Light bright.

Oh yes, the hair cut.

I would have forgotten that I did it other than the fact that my head is five pounds lighter and my back gets a little cold but that's all imaginary, issues that are inside my head. I have heard more stories about people cutting their hair to signify change in the past year than I care to admit and maybe they finally got to me and so I had a moment of clarity and I did it.

My hair had reached past my waist. It was getting to the point where I had to either lighten the load or I was going to shave it off completely and join the Hare Krishnas at the airport. I look very good in orange, you know.

So I lightened my load, by fourteen inches. It's now..er...nipple-length or thereabouts. And I look like I'm fourteen years old.

And now it's in my mouth when I brush my teeth again and there's so much less for the battle braids, but it also means I don't have to check the kids' necks and fingers after they are asleep to make sure they aren't going to be suffocated, it takes me half the time to wash and to comb it out afterwards and...

..he loves it. When I came out he smiled so broadly I thought his mouth was going to spill right off his face in order to infringe on the scenery behind his head. He made a crack about sleeping with the new pretty girl and how we couldn't tell his wife, which is probably the oldest haircut joke in the world. And a miserable backhanded compliment but I let it slide.

And no one missed my hair until Henry went to grab it to do our elephant walk to bed, until I went to make sure I didn't sit on it when we sat down to dinner, until Jacob went to wind his fists three times into it when he kissed me, because he does that. But even though it's gone and it was one of the biggest hidden psychological crutches I ever had, I am reminded that it is simple vanity, and it's still really fucking long, considering how much was cut off.

My ponytail is on it's way to Locks of love, and I'm on my way to enjoy an extended brunch with Jacob's little sister Erin, who invited us to come out at the last minute for a weekend visit and we jumped at it so I am posting from her speedy little laptop today. The kids love Auntie Erin, possibly because sometimes, like Jacob, they can't understand a word she says. But she believes in cake for breakfast, and that's all that matters. So no post tomorrow, we'll be soaking up the Erin-love and making our way home again.

See you on Monday!

Morelasses and follies.

I'm just going to post with my heavy eyelids somewhere around my knees so I'm not going to make any sense at all.

Why he pronounces Molasses with an 'r' I will never understand. But it's funny. When he's in a rush or exasperated the accent just flies out all over the place and my heart melts right down through my body and pours out of my belly button in response, where I collect it in a teacup and put it up on a high shelf for safekeeping. That happens an awful lot.

And he sounds like this (ignore the ad, just listen to the salesman for an idea of how 'tick this accent is). When Jake gets going the rest of us are left uproariously in the dark.

I've run out of coffee. I have possibly forty drafts of semi-coherent posts sitting here that I never seem to finish. Caleb is stalking me, or so I have been told, and by an objective third party no less, but I don't know what this means. Jacob is working all day but planning to pop home for pancakes and his morelasses and kisses as he finds short breaks here and there, one of the joys of living close to work, close to his church.

I'm still tired and still trying to finish two more stories for my actual workday and then I'm going to beg off and watch movies for the remainder of the afternoon, one of the joys of working at home, though I'm supposed to say I'm so busy all the time and I do sometimes and then it gives me permission to do whatever the fuck I want to, and right now I want to sleep. As soon as the laundry and work and pancakes are done.

Bye.

Oh and yes, I got rid of the REM song from my head. When I woke up at three I had Relient K's Deathbed stuck there instead. Which is way more morbid and cute and funny and beautiful. It's 11 minutes long and a rollercoaster of a song but it's worth it for the voice of Jesus in the end, sung by the ever-plaintive Jon Foreman which is so freaking cool. His voice also makes my heart pour out of my bellybutton. He's a beautiful singer.

My friends are going to flip out and mourn the loss of the metal girl at this point, I'm sure. No worries, she's expanding her horizons!

And even more things I have to share, the owls, the icicles, Saw III, cutting my hair (because I did) and more but right now I'm feeling as slow as...morelasses.

Snort.

No rest for the wicked.

Oh, good morning, Bridget!

I've been up for hours and upside down for most of them. Shhhhh.

If you don't mind, I'm just going to lay my head down on the desk and not type anything at all. I'm so tired I could fall asleep just about anywhere. But it's for a good cause. That would be the Jacob wanted me and woke me up at 3 am because he couldn't help himself and so we made love for four hours straight cause. I missed my run, he missed an early class and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Sometimes everything works the way it's supposed to and it works well and I have a smile on my face for the whole day. If only we could fix all our problems with epic Olympic-caliber sex. The world would be a better place. Or maybe Bridget would be a better place.

Oh wait, Jacob said I was a very good place indeed.

Har.

He said that tonight would involve cake and mulled wine and some completely despicable activities. I can't wait. I just hope I don't fall asleep in the middle because I actually did that once and I hurt his feelings but I made it up to him a million times over, no worries.

So.

Tired.

So.

Sated.

So not writing anything remotely worthwhile in this state, am I? Whew. It's going to be a long day.

Accidental discoveries.

A nose appeared from the edge of my peripheral vision and I looked up quickly to meet the pale blue eyes and dimpled smile of my husband. Sometimes he's all teeth and twinkles and it's really cute, you have to look hard if you're watching for signs that he's aging. There's a maturity in his expression that was hard-won, a world-weariness that tells you he has seen more with those eyes than most of us ever hope to, a light that never quits that tells you he has hope for everyone, including me, and a warm coldness that I can't describe because it alludes to his incredibly surprising asperity with our relationship.

Jacob is always in a rush.

He's not as laid back as he was when he was a friend.

When I write I usually grab the coffee, take out the hearing aids, put on my headphones and let my hair fall over my face in a curtain and those are my signs that I am tuning out life to enter my imaginary world with no distractions save for the wandering of my own brain as it tells my fingers what to do. A reverie I would trade my life for if only sometimes it were permanent, sanctioned daydreaming, escapism I have grown to covet.

My concentration shatters when he puts himself into my line of sight, a broken train of thought that disappears and I become easily frustrated and impatient. He is unable to stand back and watch now that we have arrived in this place, in this time in history. He used every moment he had and now there are none left.

But I'm being good. I haven't had a drink save for a sip of a mimosa on our trip. I take my pills, I went back to Claus after a major blowup in which I said I would jump off the roof if I had to return to the other. I was taken seriously, and he's mad and I'm disappointed, both of us in my need to resort to that level of painful dramatics to make a point. I told him that was precisely why I can't get anywhere with him, he doesn't pay attention to what I want until it's too late.

And sometimes I get mad and tell him just to go for an hour so I can work and he points out the new carafe of coffee he was offering me, nothing more and I feel like a bitch and he gets to play martyr and it only really works well when our roles are reversed and he can be the hardass and I am the trophy who can do no wrong.

And sometimes I really like the interruptions and the fuss he makes over me. I feel less alone and the glass dissolves before my eyes and his coldness and his rush fall away and he is my ready steady rock.

And sometimes thoughts just stop and never make any sense at all, it's just some thought that has to get out, whether there's resolution or not. Like turning off a song in the middle and when you go to listen again, you start the whole song over.

Strategies.

I'm so very clever.

Everyone's waiting for me to talk about things I won't talk about yet.

Like Jacob's reaction to running into Caleb here, when we didn't know he was here. Like Loch's damage control from a thousand miles away. Like Claus' master plan for me and Jacob's refusal to comply, and their attempts to one up each other with radical ideas. Like my dates circled on the calendar that spark fear instead of triumph, as if it never mattered how far I have come. Like how no one listens to the frail one anymore, they just wait, and then decide on their own.

Like being surrounded by people but I am behind glass. They're all there, I can see them.

I just can't reach them.

I can't hear them.

Apocalypse cupcakes.

There's something fundamentally disastrous about elementary schools and bake sales.

Jacob offered to help Ruthie bake cupcakes for the sale to raise money for a class field trip. Neither one bakes much but both are fiercely independent and heavily resistant to supervision. And so Henry and I went to the library and left Ruth and Jake home to do some hardcore baking. They had some mixes and all the tools required. It sounds simple, right?

We returned two hours later to find them on the phone with Jacob's mom, in preparations to start over again. The kitchen was trashed, just about every bowl and spoon used, batter on the walls, floor and ceiling. And on the table, cooling, the fruits of their labours: giant-sized mutant cupcakes that were black on the outside and still liquid in the middle.

I couldn't do a thing but stand in the doorway and laugh and laugh. Their reasonings were priceless. Bigger cupcakes will fetch higher prices, and to speed up the baking process, if the oven is hotter everything bakes faster.

Henry said they were volcanoes, black mountains that spew hot lava. That sent us into fresh peals of laughter. It took forever to calm down but finally we stopped and cleaned up the mess and went out for more supplies and then I showed them tricks like turning off the beaters before lifting them out of the bowl, and using a broom straw to test for doneness.

The cupcakes were a huge hit yesterday at school, and Ruth was able to contribute $25 to the trip. She sold out.

When asked if she was willing to make cupcakes again for a future fundraiser, she respectfully declined and asked if she could sell chocolate bars instead, or maybe even just pay cash.

Tropic of Bridget.

 Butterfly decal, rear-view mirror, dogging the scene...
The song is still there. Jacob keeps saying,

Thank the Lord it isn't Everybody Hurts.

Oh, but sometimes it is and I'm not allowed to listen to that song. I've been down that road before. And today is fine and I bailed on you to go and sit in Chapters instead with my brand new Henry Miller because the old one fell into the bathtub and swelled up so awfully I could no longer turn the pages. Yes, Tropic of Cancer. Where do you think Henry got his name? Fine, I lied. I named him after a candy bar.

I sat and people-watched and drank caffe mochas and pretended I was fine.

Violent green.

 As usual, my email address is in my profile, please feel free to say hello.

It's an REM day, for those seeking Bridget's barometer.

    Every whisper
    Of every waking hour
    I'm choosing my confessions
    Trying to keep an eye on you
    Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
    Oh no I've said too much
    I set it up
I'm in a holding pattern. One of those wonderful and bittersweet life times that Jacob holds his breath right through. This time of the year is incredibly difficult for me as it is, but I'm not going to talk about anything bad today. I am going back to see Claus. He was the best of the bunch and didn't try to pulverize me with emotional bombshells every day and so I happily pop the pills and I'll see him later on today. He told me to bring all the pills and my writing and an open mind. And he said Jacob was not invited.

    Follow me, don't follow me
    I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush

Casual poetry has become a new lust. Reading, not writing it. Are you mad?

And weirdly I am still waking up with What's the Frequency, Kenneth? in my head, every single day. It's been months now. Maybe if I listen to In Time for a million revolutions it just might leave me alone.

Or maybe it won't.

Subjection.

Happiness is a skill, it requires effort and time.
So said the monk reputed to be the "world's happiest person"

That's right, it does. It takes time and effort. Happiness isn't something that falls into your lap and unfortunately neither does anything else. I'm betting the monk doesn't have bills to pay, homework to supervise, pipes to thaw, or relationship issues. I picture him like the monks I see in movies, living in a hushed monastery perched on top of a mountain somewhere, a minimalist with prayers and time and faith and very little else. The monks are always self-sufficient in those movies, they grow their own food, they're off the grid. They don't have a care in the world.

How do you really expect to glean advice from or have admiration for someone who's life is nothing like yours?

Exactly. You don't. You can't, or you'll set yourself up for disappointment. It's inevitable.

I'm cynical. I need to work on that too. So here, something I rarely share. Being a minister's wife, I should be beating you over the head with this kind of thing. But I don't. I find it a deeply personal and private matter, usually. Kind of like how Jake feels about our sex life.

    Where can I go from Your Spirit?
    Where can I flee from your Presence?

    If I go up into the heavens, you are there;
    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

    If I rise on the wings of dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,

    even there your hand will guide me,
    your right hand will hold me fast.

    If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
    and the light become night around me",

    even the darkness will not be dark to you;
    the night will shine like the day,
    for darkness is as light to you.

    Psalm 139:7-10

This is written on the front of one of Jacob's notebooks and it always gives me comfort. It soars like a dove over my moods and lifts me right up out of wherever I have landed on that day or in that moment.

So does Rufus Wainwright and Ben Harper, singing Beatles songs to me today. I've got new coffee mugs and the neatest garland for the porch windows. It's all wooden daisies and beads strung on white raffia. My porch is becoming an eclectic little spot. A hammock, gardening stuff and copper windchimes, lanterns and tiny lights and now the garland and blown glass window balls. It's our cozy hideaway. We got rid of the swing. We spent so much time on that swing last spring we decided we hated it. We're on a mission to change most of the rooms in the house, one at a time.

Because..well, onward and upward, right? Because Jacob and I are just as relentless in our our love for each other as God is for everyone, no matter what.

Night skating.

Sunday night I opted to surprise Jacob instead of the other way around. Payback for some of his romantic efforts of late. Retribution for some of the heartache I have caused him lately. It's been 170 days since our tiny little surprise wedding and we like to mark the milestones, however quirky and nonsensical they may be.

I took him night skating on the river. After the kids were in bed and the sitter was settled in, we grabbed our skates and headed down to the river, where there are plowed trails, lit with lampposts, with hot chocolate stations and warming cabins every half a kilometre or so, and very few people out on a Sunday night after 8 pm.

We were off, out and free in the exhilarating night air.

The evening sky was a beautiful shade of teal, with a sliver of a silver moon and Jupiter visible just below it, the brightest star. The wind was calm and the air was brisk but not as cold as I expected it to be, allowing for rosy cheeks but no frostbite.

We trundled down the steps and onto the ice, making our way to a cabin with a fireplace, where we laced on our skates and put on mittens, and then Jacob took my hand and we glided off down the path. It was so still and so silent, one of those nights when your eyes take in the entire sky and you feel more alive than you've ever felt before. We didn't skate fast, just briskly enough to cover several quiet miles before stopping to buy steaming cups of hot chocolate at a stand a little off the beaten path. We sat by the fire and sipped the chocolate and talked a little bit. Mostly about the week to come, purposely avoiding any heavy subjects that might cast a pall over such a luminous night. When we finished we resumed our skate, turning to go back the way we came. Jacob showed off just a little, skating circles around me and then coming in fast and lifting me off my feet and I was howling that if he let me fall he would be in trouble. We danced on the ice for a moment and then tripped and almost went down but were saved at the last moment by a well-placed light post.

And then we just stopped and stood with our arms around each other. My cheek pressed against the cool boiled wool of his old pea coat, his arms tight around me, a weird thrilling feeling in the cold, dark quiet of the river trail. We were finished skating for the night.

Hand in hand we found our way back to the steps and our boots and we took off our skates, cheeks flushed and fingers icy and stinging, and we returned to the truck.

Once inside and warm, Jacob drove home slowly, the roads were slippery and it was hard to see.

I wish we could do this every night.

Be together?

Yeah, and glide across the ice with Jupiter over our heads.

That was a nice touch, princess.

Thanks, took years to coordinate that special ambiance.

I can imagine.

So you really had fun with me, Jake?

So much that I think we should make it a weekly thing.

But?

But?

I hear a 'but' in there.

I feel like it's the calm before the storm. Like we're very good at all the remarkable moments and unable to keep the momentum through the unremarkable ones.

Stop. Don't ruin this.

We drop it every time.

Because it's too hard.

Then how do we get through the in-between times?

We try harder.

I thought we were, Bridge. I thought we were all about getting it right this time around. Why is this so tough?

Because we had lives and we pushed them aside. We were selfish.

We weren't selfish! Christ, we waited forever.

Maybe we were selfish in that we built lives knowing we weren't in the right places and we did it anyways, trying to have it all.

Or maybe we just need to try harder.

Then that's what we'll do.

Can we?

We can. I can. I will, anyway.

Did I ever tell you I love you?

Not within the past ten minutes.

I love you.

Thank heavens, I was starting to wonder. I love you too.

You'd better. I think trying to find a third wife to make up for the first two would be a real pain in the ass right now.

Did I mention you suck?

Jupiter took your words, didn't he?

He did, be jealous.

Eh, he can have you.

Suck, Jacob. You suck.

Can't carry on a conversation with you anyway. What good are you?

Oh, I have my moments.

With us, goofy talk usually leads to flirting, which leads to kissing, which leads to getting the babysitter safely home and then it leads to a lapdance, which leads to making love in a chair in which Bridget can do nothing except hold on, Jacob has to do all the work and so he leads. And it works and we don't fight and we don't struggle and it doesn't turn into something bad. And it was a most wonderful way to mark 170 days with my husband.