight with me, I just know that everything chugs and buffers and the webpages look weird and there's junk at the top and bottom but I can mostly find what I need and it only took me five tries to log in so either I forget how to blog or someone is messing with my Perfectly Ordered Routine. 

Probably the Devil but would that actually do him any good?

Cormac McCarthy died and I shed a tear for one of my favourite giants of literature. I got my speaking in Italics from him, when I write. I got Southern gothic from him, in my dreams and I still quote needing whiskey for The Road if we ever end up on it. A gun, bullets and whiskey. Other than food that seems to be all they needed. 

When I hit the road (AKA Highway 99) I have my tote with a lighter, a knife, pepper spray, a phone charger, and chapstick. Then in the back of the Jeep is a tire kit, fire extinguisher, food/water/blanket, jack, first aid kit, etc etc etc. 

Huh. Anyway, I am sad. Everyone dies.

Bruised fruit and great TV.

I'm a bubble in a bubble. Absent for days drifting on the wind above a dark blue sea. I'm slowly descending though as they realized that pain medication on the reg was going to fuck up the walking-coma thing I have going on and something had to give. Something was not the pain meds, that's for sure and now I can almost form a coherent sentence. Sometimes even out loud, if I must. 

Let me tell you some things. 

With one arm I helped do all the repairs on the gazebo because I can climb like a monkey. As long as it's only one level up no one worries. When we get to two or three they all panic but really would it be a bad thing if I snapped my neck and went away forever? 

That depends on who you ask. But who is going to shimmy up the side and be able to stand a roof panel that won't support a whole man? Me, that's who. 

I watched the whole first season of Yellowjackets. I'm starting season two. Ben is a great pillow. He loves to nap, I love to watch movies and shows and so we make a great team. If I move he goes off. Like an IED and so Lochlan is content to also nap or do what he needs to without worrying. Sometimes that's nice. I can say that from here, in the clouds because the chemical lobotomy has been the greatest thing ever, even trumping sliced bread.

I listened to the new Foo Fighters album and let me tell you. But Here We Are is a great song, Rescued is a great song but Beyond Me is a spectacular song made better by the whole-hearted eighties power ballad it seems to want to be. This is a Bridget/headphones 24/7 kind of song. This is so good it's criminal. I am hot or cold on the Foo albums. I have my favourite songs. Some whole albums leave me cold, but I keep coming back. I've seen them twice. Will I go again? Of course. They came back with grace from a tragedy that is unthinkable. Unrecoverable from. Like me.

Did I come back with grace? Of course not. Hahahaha.

I am still knitting sweaters over here but boy it's hard to do now. Luckily I was always a slow knitter so I am barely bothered. I do this while I watch things. While Ben sleeps. 

I've been coughing all week. Pretty sure my allergies have gone through the roof. There's a patch of ground in the garden that plants grow in just fine but it makes my skin burn. Explain that. I can wait. I mostly direct, now and PJ and Dalton do their best. August comes to play Rubik's Cube with my brain and Caleb continues to torture me with his..everything, who am I kidding and Ruth and Henry are so independent and capable I sleep like a damn baby when I do sleep at all. Sometimes I roam the halls like a ghost in Hello Kitty pajamas, gliding through the dark, checking cats and doors and windows and looking out at the cold dark sea. Sometimes I sit and watch the fire die and sometimes I go crawl with Duncan and it's like waking up on the festival grounds again. I have to think really hard to remember where I am. 

My beloved dragonfruits have reached sixteen dollars each and I'm switching to apples for the summer, I guess or until the price goes down. Hell I could put a little drop of apple juice on a cucumber slice if I need a craving satisfied but life has gotten weirdly comical and not in a funny way, in a sad way that is so horrifying you just laugh and laugh until you sob. People have no patience and no manners. I had to learn to tell people off nicely which isn't my strong suit. I have a whole new outlook because now they won't let me leave the house because every time someone pisses me off in public I start talking about the purge and waving my cast around. 

Even today at the drivethru, someone tried to go around me and he caught my eye and my eyebrows went up, cueing his car to reverse back to where he was and I was still amazed. Like, did you think I was in this lane because I want to go inside? No, I don't want to go inside. I just want an ice cream handed through a window and I can wave my card at a little black box and no one needs to make a fuss here. 

It was butterscotch ripple for one scoop and rum raisin for the other. So good. 

The cone was stale though. They're always stale. Like nacho chips, hard taco shells and the air between my ears. Makes my last outing alone bittersweet, that's for sure.

At least tonight I have a date with a boiling hot bubble bath and a kush bath bomb. I can't wait.

Really fucking clumsy for a goddamned former acrobat.

The ten day absence isn't because I am avoiding you. 

George has a crack in his belligerent self because Bridget took a drunken backflip off the diving board and might have landed on...the diving board because SUE ME, I'm used to doing backflips in place and forgot about things like physics, momentum, gravity and...pain. 

Never ask a tightrope walker for a trick because she'll do one and fuck up her summer with another complete lower arm cast, this one which is also temporary for two weeks until the next one gets put on and I got a pale green cover for it because it's pretty and WOW. I figured I could just roll with it and I said I was fine but then Lochlan touched it only slightly and the noise I made ratted me out. 

Narcotics don't mix with anything but George has a way of hurting me like no other man ever could.  

I did all this with my left hand, including formatting!

While I wasn't looking.

 Drunk and in the pool all week. When people start complaining about how low the temperature of the water is set to I get out and run and jump off the cliff into the actually-cold water. Then I realize I'm drunker than I thought and do it all again an hour later after another drink. 

The one downside of this Collective is that someone will always sneak me a drink without realizing that three or four or nine others have the same idea and then Lochlan or Benjamin or Schuyler has to make a new rule that only Lochlan can bring me drinks and I snort-laugh and he instantly feels like a servant and the dynamic doesn't work like that and POOF Bridget's drunk again. 

At least they are watchful around the water. And I'm such a strong swimmer now, but I don't have the speed. I can tread water for hours. I can breaststroke from one side to the other, I can do a front or back crawl around the point but it's too slow for everyone, especially Lochlan who is always in a hurry to Be Safe and I know his trauma wears a different face than mine but it's just as monstrous. 

Drunk is good though. And I think now I did get a lombotomy while no one was looking. It didn't hurt at all so that's the good thing and I'm annoyed at how everyone is explaining everything like I am nine again but then expecting me to adult as well. I didn't tell you about the tree branch that fell on the hood of my Jeep nor did I tell you I didn't melt yet. I am close though. I stay up very late now and I look at the boys when they talk and I swim or lounge in the pool by day waiting for summer to be over before it has started. Another trip around the sun indeed. Another new fancy restaurant. Another plan for another time. A wish for sleep and then a wish for change. 

I feel like a runaway train that never had a destination in the first place. Is this burnout or insanity?

Maybe it's acceptance.

Homesick hour, but for what? was the question that never gets answered.

 Here comes the first heat wave/dome of the season and the pool is ready. The bikinis don't fit but the pool is ready. Who gained weight? I did! Probably because of the lead they glued to my soul to keep me grounded. I can work for hours, sweat like a demon whether it be cleaning, gardening, waxing the Jeep but then I just sit like a tired potato and people bring me snacks. The way to Bridget's heart was always lined with cake and it seems like there's no shortage, birthday or otherwise. 

But yeah. Um. Thank god my two piece retro swimsuit fits. It's a high waisted bottom with a shirred halter top and it's so fifties. I love it. The boys don't because they all are perverts but that's fine. I like what I like on them so we're even. 

Wet. board. shorts. Pastel colours and you can see...everything. 

EVERYTHING. 

Life is good.

Also I did not talk about my birthday but I'm still younger than Naomi Watts or Jennifer Lopez at least. I will detail it tomorrow maybe. I need to sleep now. Goodnight.

Didn't expect it but I expected it.

My first world problems of forgetting Nick Cave lyrics (The Carny, of course. It's three times the length of an average tune with a billion and a half words and Lochlan has it tattooed to his soul but I can't remember anything any more, as I am unplugged, deconstructed and subdued) and being extremely irked by Canada Post and UPS and their abject failures in bringing me my things and then setting up the patio lights All By Myself only to discover when I went to plug them in that I started with the wrong end and then had two female plugs-the end of the lights and the extension cord. 

All first world problems, as I said but enough to start a quiet landslide in my brain and then it all stopped when I saw the paper tonight. Or rather, the AP newswire and saw that Heather Armstrong (Dooce herself) has passed away, on purpose even, as if it wasn't written in the cards the way it always is after the fact. 

I read her from the first. And I continued to read until things became darker and darker and I couldn't see any more and there are no blogs I read now because the time has come and gone and the people have come and gone and I'm still here. Never famous or infamous but full of thoughts and opinions no one's going to read or listen to and that's okay. I'll still be here until I am old and blind and still deaf and still trying to remember the words, good, bad and lyrical. 

Her poor children. It doesn't matter what you may have thought of her but it hurts most for those left behind. Be mindful of that.

FUTURE PAST.

IRON. MAIDEN. 

Got the tickets. Andrew and PJ got the rest of the tickets. We're going as a SQUAD. With earplugs though because the first/last Maiden show I went to saw my ears ring for three days straight afterward.

Benzodiazabridge.

PJ made us a couple of surreptitious tequila screwdrivers for dinner, under the guise that whether it be allergies or covid, we will amp up our vitamin intake and the rest seem to have bought it as I am super-extra medicated today and so the evening probably won't end well but the day started alright but then went downhill so quickly. I tried to distract. I pulled out every favour card I had, playing them in turn, a full house, four kings and then the ace. I bargained a ride to the plant shop and bought lavender and barnsley. I bargained for coffee and got homemade. I bargained for sleep and found only darkness and I bargained to keep my ghosts, the only reward being grief in return. 

The ghost crept in close, breathing his cool breath on the top of my head and I checked out. Not every day is going to be a good day, not every step is forward. Sometimes no distractions work at all. The pharmacist had the answer. Pretty sure we keep her in business because Lochlan won't rely on the old doctor or the younger one and brings his own list to the party. 

So yes. Right now you could shoot an arrow through my forehead and I'd probably thank you. 

I still want that lobotomy. Medical care takes so long here.

Absent. Minded.

I had a supplement in my water today for mental energy. Not sure if it's supposed to be obviously but I do feel as though I have given myself a treat so there's that. By treat I mean being kind to myself. Self-care or whatever. It was lemon iced tea flavoured but plant/mushroom based. Not sure about buying it on the regular but August or Duncan always has something like that around. I also bought flavoured herbal teas since I stopped drinking tea over the past year but I love tea and so I'm going to get back into it. 

Lochlan brought me a whole bag of tangelos and a reverse colouring book out to the gazebo today. It's sunny and dry. Jacob is stretched out on his back in the grass, soaking up the sun. Bare feet, shirt unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled up, jeans so soft and ancient they are like a fine cotton. I don't know if his skin will darken into a tan or not anymore. I can't remember. 

I also have a glass of wine that PJ brought me. To settle, he said. He's a big proponent of using liquid fixers to bring things down a notch and believes that alcohol as a depressive serves a grand purpose to quiet, to lull. He's not wrong, though it's frowned upon. 

I am also in jeans and bare feet today. Messy pixie cut, new linen button up shirt to test the fabric. If it's cooler than what I have now I will buy more of these shirts. If not, it's still a natural fabric and will be so comfortable. I had a whole host of torso touch ups yesterday and am hurting badly today but I refuse to admit it out loud. Lots of places coloured in and recoloured, some older work fixed up, some new work added and a lot of laughs while I cried from the pain. It looks beautiful. I don't know how much more I can take. 

It's my turn to make dinner too. I think french dips since they are easy and hugely popular. Then salad the rest of the week because it's going to get super hot. I don't like the heat. Fun.

I watched Obsession so you don't have to (unless you want to, that is, but honestly it's...uh...not great).

 Netflix is a never-ending Christmas morning for me. There's always something to uncover or fire up, always something new and surprising, always something I want to see, plus a host of comfort-viewing if that's what I want but rarely do I rewatch anything at all. 

(Disclaimer: I bought some stock in it this week so if I tout it here can I inflate my values? Worth a shot.)

(Wait, nevermind. Martha Stewart went to jail for that, didn't she?)

(I also have stocks in gold, copper and a heaping pile of tech, plus an equal pile of ETFs. Caleb and I are still in a mad competition to see who is smarter. He will win but I am more clever and far more logical.)

So back to Obsession, which is a fun story for the whole family on what can go wrong if Dad decides to pursue his son's fiance, after said fiance all but jumps on Dad FIRST. Everything goes wrong and this was a loosely-written cautionary tale built on an unstable foundation around some silly sex scenes and a solid amount of full-frontal nudity for Thorin Oakenshield (AKA Richard Armitage, who must have lost a bet or something.)

(It's based on a book called Damage by Josephine Hart. A woman. Not a man. It all makes sense. It's fantasy.)

The most smashing of all was the fact that every time they had sex it lasted less than four seconds and still they managed to gasp and sweat at the same second (the last one). I want to know what drugs they took to pull THAT off and also? Four seconds is not long enough. It was the same vibe as seeing a couple of scuba divers in trouble share a tank. The relief of the breath and then back to counting. 

Hilarious. So hilarious. And then, well, no spoilers but let's just say Thorin was set up to be an extremely accomplished human being and a highly respected one, and I can see him throwing it all away just because some stupid twit showed him her twat and then told him that she 'surrendered' to him. 

You really don't understand a lot of men then, do you? Dalton laughed, but he did so nervously. 

Oh, I do. That's the problem.

Narrator: As it turns out the ghosts were there all along.

I put all of my diamond rings in a little pottery bowl beside the kitchen sink and when I remember, I put them back on, but this is a safe place for them when I am washing dishes, about to head out the side door to do something like recycling or fetch a package from the deep freeze in the garage or about to exit through the patio doors to do a little lawn cleanup/sunrise gardening or even better, hell-bent on throwing my tiny body off a high cliff into the roiling sea.

Everyone says it's fine to wear my best jewellery and just enjoy it. Nah, fam. Missing stones, broken claws and bent shanks aren't my thing. It can wait safely in the little pot I made just for that purpose and also to hold the dog's Trazadone. I feel you, puppy. Lochlan keeps my tranqs upstairs by the bathroom counter but the result? Precisely the same. An agreeable sort of sleepwalking, a casual coma, if you will. 

Jacob doesn't think that's funny. 

Well, you're not here, are you? 

He was my biggest champion. Literally and figuratively, fighting off the shady whims of the boys who always had their best interests at heart first but mine a close second and sometimes I think that they were more relieved than sad when he flew. 

Of course they were. Don't be naive. 

Oh, I'm the least naive person in the world, pretending to be the most naive. It's called self-preservation and again, if you knew anything at all about that, well then you'd still be here, now, wouldn't you? 

He bites his lip not to swear his invisible words in my face while I take my sweet time stacking my rings back onto my finger. 

Where are you going?  

To jump off the cliff. 

The water is two degrees. Can't you go in the pool?

So is your heart. And my skin hates the chemicals in the pool. You know I prefer the ocean. Everyone does.

It's not my heart I'm worried about. 

Hey, mine's broken too if that's what you mean. Can't wreck what's already wrecked. 

Where's Ben? Jacob is starting to mildly panic. He always tried to keep it from me the way a parent tries to with a small child. 

I dunno. 

BRIDGE! 

I hear Lochlan from the orchard and Jacob rolls his eyes. He still here? 

I nod with an evil smile. It makes me laugh, that Jacob reduces Lochlan to a lame joke, as if that would work. 

HERE. I shout back. 

Want to swim in the sea? Lochlan bursts through the door. The water's like three degrees. 

Yeah. Just let me take these off. I pull all the rings off again, pile them in the little bowl and stick my tongue out at Jake for good measure.

Never ever change the song, if there is one.

Today is laundry and mending and Jeeper Creepers sequels (just...hahaha NO) and electroform hobbies and gingko leaves and climbing ladders and plant-triage and listening to some of Lana Del Rey's new album but not all of it. I don't like her falsetto and I freaking adored the Norman Rockwell album and so this is hit or miss. I had coffee and an ice cream sandwich for lunch. The kitten has worms. I am doomed but in a casual way. The house is clean but we track in a fine layer of cherry blossom petals every hour on the hour, it seems. I'm making a couple of hexagon cardigans for Ruth and myself. I'm watching Love is Blind season 4. I'm baking bread and finishing projects and it's light outside until almost eight and it's amazing. 

I had two incredible nights with my CPAP machine, a love like no one else, breathing air into my lungs after Lochlan and Ben take it away. They are  jovial and patient and settling it at last. The Collective is aging, mellowing and finding comfort at last, it seems. It takes forever, it's like a shifting mass of emotions and events. It never stops. And we are learning about each other every day, every hour sometimes. 

I worked today. I scrubbed and polished and I went above and beyond and my boss forget he gave me a raise and paid my old rate. I don't know if I'm going to keep doing it. I don't love it anymore. Did I ever? Not really but it's also an easy way to say I work without working much at all, save for a highly physical few hours a week. It's not glamorous or dignified but it's honest and Lochlan always taught me that was the best way to do anything, if you had a choice. 

He meant the hard way, of course but I understood that part.

End of the road towns.

What's happening, Bee?

I'm moving to Tahsis. 

Where is this?

I show him a few pictures. It's about six hours from here. North of Tofino, mostly. 

Looks like Norway. 

It does, doesn't it? It's the fjords.

The locals won't like you. 

I'll buy their affection. 

That never works out. 

Which house are you looking at? 

Something private. As always. I am planning to move again. The Collective has run its course, I fear. We all scatter to our corners, do our own thing, meet up for meals or major moments, and otherwise I think everyone is about to or currently having a midlife crisis. Again.

What will you do there?

Throw pottery and endear myself to the people. Learn to fish properly, without anyone losing an eye. 

Ah. Buying a boat?

Of course. 

Caleb nods. Want company on your adventure? 

No, I want to go alone. 

Last time you were alone you went crazy.

Funny, since last time I went crazy I wasn't alone. Nope. I'm good.

What about Lochlan?

He may visit. 

Caleb laughs, albeit nervously. What will you eat?

Duh, fish. 

Do you even like fish? He laughs, more confident this time. 

Not really. Sometimes. Depends. 

Maybe you need to find a closer spot. 

Maybe I do. 

I'll help you look. 

No, as I said before, I'm good.

Nice guys.

I was so on board with Promising Young Woman until the stupid trope of lip-syncing in the convenience store/pharmacy/wherever. God. I freaking love musicals, like more than your average person and can do the entirety of Cats, Miss Saigon, Phantom of the Opera, Evita, Rent, West Side Story, A Star is Born and Grease (and more, probably) without pausing to think about the lyrics to the songs and yet if someone starts up a song in the middle of a movie randomly I am SO offended. The first time was Stepmom. The whole singing-in-the-kitchen in a happy moment while the music swells from the radio to surround the film watcher? 

NOPE. HATE IT. 

(This one issue just took over and so I have no social-political rant about the themes of the movie itself. Let's just say pretty much all of my boys were horrified from start to finish by how they all think they would be nice guys too. Until they aren't. Or weren't, I guess.)

Ben and I went for a long walk in the pouring rain this morning so I could forage for sticks to make my own crochet hooks and toggle buttons for sweaters. I am going to give away my sewing machine and stick with what I truly enjoy. I always hated machine sewing anyway. I took a long break from my own crunchiness and now I feel it coming back in tiny puffs of magic just around the edges. Or maybe the long creativity drought has ended. Ha. 

Probably not but I clocked eight full hours on my CPAP machine so things are looking fucking fine today.  

So fucking fine. Watching I See You now. Will report tomorrow.

Pretenders.

Blessings on Ostara, Dear Readers. It's been a productive one for me. 

I worked this morning and noticed someone else had cleaned the windows. Thank God because my elbow hates doing it and I was supposed to do it today since it's warm and rainish and not going to snow for at least a few days. 

I got a raise of 25%. Go me. 

When I got home I brought coffee and then did the floors and then Lochlan and I began the arduous task of trimming back the grapevines before they begin to bud so we can control the extra vines and get the best bang for free. We made a little wine this winter and we'll make some more next winter. I opened a bottle of cherry wine to have with dinner. I've made pies for shepherds and plenty of them and so it will be nice. The wood is laid in the woodstove for a fire tonight and it's supposed to rain. I've lit the last winter candle and plan to move on to the next color tomorrow. The winter ones were red. The spring ones are silver and cream. I'll never buy red again but they were nice all the same. 

Henry loves Shepherd's pie. He's been talking so much about learning my recipes and he watches what we're doing and helps so that when he moves out he can make his favourite meals. My heart pings all the way to my knees every time he does that and I spend more time collecting the tiny pieces of myself that get chipped off all the while chirping about secret ingredients like garlic or basil until I can disappear around the corner and have a tiny cry. I don't want him to feel guilty. You raise your children essentially to leave you, to become independent. It hurt in the weirdest way when Ruth moved out, like the dread of homesickness or the want to turn back the clock to appreciate time just a little more. It's a whole new grief of a completely different kind and I hate it but I welcome it, a job well done, a change in my whole life, a landslide, if you will, apologies to Fleetwood Mac and all. 

Life is so much harder than most people let on. Are they asleep? Medicated better than I am? So much more organized and able to function and deal with every curveball, every fucking bat to the head that they take? Why am I not like that? 

On the upside, the garden is ready. Some day it will be above eight degrees at night and that's when I start to get excited about stupid things like herbs, vegetables and my beloved gigantic dwarf perennials and you will get to hear about that because I don't want to talk about boys lately.

 

Kintsugi Princess, but with silver instead of gold.

I am having a war of attrition with some shitty neighbours up the hill. They hate our tattoos. Like HATE them for whatever reason and scowl in such a sour fashion when they see us. 

So I wave and say Hello fondly, each and every time. Then when they turn their backs I hex them something hard. Lochlan won't let me physically do it so I painstakingly work through a few good ones in my head. I hope it counts. 

For the record they are the low-class ones. If we're being pedantic. We are richer, nicer and have more values overall and I make no apologies to anyone for anything. I will go to heaven when I die, that much I know for sure. I fear I might be alone when I get there but if it all works out I won't mind. 

You just can't hate people because of the way they look. They need to show you how they act or what they believe in. 

Lochlan laughs and says it doesn't matter and if he were an old couple he also might hate the cute bunch down in the big house who practice bagpipes outdoors and are covered with art, if only for missing out on what looks like a fun life, but then again Lochlan was always too generous all the while being suspicious and reserved. 

He didn't want me to grow up being as cynical and bitter as he can be sometimes. Ha. Do I have news for him. 

In other news I tried my frozen fruit roll-up. The drugstore had a plethora of the roll-ups and so I put a couple big scoops in and folded it up and took a bite. It was definitely frozen and there was a definite crunch but it wasn't that great and it's two textures I don't go for and I won't be craving it so we're moving on. 

I also put up my shelves. Longer screws, right in the studs on one side. Didn't even bother with the other side to worry about gyprock or anything. They're up, they're level and my little dudes are living on them now. Next I buy a few huge shelves for the instruments. Those ones will need plaster anchors. I am doomed. I'll make Ben put them up. 

Also the doctor came by today and I got another three months of my favourite amnesia pills, a pat on the head for using my sleep apnea machine and zero digs about my weight. He was kind for once, and I appreciate that. Today would not have been the day to tell me to eat a cheeseburger, let me tell you. 

Also I got cool new runners. Brooks Ghosts! They are amazing. My feet don't slide sideways and they help correct my stupid tendencies to supinate plus my cuboid hasn't bugged me all week. Ah the life of a former long distance runner. Never start. It isn't worth the toll on your body, trust me. Sadly I never did find a way to clear my head any other way so if you have ideas I'm all ears. Actually those don't work either so maybe email me.

Post #2

 Also, things I have learned just this week:

1. If you go to someone with a problem they need to solve and they offer you a bonus if you can take care of it and you agree, they are smarter than you are. But that's okay because they're actually not. It's no big deal if you can't get it done and then they'll HAVE to do it. You might lose the bonus but they still have to find a way to solve that problem. Muhahahahaha.

2. Lactose-free milk is amazing if you can't escape the cloying grip that mini-wheats has on you. But just remember if you eat a cream cheese-iced cinnamon roll and then have caesar salad for dinner you're doomed anyway you dumb lactose-intolerant bitch. 

3. Buying all stationery items covered with Sanrio characters or Studio Ghibli ones means no one will even want to use, let alone pocket your pens and sticky notes.

4. Spring is coming. 

5. If you charm the glass people they will give you a huge discount on your windshield which seems amazing until you remember you paid your comprehensive deductible and that wasn't discounted so I guess you're welcome, ICBC?

6. Guess who did the taxes anyway for five or six of us and they are already submitted and assessed and half of them garnered refunds. Then guess who forget her own fucking security question and has to wait for a code send via letter mail because Canada Revenue doesn't believe I am me in spite of knowing my password and having two-factor auth. I mean, okay but is that a flex when I can access ten accounts overall? Some security they have!

7. Store-brand mini ice creams are HALF the price of Haagen Dazs or Ben and Jerry's and just as good. You're welcome.

8. It's seven degrees and sunny on the beach and the time goes ahead THIS WEEKEND. Who is manic? Not me. Definitely not me. Hahaha.

9. Yes, I bought the ice-cream to try the tik tok challenge of putting a scoop in a fruit roll up. Did the store have fruit roll ups? NO. 

10. I got all my chores done and appointments made because Monday March Break starts for the schools here in BC and I won't be leaving the house until it's finished. Too much traffic. Too many people suddenly. It's like when summer hits and you can't swim naked anymore because there's a huge park just across your little inlet and people might see your tits. I hate it but I love summer. There are those who would point out I have a pool and can swim naked any time but a pool is never the sea. 

She be little but she be fierce, or something.

Hi! So last night I drilled through the HVAC system in the hallway and got yelled at by Lochlan, who really didn't have to do anything, as I was able to knock out enough drywall to put a duct tape patch over said hole and then I was proficient enough to patch my drywall hole with spackle and sand it and I'll paint it later, since the painting that hung in that spot before I decided I wanted my little shelves in that location will cover up my fresh mess nicely. 

He is being sweet this morning because he yelled at me for being too hesitant to put up the shelves in the first place, a job that would have taken him five minutes, tops. I'm a good two hours in now and where are the shelves? On the kitchen island, waiting to be put up. 

It's okay, I'm doing that next. Had to grab the stud finder to prevent any further mishaps, and yes, there are NO studs to be found. Not today, anyway. 

LOL.

BREATHE, dammit.

The new Friday routine is to get absolutely flattened and spun out by Ben, early, when he is sleepy and unself-conscious and then shower and put on warm clothes (-10 this morning WTF) to make the trek next door where I crawl under the covers between Schuyler and Daniel, their little alarm clock as it were, and Schuyler will leave, showering and heading out to get us breakfast, and Daniel and I will put the covers over our heads and scroll the real estate listings, exclaiming over the nicer touches, interesting placements and pretty paint colours and snarking on some of the more ridiculous decor.

Okay, if you're going to have a gorgeous marble desk off the kitchen it needs a knee hole, does it not? 

It KNEES a knee hole? 

Yes, it knees one! 

True. Hey, how about this. Framed over each side of the bed: "Inhale" and "Exhale".

In case you forget? 

That's what I'm thinking. 

I would have to insist they come with the house. And all future builds as a public service announcement.

What the hell is this? 

A very large...vase. For sunflowers? Maybe an umbrella stand?

If people bring their children over you can put them in it to keep them from touching things. 

This is what's it's for. One hundred percent. 

Eventually Schuyler returns with coffee and pastries and we eat those in bed while we report on our finds and he laughs until his cheeks are pink and there are tears in his eyes. All too soon Lochlan is up and dressed and in the doorway and we save our very best observations for him and by the time I crawl out from the cuddles, crumbs and the wifi blanket around me we're all howling. 

It's the best, these Fridays. Better than the old days.

Fuck it.

 Deepfield has a line in Dreams that sings Give me something I can die for. 

I almost wrenched the steering wheel and drove right off the road but instead I jammed the power button so hard it stuck in place and won't come out, even days later so I'll have to take a thin shiv to it on the weekend and see if I can fix it. My fingers still ache from clenching the wheel straight as I finished my trip and returned home. I brought the CD inside and threw it into the recycling bin by the door. 

This is why I listen to mostly Kpop these days. No memories. Zero negative associations. Incredible choreo. 

Halazia on repeat? Yes, please.

Watching soccer with the dentist.

It's the perfect calm before the storm as I have a million appointments this week and the snow and wind loom large. It's fine. I have a truck and an overflow of common sense. If the roads are shit I can cancel every last thing. Nothing is more than twenty-five kilometres away and that is some sort of calming thought to me. 

My speakers are blown in the vintage jeep and there's no bluetooth so I'll take the big one. It's fine. Everything is fine. Did I mention it's all fine? I don't care. I can hibernate until Easter if I must. 

I'm making pancakes and fruit for supper. So exciting. It's Ash Wednesday and then I need to do Lent and every time I turn around Lent is staring me in the face, Sam barely in focus behind it, demanding that I give up something I think I need, something that will be a sacrifice. I raise my eyebrow in his direction and plan to answer later with my decision but for now I am busy. 

You will be thrilled to know that I have no cavities though. I accepted my ever-present lecture, a reminder to brush better, a new toothbrush, floss and paste and a weird realization that I actually enjoyed the soccer game. Usually they put on a home makeover show and I lament the strange choices or corners cut so this was a nice change.

It's a 5th day routine now. WTF.

Breakfast in dishes I made myself. Brewed black coffee with a healthy splash of Maple Rum Cream from home, hastily grabbed at the airport (never again, too awkward), fresh-made pumpernickel bread with a slathering of cottage cheese and a dash of sea salt and cracked pepper and an endless curtain of rain obscuring the sea, and so they turned on the patio heaters and threw a blanket on my favourite chair outside so that I can eat out here and see what the ocean is up to. It's three and a half degrees and by this time next week we'll have snow on the ground but I don't ever waste a view. 

The week was quiet. I didn't get a ton accomplished. I went grocery shopping. I cleaned a little. I worked on finishing the blanket for the dog since one of the new cats has appropriated everything that belongs to him. She wants to love him and so she stole his bed, toys and heart, somehow. He doesn't care about anything but walks, cookies and sleeping beside me. 

I finished the fourth and final season of Ozark alone and hate-loved it. I listened to In the Trees by Stalgia on repeat and then a little more. I finished the mending and started to reconstruct a top that I hate the style of into one that I will love, via patchwork. I didn't walk enough but I did use my sleep apnea machine at night and my lungs are huge and tender and my eyes are clear. 

It's working and I don't wake up every three minutes any more. 

Yay?!

I'm awake.

What would you like for Valentine's day?

A Roset Ducaroy velvet circular sofa. Actually two of them, one for the living room and one for the theatre room. 

What a stupid question, Diabhal, I think to myself. What does any woman want for Valentine's Day? Precious gems and flowers, maybe dinner and dancing. Perhaps a break from being rescued and the endless mansplaining or gaslighting. I don't know. Pick a dart and hit a balloon, any balloon. This isn't hard. 

Seriously? 

Of course not. 

Let me write it down though. Duke-

I was teasing. 

I see. 

I'm good though. 

Bullshit. 

Well it's too late for breakfast in bed but I did snag the leftovers for lunch so I'm feeling fine. 

Let's talk about that. 

Did you want the food? I didn't know-

No, about how you are feeling-

Fine (Aside from going into a fugue state six or seven days a week. Other than that...well, really really really good.).

Glad to hear it. The relief in his voice of being let off the hook makes me sad.

Something there to remind me.

 NO. NOT BURT BACHARACH. WTF GOD.

Lochlan used to spend a lot of time singing Arthur's Theme (The Best That You Can Do) when I first met him. It would be months before I would hear the Christopher Cross soundtrack version and I always told Lochlan I liked his version better but damn if Burt didn't have such a huge and varied body of work. A lot of songs you will recognize and a lot that might surprise you. 

Anyway, I'll be busy the rest of the day erecting a statue to this man inside my head. Not sure where to put it, perhaps on the rubble of where the memory thief destroyed my former office digs. Or maybe just tucked somewhere in a corner as part of my weird and wonderful vernacular. I'll find a spot and let you know.

This just in: no one is shocked anymore.

Sigh. Really angry right now. Not in the mood to write. I have to make some meatloaves and start some baked potatoes. I have to chill out a bit but I am averaging three hours sleep a night and as I said, not in the mood. 

Whoever thought it was prudent to report a three-year-old post about sword swallowing needs to fucking chill, too. I didn't post a how-to, I posted an almost-died but apparently it fell under the dangerous activities warning and is now behind a warning. It's fine. I warn you more than Google does that what I write isn't ever for the faint of heart nor is it for the easily-offended or closed-minded but if you refuse to listen then go find a farming blog to read or something. As I always say, this will never be it and if you aren't interested in my own private brand of random memories and what's for dinner, you're free to leave. Or email me if you have a beef but reporting posts, especially old ones is shitty and pointless. It's not like they took it down for your efforts, it now just comes with a little yellow bar that says 'hey don't sword swallow if you don't know what you're doing' which is what I said in the fucking post ANYWAY. 

My meatloaf is really good, by the way. And blame the stupid person who tried to fuck with me as the reason I won't bother detailing the last eight days I missed posting. I can pull the whole thing down at any time. I've done it twice before.

Trigger locked.

What was once a comfort now seems a curse. Jacob would have hated this life for sure (and he did, hence the knees-bent and arms outstretched swan dive, or so I imagine whenever I close my eyes) and I'm not sure we like it any more than that. Days are spent in gratitude and deep conversational therapy. Ideas are deployed, tested and then evaluated for change or success. Every day ends in a post-mortem of discussing events or rough moments. I eat too much. I don't sleep enough. They let me drink, if I so choose. I want to finish a book, get lost in a movie, or begin a painting but I can't. It's far too cold to get messy with throwing on the wheel, as my clean-up routine involves the house by the garage and the gravel side parking in the driveway as I refuse to be the guy who fucks up the sink in my studio with clay.

So I am aimlessly wander, a tortured soul on earth mimicking the footsteps of my angel in heaven. 

I asked nicely to be taken off these pills. It's been *almost* a year. The answer came back with a resounding denial. I researched stopping them myself and found out you can taper by opening them up and counting out the little balls. I opened one and found discs. Six of them. I took three and had a bad day. I won't do that again. Maybe they will decrease the dose when we hit one year. I've missed a lot of joy in that one year and a lot of writing and creativity too but I've also not had an anxiety shadow looming over me. I've had a bunch of panic attacks. I've had breakthrough fear but mostly I've just withstood and withdrawn, a capable tiny woman in a silent world who hasn't been a handful in a long time and now grows the risk of becoming an afterthought, a warm breeze through an open window, a less sparkling version of She who I once was, flaws and all. Is it better? No. It's like I am the best cup of coffee you've ever had and suddenly someone appears at your table and begins to pour an entire pitcher of milk into it, until it overflows the rim of the cup and begins to bloom across the tablecloth and drip onto the floor. Is it still coffee? Vaguely. Can you still drink it? I guess so. 

Is it good? 

No. 

I tell this to Lochlan and he laughs and kisses my forehead. 

Is it necessary? Yes, Peanut, it is. You're still here. I promise. 

But we know about Lochlan's promises and his bold reassurances that he has no way to guarantee, let alone fulfill. We know he has the want to console the crying child but can he? I shake my head. 

A facsimile. 

I can barely tell.

A perfect clone. 

Hardly, Bridge. The words come with a knife edge, suddenly as his patience is cut clean through and he changes the subject. Let's go see Ruth today. 

Please. 

And get some sleep tonight.

I shrug. I can guarantee one, just not the other. Sleep is for people at peace. Death is for people at war. 

I know what you're thinki-

No, you don't. 

We're not at war. It's peacetime.

If you say so.

It's been a really busy week. Busy organizing and cleaning the house, early spring cleaning, as it were. Burns Night. University transcripts in the mail. Dog rebounding. Cat warming up. Long bitch sessions in the hot tub and in the living room. Hot chocolate to the point where I should just open my own cafe for I am constantly making it lately. Furniture rearranging and planning for a little bit of paint and polish to the house when it warms up. It's supposed to drop down very cold tonight so this morning Lochlan and Ben and I took our weekend walk on the beach while we could. It's too slippery to walk on the rocks when it's below freezing and though I do love to be throw off the cliff and swimming back around to the beach, January is rarely the month in which I do it with any regularity. I can't say the same for every other month, but lately I want to be comfortable. I feel old and tired in my bones. 

Lochlan said that will get better as I get used to it just being the usual crew on hand. 

I wonder if he's right. This is the lull between seasons, between holidays and between storms. I've started pulling tax papers together. I've started wearing Valentino lipstick. I've begun to think less about what's for dinner and more about how I can relax. I haven't slept much but eventually I will. I continue to pledge to post properly even though my head is in the clouds or in the dirt on any given day and since we had our Burns Night supper the days are indeed seeming a little longer at last. 

That's good.

Oh look, nothing again.

I made a mountain of my famous mashed potatoes to go with dinner (chicken and zucchini) and there was none left for tomorrow's lunch. I should have known, but I wondered if anyone was hungry as they were all snacking around three this afternoon and I figured a light dinner would be enough. 

Now it's all finished and the whole kitchen has been scrubbed and all of the pots and pans and dishes too and the time machine is loaded and ready and I'm going to head down to Dalton and Duncan's to watch Singles Inferno and drink tea (DO NOT BUY THE TETLEY LIVE THEY ARE BAD). If I can stay awake, that is. 

In other news, we've finished Bling Empire: New York. It was terrible. The music was terrible. Their voices were terrible, the fashion was mostly bad and the whole thing screamed set-up and everyone was made to be a villain. 

Ha, sounds like my house.

Live, laugh, Be Cremated.

I received a (very) belated Christmas gift this afternoon from a not-close acquaintance. It was a reclaimed barn board hand-painted sign with a pretty ribbon for hanging. Very farmhouse. Very pretty. Very much a catalyst for the longest dinner debate we have ever had, I think. 

The signs says, and I quote, Don't let your dreams be dreams. 

And I know what the sentiment is supposed to be, but I just can't get past the fact that it seems like it means that your dreams are worthless so don't even bother. The boys, in trying to find kindness, point out that it means not to leave them as 'just' dreams, but to make them your reality. 

Then it is worded wrongly. Clumsily.

I had to hang it in the garage. Kind of wish it read YoU cAn ChAnGe YoUr OwN oiL, GiRlFrIeNd! or something less cutting, but here we are. 

Merry Christmas. 

Is it over yet?

Pussy riot.

Which one would you like? 

All of them.

He sighs a long sigh and checks his watch and then gets up to go to the front desk to let them know. 

I'm kidding. I don't think I can choose in a day. We'll come back. 

Another sigh, another time check. We stopped for a quick cup of coffee and visited a kitten shelter and now I can't leave. All the cats love me except for the ones that don't. My black outfit is now laced with cat hair and I'm wondering if I should add this twelve year old ginger diabetic to the mix. Or maybe the tuxedo. All of them. Perhaps this ancient chocolate point Siamese wants to yowl in a home of his own. 

I could but I won't. I'm already the crazy lady. We don't need to add cat to that description. Plus we have a new cat since just before winter and she's a dream.  But Caleb humours me in whatever I want when we are out and about and today we had a bunch of rare Saturday appointments at the lawyers office to shore up 2023 as the year we don't change anything at all, and so it was a bunch of new signatures to carry forward and the more things change, the more they stay exactly the same. 

I did, however, find a Van Cleef and Arpels charm as we walked. It's very pretty. I bet someone was pissed but what can I do? It's a needle in a haystack kind of problem but if you've lost one and you can describe it hit me up. Not my taste. I like finding dollar bills in pockets or on elevator floors. I never look up, just in, he said and I agreed in order to point out the luck of looking lets you find things and I will forever be the magpie sitting on my tiny trove of treasure. 

Just one maybe? Choose one you like. 

Is he talking about charms, cats or...men? I could never pick just one, and I no longer know what we're talking about as he holds out my coat for me to slip into and we're off for home.

The guests have gone and they took my smooth brain with them.

What do you want to do today?

Pick up some extra gas cans, ammo, cash and solar panels. Maybe guns. 

Wait, what?

I've gone down a rabbit hole reading about the WEF. It's ninety-nine percent entertainment and one percent doomscroll. It's wrapped up in an ugly package and it just makes sense. I feel guilty for using private planes. I feel dumb for having taken the vaccine. I feel helpless in the face of a world without power or internet and dammit, we just adopted an orphaned broken electric mower and fixed it to use and I conquered it handily (you have to do a series of movements to start it) and so I don't want to give that up. But I also think some stacks of cold hard green and a stockpile of weapons (I saw The Road) are a good way to go for now. If the cyberattacks come or the electromagnetic pulses or whatever they have planned hit, we need to be ready. 

I love conspiracy theories. Love them love them. Especially since some of them are glaringly true.

A brief update on why there are no updates.

A revolving door of Christmas and post-holiday visitors keeps me from being able to write. A rock in my jeep wheel means we have a project for the weekend. A new study points out the huge quantities of lead and cadmium in dark chocolate (of all things) and I am ready for a vacation or at least a bottle of wine and a spate of horror movies in a row, all to myself. That's my reward for all this and *checks watch* next Wednesday will be the day, barring any further FAA issues, that is. 

I'm making Caleb watch k-pop videos (okay, just one, actually: Halazia). I'm making Lochlan study rudimentary hurdy gurdy playing, as we are considering having one made for Henry, and I'm listening to The Arcadian Wild all the damn time now, because it's like Nick Drake but with bluegrass. Ruthie is knee-deep in taxes, having had a banner year and then some working her butt off and it reminds me that tax time is coming (haha please kill me) and I need to maybe double my pills. My skin is finally clear after months of antibiotics and so a breather from the eczema is so nice, but my fingers are all split on the tips and it doesn't help that I heavy-clean the office each Monday for my employer and he says I should chill but dirt is bad for business and I just coat my fingertips in lanolin overnight. 

The new cat settles in on the bed each night too. It's amazing. 

The good news is our guests love to eat out, and so cooking is on the light side. They also aren't my guests and so short of small talk and asking them if they need anything I am off the hook. I love that. 

In other news, all of the Christmas gifts I ordered from overseas are still in the mail system. Hahahaha.

Feeling useless when in pain.

Ben is busy setting up my iphone again. He has a crazy EQ on it to change the songs to be very vocal-centric for me so I can hear them properly. Something broke after the last update and I can't hear it to set it up properly. The joys of being deaf, let me tell you. Deaf enough to need all this help but hearing enough to function so that others don't understand how frustrated I get.

And when I get frustrated the whole world caves in because if ever there were an issue of main character syndrome it would be here on the point, and it would be me. 

In other news, we took the dog for a swim, and we went for breakfast, and it was so late I have a headache from the distinct lack of eight-in-the-morning-sharp coffee, and we got some bacon on the side to feed to the dog because I have decided that his moments of clarity are getting further and further apart and so every day I try to make sure he spends his happiest moments. He sleeps next to me in bed, he gets fifty treats a day if he wants. 

But I still have a headache. 

The boys want to go see Avatar so I told them to go. I don't want to see it. I want to nap and listen to music and paint and draw and make things but I am also so tired. I don't think the sleep apnea thing is going to get anywhere, Rather than fucking with the symptoms I want to fix the root cause and see a specialist. My doctor is strangely not on board so I'll have to put him on board somehow but I will deal with that in a week or two. Once the headache goes away.

The eleventh day of Christmas.

We are...drinking Sazeracs and having an all-day horror fest that consists of putting every new horror movie we haven't seen on Netflix yet onto a piece of paper and drawing them one at a time. I wish for a sweet black licorice death at this point, let me tell you as most of them are worse than bad and I can't name what I love about  my slasher movies so much except that if people are outside running away from maniacs in the dark I am there in spirit. Maybe it's because I couldn't run from my own monster? Maybe it's because the monster is inside. I don't know, I just know that I am almost drunk, and there's a storm coming. The wind is warm and fierce suddenly, the rain is moving in and the seas feel wrong. The moonlight is off. The neighbourhood is pitch-quiet and Ben is already fast asleep in the theatre, taking up three places on the huge sectional instead of the usual two. Boys come and go. Dinner arrived, and lunch did too at one point. I ate some jelly beans in between. At one point, Caleb came down for a visit, hand snaking around my throat to tip my head back for a brief kiss before the glare of the redhead filled my peripheral vision and I told Caleb to either sit and watch or go out and I'll see him later. He's promised me a storm walk tomorrow which is beach combing when the tide begins to furl in against the shore, a dangerous time but also the time with the highest rewards.

I hope the power stays on.

8:05/4:25

And just like that Henry has graduated from university. Wow. When I started writing here he was a thirty-pound toddler straining my back and my brain with being so incredibly like and unlike Ruthie and he worried me more but less and he remains a twin to her but his own person just the same. 

I am so proud of him and I can't believe that's it. No more school for him. No more lunch bags, no more tuition, no more working on projects and waiting forever for marks. No more any of it. 

It was a wonderful end to a very long day. I worked today and after a two week break all of the plants were half-alive and everything was so grimy. It's an office with crazy windows and a partial atrium ceiling so they have so many tropical plants and yeah...the heat was cranked and the plants were suffering so I turned it way down and gave everything a long drink and then cleaned for a few hours. Then I rushed home because the dog is getting old and having separation anxiety issues and I didn't want him to get too upset and now I'm going to surprise the boys with hot turkey sandwiches and stuffing because there weren't any leftovers after our big Christmas dinner and so I picked up extra and I'm roasting more turkey breast and making gravy and I know they will be excited. Definitely a whole new sort of countdown to longer days, as suddenly the thought of an endless dark January isn't so bad right at this moment.