Buttered toast.

   So if you wake up with the sunrise
    And all your dreams are still as new
    And happiness is what you need so bad
    Girl, the answer lies with you

Jacob's unruly blonde locks, perpetually-bearded face, mirthful blue eyes and easy-going smile with his giant white chicklet teeth framed by the deepest dimples you'll ever witness belie his intelligence. His looks scream hippie college drop-out, his very-tall, slightly disheveled, worn-denim appearance leaving you to think that he's about to pick up a guitar and sing a Nick Drake song and maybe light up a bong before telling you that Yes, God loves you, brother. Or more likely Peace, man.

He likes it that way. He said it takes the pressure off, no one expects much of him and so people listen when he talks. He has a very deep and surprisingly loud voice, which probably helps. He's no wallflower, definitely no pushover and really, he can be quite a hardass when he wants to be.

He's very smart, very civic-minded, very politically active and up on current events.

I'm actually the cute one. It's a running joke.

Smart guy that he is, I caught him spiking my juice with my pills this morning. Like he's done every day because I wasn't taking them. Which is why I felt exactly the same. For the past few days I wasn't so sure if I should be thrilled that I didn't have effects from stopping them so abruptly or if I should be devastated because I still felt like I had the emotional capabilities of a dessert fork.

I think I've met my match. Though since I'm obviously not that bright anymore, I'm not sure what matches, other than our hair color and possibly our sex drive. Thank God.

Ha. I have no train of thought today. Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you an old story about drugs and karaoke and being carried out of a bar to thunderous applause.

Painted penitence.

One of Jacob's many talents lies in his ability to be very upset with someone and still coexist in a slightly-removed, invisibly perfunctory manner with that person. He did it with Cole for most of their friendship. He's been doing it with me for four days now. I know I upset him, insulted him. I know he's disappointed in me, I know I twisted his screws and for maybe the third time ever in my life with him I hit bone. Being as laid back as he is, he's very hard to rattle with mere words. You have to be very certain of whatever verbal pain you're about to inflict, for mostly it will miss the mark, until you sharpen the point just a little more and dip it in poison. Then, when you're very determined, it's going to go all the way in.

The worst thing? He'll leave that arrow in. Because the pain is new. And because he wants you to have a visual reminder that you might possibly have mortally wounded the Nicest Guy On Earth.

In reality? It's a flesh wound. He knows I lash out when I'm frustrated. He's done it himself.

He made me pay for it with silence. And waiting. And wearing his arrow all over the place. I stood in the doorway of the den last night for almost two hours minutes staring at him (which is very very fucking hard. Almost like spoon torture.) and he pretended he was busy. I gave up and went to bed. He followed, to sleep holding me in his arms, his favorite spoon, but not speaking of the arrows I had hurled at him.

It serves me totally right. I was so ready to congratulate him for winning the silent treatment contest this morning over breakfast. I go crazy over that stuff. I will chew my own leg off before I give in. And I'm just plain horrid to be around when he doesn't respond to me.

He poured my coffee and brought it out to the table just like he always does. I thanked him like he was a stranger and then tasted it. Ack. It was from yesterday. It was ice-cold. I decided I would drink it. Because it helped to illustrate the entire old, stale, miserable off-tasting argument that we were indulging in. That coffee signified the bitterness that had seeped into our proverbial life's cup. It was awful. But dammit, I drank it because it's what I deserved.

He was trying not to laugh. I was halfway through silently naming him every swear word that I had in my arsenal (which is pretty immense, varied and wonderful colorful) while I sipped from my mug and made faces at it. Then I noticed his shoulders were shaking and he was biting his tongue.

Princess, I can't let you drink any more of that.

No, it's fine, thank you.

Stop it. Put your petulance away and come and hug me like you mean it. Then I'll get you a real cup of coffee and we can talk about how we're going to make this work. We haven't come this far to fuck it all up now, have we?

I shook my head and the bitter taste left my mouth. I watched his genuine smile emerge, and with that action he pulled out the imaginary poisoned arrow and we spent the rest of the morning together, with very good fresh coffee, painting the floor in the porch and talking about how we weren't going to fly off any more handles. That was for me, because Jacob threatened to tape me to the floor if I did.

And I apologized profusely for my hurtful comments. Being a gracious man, Jacob merely pointed out that I might be right. When there was no commitment, no pressure and no way for him to cross those boundary lines from friend to lover, life was easier between us because his hands were tied. He also pointed out that I am doing something he didn't expect. I'm running from him. When things get bad I push him away and I fight him and I look everywhere but at him to help. Which is what I had to do with Cole, and it's so ingrained now it's an automatic reflex. Here I've been asking Jacob to fix everything and then not letting him do anything.

The revelations are so huge, and they just keep coming. Something's working. Either way I don't feel insane today, and that's something. Huge. Revolutionary in my tiny kingdom.

The porch sure looks pretty, too.

Frailty.

    See my shadow changing
    Stretching up and over me
    Soften this old armor
    Hoping I can clear the way
    By stepping through my shadow
    Coming out the other side
    Step into the shadow
    Forty six and two are just ahead of me.
The largest ongoing argument has finally paled and taken a back seat to something bigger than both of us. My hearing aids are in a drawer now. Sometimes I put them on and then within a couple hours they're right back in the drawer. Ben, who will be thrilled to know he can still cause problems for me without even being present, has provided to be the cause of the permanent end of commenting on this journal. I don't want to read what he has to write. And Cole, still wreaking havoc from hell, because I know he wouldn't have wanted it any other way where I and especially where Jake, is concerned. Here, honey, lap it up with a spoon.

What's come to pass is that I finally figured it out. My so-called princess complex isn't even remotely as invasive and unwelcome as Jacob's need to be my savior. His need for control of my well-being. Which is still only vaguely different and separate from whatever Cole would do that left him in control of me.

This weekend I got time off for good behavior. Because I, at this point, am fumbling for some screws of my own to twist. Jacob let me have the bottle and told me I was doing great and I should be fine to take the pills on my own. Because hey, we've already been struggling mightily with the parent/child thing and would like to put that to bed. So he gave up the pills in a show of good faith. He has faith. He's a good person.

And I promptly stopped taking them. Because, well, obviously I can be a child. Immature, petulant, whatever favorite description you've got for my misbehavior, put it here. Not so good of a person, struggling with faith. Hell, struggling with everything.

I didn't stop taking them to set myself back, or to be a brat. It's simple. He cannot see it.

I wanted my own damn control.

I'm going to take charge. So I'm going to heal via the time and space method. i.e. the more time and space I can put between myself and the bad things that have happened in the past six months, the better off I will be. No more pills, no more sessions, no more emotional barometer readings, no more bullshit disguised as help in the form of constant reminders. Every time I get somewhere I feel like I can't get it out, or worse, I heal over so very slightly and then the wounds are ripped open again and I'm forced back to the beginning.

I'm not a fucking mental patient. Hell, everyone's depressed, suffers from some sort of bullshit. Everyone's questioned their value, their sanity, their ability to navigate their life without hiding behind a label. I spent twenty years quashing that stupid depression label. It's not lost on me that that label is just about as old as my previous marriage.

Which speaks volumes. Loud ones.

I did it before without pills. Cole wouldn't let me take them. Hell, I tried to kill myself and then I smartened the fuck up and got over it. Jacob wants promises that I'll never do that again. I can promise him until I'm blue in the face, hiding behind the label that says I'm not so sure. Or I can step out and be accountable and let him off the hook for my emotional well-being.

And he can stop being the second control freak I've ever loved.

Someone once said You teach people how to treat you. Well, so far I've been teaching everyone I know how to destroy me. Where my weaknesses are, what my flaws are and how to expose them. How to tweak my fragility just enough to push me as far as I can be pushed.

They like me that way. I'm not stupid. Bridget does pain beautifully. Give her just a little more, please.

Claus said he would speak to me soon and he wished me well. Because he thinks I'm coming back eventually. My doctor told me not to stop taking my medication cold-turkey. There is no other way for me. Jacob is traveling a bumpy road between amusement, incredulity, pride, anger and disappointment, as he tries valiantly to extricate himself from settling into the role as my keeper and find his place as my husband. Him trying to live hands-off is like asking him to reach up and fish me a star out of a midnight sky.

I wonder who will last longer.

This morning I told him I think I loved him more when he had absolutely no say in my life and how I lived it but I knew he was there. Then I broke into a million pieces. Because I hurt him.

He didn't even try to fix that, he just turned and walked away.

The hardest part isn't letting go- it's holding on.

Jacob, what is this?

Let me see...oh, that's just..nothing.

It wasn't nothing. Several days ago I noticed a folded piece of paper balanced on top of the wastebasket in the den, as I finally felt enough energy to clean a little, I reached under the desk to empty the basket and my fingers fell on the paper instead. It was notes for a sermon. Jacob usually writes out his sermons or even types them up on the computer and then works at them out loud until he no longer needs the notes, but he never ever throws the notes away or deletes them. This one appeared to be complete, and new, for I had never heard it before. I sat down in the chair and read it, starting with the title "Let your Life Speak". I was in tears before I got to end, knowing full well why it ended up in the wastebasket. It was dated for October 1. Which meant that was the date he wanted to deliver that sermon, to herald the arrival of fall here in the city, turning over a new leaf, letting the actions you choose tell of your character, of your faith, of your love of God, of being who you should be, who you want to be.

Instead Jacob spent October 1 in a waiting room biting his nails and trying to hold himself together while I was in surgery fighting for my life. Our baby was gone, the kids once again with the neighbors while we inhaled the acrid antiseptic scent of life interrupted.

But it isn't nothing. It's some of the most beautiful writing he has ever done. It showed the most joy and enthusiasm for life that I have ever read from him and I didn't want it to disappear. I brought it to him and asked him, hoping he'd look at it again and decide that he could still deliver it with the same emotions.

Only he can't. Right now he wants to be protective and strong and grateful. He feels like trying to give the sermon anyway would weaken him, would expose us to raw wounds and would hurt so deeply once again. He's patient to wait. He's aware that we are catching up, and that we can only go so fast. Healing takes time. Or at least that's what he always tells me.

So with that in mind, I folded it up again and put it away, at the bottom of a drawer containing various treasures like extra skeleton keys for the bedroom doors and Ruth's stray hair ribbons, a tin car that my Dad gave to Henry and three silver baby spoons, my skating badges, extra copies of photos from Jacob's collection and emergency phone numbers for the church.

Jacob, you told me once that when you struggle to deliver a message that you learn the most. Maybe you should give this one.
Inwardly right then, I wanted to ask God why I always make Jacob cry, but I didn't. Instead I hugged him as hard as I could, not letting go. Because he needs comfort as much as anyone. Even with the wings. And the tears.

He's going to preach that sermon this morning.

Mush.

Don't think I don't pinch myself four hundred times a day for having married Jacob.

For all the arguments the bitter people give about what romance means, what it is and even if it really exists I wish they could meet Jake. I really do. Because you could never fully appreciate these entries that I write, the stories I try to tell, until you've seen him in person. The way he looks at me stabs my heart in half and then mends it again, every single time.

He's not a typical man. I couldn't have written him better than he exists now, it just isn't possible. And worse yet he goes out of his way to sweep me off my feet and I'm left with fragments of words and pieces of sentences and there's simply no way in hell it translates to this page. No way in hell.

Sometimes the grand gestures like his hot air balloon proposal and the 35-day anniversary dinner get overshadowed or must take their place alongside the sweeter simpler ones, like the middle of the night cake picnics. And I don't write about half of them when I have other things on my mind, so picture that, if you can.

Or like leaving the backyard this morning and finding our initials carved (lightly because he didn't want to hurt it) into the tree by the gate. That wasn't there yesterday. But this morning, clear as daylight:

J & B 4FR

Aw.

I think he was really appreciative of the fact that when he got up this morning, his longjohns were on the radiator.

Omnia vincit amor.

Literally translated from Latin it means Love conquers all. Truer words were never spoken. It's a motto that Jacob spouted last night when I complained to him that my doctor isn't cooperative. Jake just laughed and pointed out that I may feel much perkier this week but that doesn't mean my body is back to one hundred percent yet and he's glad we're waiting a few more weeks, so that he doesn't have to worry he might set me back, or hurt me unknowingly.

Hmmph.

All this translates into...a very grumpy Bridget.

A very grumpy unsatisfied Bridget.

Also stinging is the return to the routine of busy weekends. Jacob returned to work yesterday. He missed it. Two loves in his life and I think he needs a break from the one that complains. I'm harmless though. He knows I will wait for him with anticipation and that I'm just huffing and puffing because there isn't much else I can do about it except relish the extra rest and TLC. He did promise several treats for the family this weekend though that will help spend the time we have banked: a trip to the pumpkin patch, some bubble teas and a movie marathon.

What could be better than that?

Mission.

I may be the worlds' most beautiful and unpredictably narcoleptic zombie, but I'm not a procrastinator.

I put in a message to my doctor asking him to call and let me know if there's any real reason why I can't have sex right now (well, not RIGHT now, you know what I mean) if I feel like I can. I'm not in pain, I managed to shingle half a roof last weekend so you know, let's get a move on. It's been three weeks. He's going to laugh. I know it.

I'm telling you because sometimes I type when I wait. Jacob is at work rolling his eyes right now because I called him first and told him what I was going to do. He should be here running his ridiculously long warm fingers down the back of my neck and torturing me like he did this morning while I hit the snooze button repeatedly because it felt so nice (no, not hitting the button, his fingers on my neck).

Instead I'm left here alone eyeing the breadsticks maliciously.

In other news, because there's more to life than my sex woes (ha! NO THERE ISN'T!) Lochlan called to check in from his explorations in Hogtown, which he corrected me with after I called Toronto the 'hot potato'. Oops. When he was finished laughing at with me he said they were condo-shopping in the suburbs. He's lucky he's not going into the same winter we are here. And he knows it. After ten minutes of listening to him talk about the warmer temperatures they have down there I began to ignore him and went back to oogling the breadsticks.

Because, well, Jacob is still at work. Bedtime is two hours away for the kids and my doctor is going to make me suffer. I know it.

Sigh.

Bridget 101.

Is that a class in learning Bridget? Are you kidding? It would take too long and would have to be graded on a curve, because no one could hope to pass. Like Quantum Physics. Or Probability and Statistics.

Is it a movie? Nope, I wouldn't call it something that dull. I would pick something like I Know What You Did Twenty-three Summers Ago. Or....The Notebook. Oh wait, that one's taken.

Is it the first version of my clone? Just in time. We have a ton of appointments today and seem to be home for mere minutes at a stretch. But that would be a little creepy and frankly I'm not sharing Jacob with anyone, even myself (har), so no.

I wish I had a drumroll.

101 is...

...my weight.

Yes! Everyone do a little cheer. The mighty little one has finally hit the magic number. I'm going to try and add at least 9 more. I'm getting lots of help from the people at Cadbury, who in conjunction with my favorite grocery store, have conspired to fatten me up like a Christmas Turkey by putting all the Halloween candy on sale and then putting it right! in front! of where! the carts are!

And Bridget can't resist candy. Ever.

And now hopefully the strangely fascinating comments about me possibly only weighing half of what Jacob weighs will stop. Because that was weird. And besides, he has measured in at 187 so fuck off guys. I never hit 93.5 and hopefully I never will.

Fairest one of all.

In the interest of playing fair and making up for my last few posts, I'm going to point out my own embarrassments, the little idiosyncratic habits or displays of my own shortcomings. Besides, Jacob is such a good sport about it. Some days I think he's simply happy to be breaking the minister mold-how many ministers do you read about who even shower with their wife, or get nightly lap dances, let alone rip off her panties every chance they get?

I didn't think so.

So...Bridget's shameful habits...

Well...uh....

*crickets*

(whistles and looks at the sky)

Okay, I give. Besides stealing the icing out of every Oreo and eating all the chocolate that crosses my path, I'll cop to the following:

    * I bite pencils. Not all of them, only the yellow ones with the gold-colored collar that surrounds the eraser. And I only bite the collar. It'll give you an electrical shock if you do it just right. Which is a little thrill in itself. All the pencils in this house have squished tops with bite marks.

    * The inappropriate fondling. I really am awful. Jacob is always fishing my hands out of places they don't belong, out from under his shirttails, out of his pockets, pulling my fingers out of his hair, or his ears. In public. At home I'm worse. I'm a toucher, I make no apologies. On second thought, it's his fault. He's too adorable to resist.

    * I'm a human noisemaker. If I'm not playing music and talking a million miles an hour, I've got a range of gasps and hums and various little one or two syllable exclamations that round out my crazy facial expressions. The noises never stop. I don't hear them, I feel them. And worse yet, sex is simply the greatest outlet for all these noises to come out all at once. Seriously. I can't explain it. We can be completely melted into each other and all these little orgasmic noises will come out of my mouth and Jacob will start to laugh because he can't help it. He says I sound like a mogwai. Which would mean that for all those people wanting to know what it's like to sleep with me? Well, apparently it's like being in a bad eighties horror movie.

Right. I did say I was perfect. Yes, I think I said that maybe more than once. I must rethink that. Because the Oreo thing, well that's just wrong.

Bullets over Tuesday.

    * Comments are off, I think I'll just leave them that way. I get a ton of email but very precious few comments. Is that normal in the blogging world?

    * I'm really not sure what it is about Switchfoot but I really really love them. I think this song is going to be as big for them as Dare you to Move was. It's still my ringtone. Yes, me. The Tool girl.

    * I have a second TV show. I know I said I only ever watch Lost but I've added What About Brian? to my weekly television watching. It's really well done and I look forward to next week every time.

    * Mittens. What the hell? Every thumb has a hole in it. Every single one. I think I need to have some words with my Grandmother. She's my mitten dealer. First ones free...actually all of them are free so I probably shouldn't complain. And now I know why she taught me to sew. And knit. So I can fix her sloppy work. Oh I'm kidding. She's 90, I'm thrilled she still makes my mittens. Even though the kids have cold thumbs.

    * You know you married the right man when you can scrape all the icing off the inside of an Oreo with your teeth and pass him the now-blank, slightly moist wafers and he eats them, without even blinking. Please remember, this is the same man who PEES ON ME in the shower. And not in a freaky, fetish-y kind of way, but in a frat-boy, practical joke kind of way. I think he just likes to hear me scream in terror. Or laughter. It's a mix of both, really.

Oh, he's going to kill me now.