No rain, just words.

No rain, just words.

I'll start on the negative and end on the positive.

To the reader who attempted to rain on my parade by telling me I was a spoiled girl, throwing a brat-attack after your husband busts his ass to make magic for you, it was less of a bratty moment and more of a moment in which I had to do something before I cracked in half again and it would have occurred regardless. It's not like I was only attending therapy in hopes that he would reward me with a trip. Don't forget he tried to take us away for Christmas and I asked him not to, preferring not to travel during the holidays when things are so hectic. He likes to plan surprises, he doesn't dangle things in front of me. Attacking me while you have only half of the information is a fruitless endeavour, my friend, just because I post some revealing moments doesn't mean I share everything.

Jacob doesn't need anyone to defend him, I take his criticism when he gives it, he doesn't require help in that department. In fact, he's one of the few people in this world that I can't distract at all when it comes to having his say. He's not afraid to cut me down, piss me off or leave me sitting in a room by myself when he's had enough bullshit. Trust me, I can't fool him any more than I could lift him. He's good at handling life. He's good at...handling me.

And so on to the sunshine.

We're all packed! There is a mountain of gear in the back porch and all that's left now is to pick up Bailey after dinner tonight and then we leave very early tomorrow morning, back late on Sunday afternoon. I won't be posting again until Monday. Will you miss me?

We haven't had a block of alone-time like this for a while now and we're both looking forward to that moreso than anything else.

While I'm gone, here's something to tide you over, A list of 25 of my favorite bloggers. There is more, of course, which I'll save for another day. Enjoy!

Blue Poppy
The Boyfriend Files
Broken Cow
Diaries of a Pumpkin Princess
Elation
Evil Heshley is Dead
Geek, Inc.
Hard to Believe I did it Again, Eh? I know, not really.
In my Element...
Ice Queen on Defrost
Kikiville
{love, Joleen}the blog
Madhatter
Paravonia
Potor Can't Write
Rising With Grace
Rockstar Mommy
Rude Cactus
The Sound of your Heart
Thimble
Sweetpeas
Switchfeed
Waiter Rant
Waiting for my Husband
Yah Lah Yah Lah

Ollie ollie oxen free.

(Because normal isn't good enough for this man.)

I was sitting at Jacob's desk writing yesterday morning, stealing his laptop. Sunglasses perched on top of my head because I always forget to leave them by the door, pencil clenched sideways in my teeth, hair on top of my head in an updo that was half undone by then, turtleneck, snowpants, sipping a cup of coffee and singing Beautiful Day as loud as I could while I wrote, because I write with very loud music playing.

    Touch me
    Take me to that other place
    Teach me
    I know I'm not a hopeless case

Jacob walked past the den and I waved and said Hey handsome without looking up while I typed and resumed singing. He smiled and then stopped and stepped back to look at me.

You look adorable and happy, Bridge.

A temporary affliction, I'm sure it'll be fixed by tomorrow.

You're too hard on yourself.

No, I'm being prepared.

Girl Guide?

Brownie, actually. I never made it up to Guides, was too busy figure skating.

Oh, you know what we need?

Brownies? I could go for something right now.

No, a vacation.

What did you say?

Your New Year's eve, princess.

My new...It's January 9th, Jacob. We'll get a date night soon.

How about this weekend?

Sure, I can call a sitter.

Already have Bailey.

What? What do you mean?

Bailey's coming out.

Isn't that a lot of effort for a date night? I'll call PJ.

PJ can't really swing two nights.
I stopped typing and stared at him. Pencil still there, eyebrows to the moon, which made him laugh.

Take that thing out of your face, Bridge.

What are you up to?

How does two nights in Whistler sound?

Oh my fucking god! Jake! Are you taking me snowboarding?

If you want to go.

Are you kidding me? Of course I want to go!

Pack your stuff, baby.

Oh, seriously. Are we?

Only if you can stand a few days of carving up the slopes and then afternoons at the spa and evenings by the fire with me.

I can stand that and the...Oh my God! Kidless trip! How in the world do you do this stuff?

I have connections.

You're in the mob, aren't you?

I can't tell you that.

Seriously, you're in the freaking Irish mob. You pull strings no one else can even reach.

No, I just know people who know people who like to help make you happy.

Jacob, I'm happy here with West Side Story on cable and the ghetto cake.

I know you are. Which is one of the reasons I want to make our life together memorable.

You already did. Seven times over, baby.

Well then let's make it eight. And then nine after that. We'll keep going til we reach twenty-nine hundred million, okay?

You don't need to do things like this to make me happy, Jacob. I'm happy. So happy.

I know that, princess. I don't ever want you to settle for happy when you could have breathtaking, because that's what you are to me.

You just never do anything halfway, do you?

Not when it comes to you, Bridget. And I think I'll keep it that way.

You do realize if I write about this no one is ever going to believe me.

Then stop writing about it on the computer.

No way! It's too good not to share.

I should check with my guys and see if we can whack the internet connection.

Oh, see, now, that's mob slang right there.

Just take the schwag, sweetheart, and don't ask questions.
He winked at me and left the room, and I couldn't write a freaking thing for the rest of the day.

Talking to herself.

Hey.

So tomorrow is Wednesday, girlie. Day of reckoning, if reckoning could be a weekly thing. If you're so inclined, maybe lend me a little strength and just a few extra good vibes so that I don't fall apart like I do every single time. I am working on it but it's slow going. It's hard to hold everything together when you get flayed wide open and picked apart until there is nothing remaining save for a pile of gristle left on the floor. A pathetic lump of former human bean.

Such is me.

The good news is that I have some good news, a wonderful, unexpected surprise, but in the event that tomorrow proves to be far too difficult to process, I'll leave it to tell you then.

Have a great night.

Layer cake.

    Privately divided by a world so undecided
    And there is nowhere to go

    In between the cover of another perfect wonder
    and it is so white as snow

    Running through the field where all my tracks will be concealed
    and there's nowhere to go


There's something to be said for waking up only to spend most of breakfast negotiating the quantity of clothes to be worn that day and a mini-lesson on temperatures. I feel like a hostage negotiator, keeping my kids' health as collateral against their imminent need to get outside to play more quickly at recess.

I win.

I always win.

I don't really have a choice. Someone has to be the bad guy.

And we lead by example. So today I'll give you a rundown of the average wardrobe today, because there will be no anthropologie swing dresses and stiletto heels on this day. Today is brought to you by Mountain Equipment Co-op. My second most exciting membership after Greenpeace, because I need to be warm while I help save the planet.

I'm sporting underwear, a camisole, two pairs of wool socks, silk longjohns, a thin t-shirt, a thick long-sleeved tshirt and a wool fairisle sweater. Flannel lined jeans. When I go outside I add a fleece shell, a windproof jacket, skipants, sorrels (my sorrels fit INSIDE Jacob's giant ones) and thin gloves inside line waterproof mitts, wool scarf and hat.

By the time I've got all this on, I can barely walk and you might not be able to tell if I'm a boy or a girl, it depends on if the braids wind up inside or outside of my coat.

This is why I run so goddamned fast. I can't wear all this stuff when I run and I freeze my ass off at first.

Yeah, living here is a just a riot.

The speed of sound.

It's a form of sensory deprivation.

Running for me is like being in a tunnel filled with water. I rarely look up, I hear nothing except for my songs, loud in my ears to feel them right through me and knock out everything else. I don't look around except to check for traffic. The city passes me by in a wet smear of urban grit. I count the intersections I cross, I don't make eye contact often and only when the pain starts do I look up at the moon that is still awake or the stars if it's clear and I beg for the release of endorphins, the inalienable runner's high, my rush, my prize for a grueling solitary marathon.

I am not allowed to run at night, for fear that I might be attacked. It's a big city.

I am not allowed to join a gym, because the fresh air is best. So sayeth those who know better than I.

When I get 45 minutes out in any direction, I must turn and come back, because sometimes I want to keep going and some day I might and so I turn.

When I'm out there, without rules to bind me and emotions to weigh me down, it's just me and my body (which responds nicely even when I take long breaks from running ) and the cold dark morning air, and I am free.

And I no longer think about anything when I run. Instead I tune into my senses. When you lack so much of one you want to overdevelop what you have. Sometimes it's a quiet obsession.

My nose begins. When I leave my neighborhood I inhale the woodsmoke from my own house and that of four nearby houses, rotten leaves, exposed once again by the melting snow. Newspaper, briefly and then my nose wrinkles up when confronted with fresh dogshit that someone failed to pick up. I smell my own patchouli oil, a gift from Jacob so I would stay out of his things, the warmer I get, the stronger it smells, beautiful stuff. And then cold snow, which stings my nasal passages with it's icy blandness. I run through hints of toxic clouds of gasoline and motor oil, the Ethiopian restaurant and their ever present lingering odor of cooking oil. Below my feet the wet asphalt smells like tar.

Taste. As I run the only tastes within my mouth are a film of toothpaste and the heady aftertaste of early-morning traffic. So instead I think about the tastes I like the most. Jacob's cognac kisses. Chocolate cake. Ruth's sour gummy worms and their skeptical assault on my tongue. The tart surprise from a plum or an orange, and the overwhelming sweetness of bananas and icing. The gooey bitterness of very good cheese mixed with the comfort dirt-taste of fresh mushrooms. Exquisite antipasto. Salty sweat from kissing Henry's forehead, hours after he has fallen asleep. Biting acrid champagne bubbles and not being able to describe the taste at all. Spicy cracked pepper chips and sharp rye bread.

Sight is easier. Kilometers of black and filthy grey wind an infinite ribbon beneath my sneakers. I see my socks bunched around my ankles but over my tights to keep blisters at bay. Trash, so much of it, discarded fast food wrappers and paper coffee cups and sale flyers that I wonder how anything ever makes it to the landfill. My reflection in glass windows, a blur of navy blue and blonde flies right by and I wonder if I really know her. Rocks of all sizes, sort of like people in their various shapes and colors. Dented traffic signs perched in the black snowbanks reflecting their warnings in headlights . My fists, balled into fury against my will, pumping in front of me like we are having a race. Shop owners, setting up their paper stands and changing their doorhangers from CLOSED to OPEN nodding to me as I pass, in a show of solidarity to a fellow early riser.

And then there is touch.

I have almost been run over turning this one over in my mind.

Jacob's hands sliding across my flesh underneath my clothes, a contradiction of gentle movements and calloused hands. Feeling his rough stubble on my lips, once past the initial barb of contact, a softness that belies the ruggedness of his demeanor. My fingertips fluttering a constant pulse on the car window as he drives and plays anything I want to hear on the truck stereo. Always fluttering, tactile thinking that I cannot seem to quit. Fierce battlehugs from my kids, who compete to see who can squeeze mommy until she squeals. Reaching under the deck for the shed key and brushing away months of long-abandoned cobwebs, now for rent if they survive the winter intact. Kissing Cole's warm cheek after he died, his face bloated from the efforts to keep him alive so that he would live to condemn me. The silken flax of my children's hair, precious gold spilling over their skulls to bring visual halos to their beautiful souls. The gritty paper of dollar bills. Jacob's skin, soft like a shell over granite. The feel of my own skin inside my running clothes, beginning to crawl ever so slightly as I begin to sweat. My bangs, grown down to the tip of my nose again, which stab my eyes whenever they get a chance and so I rake them out of my sight for the seven millionth time in a day. It isn't seven a.m. yet.

Of course the missing puzzle piece is the hearing. Eventually I will give away what I have left due to the constant assault of my headphones, because I want to feel those songs and the only way I can do that is to pull the volume as far as it will go. I miss the whispers and innuendo but I will anticipate your feelings because I study you even though you don't quite notice that I was. I will anticipate how you feel, what you need and why you need me and with few repetitions we will land on the same page and do what has to be done.

I have lived life in a gilded cage like a birdgirl, sheltered, protected. Everyone who heard my song was hypnotized and yet no one could set me free.

Until now.

Because I am not worldly does not mean that I am naive. When I was released from my subjugation I wasn't so sure and so I hung back when the world became too large and too loud, fishing for a way to balance that shelter and protection and attention with being free.

I stopped and I returned to the cage but I left the door open this time because I don't want to hear you and I don't want the fear of the unknown but it's certainly nice to step out and fly around for a bit and hone what senses I do possess.

And with that, I turn and run home.

Bridget emerged.

I was lying flat on my back on the hardwood floor in the front hallway.

(No, this isn't porn.)

Jacob walked by and stopped and we listened to the crackle of the fire from the living room. I can only hear it when I hold my breath.

What are you thinking, princess?

The usual existentialist thoughts.

I don't think you even know what that means.

It's one of my favorite words.

But can you define it? I have a hard time with it, which is why I'll never teach philosophy.

Mr. Kerouac, the point is not to define but to blow your mind.

You write just like him sometimes.

I come from a long line of hippies, gypsies, beatniks and freaks, preacher boy. It's expected. I'm just too cynical and jaded to admit it.

Right, and you're much easier to philosophize with over wine or hallucinogenics.

Since that day has long passed, let's mourn for it then, and find a new pastime.

Naked twister?

I was just going to say that.

Elevators.

Not such a good day here for Miss Bridget. I'm on an elevator that goes up and down and every time I try to get off someone tells me it's not my floor, or the doors simply close in my face. I could spend all my time sharing Jacob-stories but that doesn't get me anywhere, at least not anywhere else except here, clinging tenaciously to a beautiful and terrible past because I can't let it go because if I let go of all the bad things, then the good things might go with it and it's a risk I will not take.

Post traumatic phone disorder.

    Dear Jeff,

    How are you? I am fine. The next time you start a new job please don't give your workplace my cell phone number for your contact information, as I've spent most of the past few days fielding calls looking for you. They don't believe that you're not here and frankly if you've going to drag me into this then I suggest that you at least show up on your first day of work to make a good impression and not leave your coworkers high and dry. Because by now you're probably unemployed again, Jeff, and how are you going to get your own cell phone if you can't show up for work when you're supposed to?

    Yours truly,

    Bridget.

(I don't know anyone named Jeff.)

Say cheese.

I maintain there is absolutely nothing wrong with really really liking those $4 generic superstore pepperoni pizzas.

Zah is zah. But everyone else is having lamb. Which I don't like.

In other news, if you're going to have a Nirvana day, stupid girl, for gods sakes turn it off before you get to Lithium, because...damn.

    I like it
    I'm not gonna crack
    I miss you
    I'm not gonna crack
    I love you
    I'm not gonna crack
    I killed you
    I'm not gonna crack

Hollow.

  What else could I write
    I don't have the right
    What else should I be
    All apologies

I promised this memory to you a long time ago but life intervened and this morning I was reminded that people were still waiting. It's welcome now because I'm struggling today to find a bridge between my perfect morning mood and a draining week. Softer, sweeter we go now while I take you on the memory that was our first kiss. I very purposely left it out, you'll see why by the time you reach the end.

Jacob set the bar so very high with one kiss that I was never the same and he was never the same and it's one more piece to our puzzle that cemented us together forever as soulmates. I might still be where I was had it not been for the persistence and sheer tenacity of this guy and I tell him every day that I love him. When I describe our connection as lightning it's because our first kiss almost got us killed but I will never forget it even for a second.

One evening when Jake was free he took me down to the beach. He spread out my old quilt and we sat on the sand to watch the waves break. I was tired. I leaned against his shoulder and we talked about nothing, about his studies that he was looking forward to returning to, about life. We talked about how the air smelled like rain. The skies were overcast and there were no stars that night and he frowned and said we should go. I didn't want to go, I just knew this would be my last visit at the beach while it was still warm so I asked if he would get us some bottled water so we could stay just a little bit longer.

He walked down the beach to the canteen at the other end, strolling slowly, his feet in the water, his pant legs wet as usual. He turned a couple of times to check on me and smiled.

When he reached the canteen the heavens opened. I mean, it poured. One of those fast summer thunderstorms. The thunder rumbled right through me and I was completely deafened by the noise of the rain. Huge, driving drops were soaking everything. I forced myself to my feet and was trying to gather the quilt up without bringing so much sand with me and before I could make any progress at all Jacob was back beside me. The rain was coming down in sheets now. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt soaked to his chest. I made a mental note to keep that picture in my head forever. He yelled that we needed to get out of the open and to leave the stuff. I said I wasn't leaving my things and that if he would just help instead of arguing with me, we'd be inside faster.

But I couldn't hear myself and it freaked me out and I grabbed at his sleeve.

That stopped him in his efforts and he just stared at me through the rain. Then he seized my face in his hands, pulling me into him, kissing me full-on, like a lover would, on the mouth. Hard. I kissed him back and when he stopped I didn't want him to stop and so I bit his bottom lip. He shook his head and then kissed me one more time, much more gently, one hand on the back of my neck and the other resting on my shoulder, with his thumb in the hollow at the base of my throat. When he pulled back the look in his eyes was despairing. He grabbed the quilt, took my hand and we hurried back to his truck. Once inside we slammed the doors just as a huge fork of lightning hit the beach. He looked at me and I looked at him.

This is the best night of my life.

Mine too.

And the worst, princess.

I know, Jake.

You can't tell Cole.

I wasn't going to.

Oh my God, this is wrong.

What's wrong is that the only thing keeping me from asking you to take me home is this baby.

Oh God, the baby.

I'm sorry, Jacob.

What are you sorry for? I did this.

We both did.

I'm supposed to be strong. I can't be strong around you.

No one asked you to.

Bridget, it doesn't matter. My God, I'm in love with you and you're pregnant and you've got a life already.

You're....you what?

I'm in love with you.

Oh, no. Jacob, no. Don't say it out loud.

You know this. You kissed me back, I know you feel the same thing I feel.

I know.

Then what?

You saying it out loud tears me apart.

Saying it, Bridge, saying it kills me. You should be with me.

Stop, Jake. Please!

Bridge, I would help you raise this baby.

I know you would.

So let me.

Take me home, please, Jacob.

You should be going home with me. Say you love me.

Stop it, Jake.

Say it!

I love you.

Can you hear yourself now, Bridget?

Yes.

Good. So there's no mistake then.

And with that he threw the truck into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot and drove me home. Eleven hours later I went into labor.

Ruth was born a day and a half later. Her first visitor was Jacob, dressed in a gown and mask that they make NICU visitors wear, proud to be a first-time godfather. He congratulated Cole and I and we stared at each other in agony over the tube and wires in Cole's presence and we kept our secret.

Until now.

Because that kiss Cole never knew about.

And now he never will because I have outlived him.

I still have that image of Jake, soaking wet to the skin, clothes plastered against his flesh, standing on the beach poised like he was about to grab my hand and run away with me forever. His thumbs tracing my cheekbones while I tried to breathe him in and my heart fluttered so hard I thought I might die. Every time I see him in the shower he looks at me with that same look and I'm transported back in time to that day.

Here's where I admit I didn't even bother trying to describe the emotion held in those moments. I couldn't if I tried. It wasn't all sneaking and trying to have my cake and eat it too, it was difficult and bitter and painful and emotionally draining. And at the same time it was euphoric, culminative, joyful and passionate in ways I will never share with another human being as long as I live, only Jacob. It held feelings I never felt with Cole in a million years and we were in love just as hard at one point. There's just no room for that experience more than once in this lifetime.

Most fairy tales don't end so happily. Happy being a relative term, we're working so hard at our happy ending, we will get there.

Cole and I took Ruthie home after a week spent in NICU and I tried to forget the image of Jacob in my head. I tried to forget the taste of his mouth, the way his beard felt against my cheek and his hands on my skin. I tried to forget the darkness and the rain. I tried to forget that night, instead concentrated on figuring out how to be a mom, how to exist on a few spare hours of sleep and how to somehow remember that I had a husband who needed me to focus on him and our new little family and not on his best friend.

I have had to live with my actions and even though it could have been much worse, I know damn well the only thing keeping me from sleeping with Jacob that rainy night was the fact that I was hugely pregnant. And that to me is way weirder than it might be to you. But it's there and it's how I feel.

Do I think Cole knew? Of course he did, maybe not times, places, details but he knew that I was torn, he knew that Jacob rocked me off my feet and he knew that he was loving me on borrowed time, right from the start.

Prophetic and spooky and sad. And incredibly telling, for after polling my male friends, they all proclaimed me to be akin to a glass weeble when I'm pregnant, irrefutably fragile but completely round, with rosy cheeks and tentative, difficult movement, usually very sick and very hungry and very demanding, cranky and stubborn and that they wouldn't have been attracted to any of it, and weren't and that Jacob is a singularly remarkable man.

Yes. He is.