Right under his nose.

Raise your hand if you've ever completely failed to see something because your significant other refused to allow it, in fear that you might somehow be offended.

This is the same man who pees on me in the shower and sometimes will absentmindedly eat food that I might have already sampled, licked or otherwise consumed and then changed my mind and put back.

This morning when we came in outdoors two of my fingertips cracked again. My god, it's so cold. And the wind. The merciless fucking wind! Jacob turned around just inside the kitchen door and gathered up my fingertips in his hands and he blew on them until they were warm. I love it when he does that, it's very tender and intimate.

And no I didn't get bored staring into his crazily blue twinkly eyes, I was simply studying his face.

And what the....

Huh?

Oh. Hahahahaha.

I started to laugh.

What?

There's something under your nose, Jacob.
I didn't mean the goofy mustacheish type swatch of blonde stubble he pairs with that shaggy beard. This was....

Something else.

Well, shit!

He dropped my hands and went upstairs and I didn't see him for 15 minutes. When he returned it was gone. He was pinkish and sheepish, mumbling something about having forgotten to look after it before it reached that point.

His nose hair.

And we're even. Because I do mine too. Like once a year when I notice it actually exists.

He didn't think that was funny. I pointed out he could have worse secrets to keep.

He covered his ears and turned pinker, if it were even possible.

It's okay, Jake. I noticed your ear-hair years ago.

HId and sought.

I have a theory about life. You either have a poker face or you absolutely don't. Those who don't are unable to keep secrets and hard-pressed to hide surprises.

Jacob falls into that category along with me. So when he comes home outwardly empty-handed from a vague errand and yells for me to clear out of the front room because he has to take something upstairs and for gosh sakes don't even look, it's a surefire confirmation that he is up to something.

I don't know what, but he's funny.

Return of the space cowgirl.

    You push until you're shoving
    You bend until you break

Isn't it obvious?

Jacob took the Nyquil away. I'm not supposed to be taking it, especially now with a higher dose of antidepressants but sometimes it's better to be unconscious than to be sick. Or something. In any event he said he would make as much tea and refill as many hot water bottles as I could ask for but no more cold medicine. Darn it.

He put it so succinctly too.

I'll coddle you until the cows come home, but Bridge, you can't take any more of that shit.

I know. I am feeling better and I do know better than to mix all of this stuff together. It's a little like the Vicodin and vodka cocktail that got me through part of last summer. Sometimes the escape in a bottle is just too tempting for me.

Especially when I'm artificially amplified here. I'm boosted up to twelve and walking around like everything is awesome whether it is or not! Who cares?! It's a blissful trip through outerspace and when I get to the end I'm going to hide on the floor so the operator won't see me and then I can go round once more.

Or maybe twice.

Jake holds on so tight. I like it that way.

Caleb threatened to sue me or at the very least ruin my life if I started to spread rumors, let alone provide him with ammunition that I may or may not have cheated on his brother on a regular basis and so I've been cut off at the knees in my public confessional. I had to remove the work I had begun, as curious as Caleb is to know what I am like to fuck, he's more concerned that I ruin his golden reputation. He showed up here unannounced and he showed up somewhere else unannounced and it was a huge coincidence but it wasn't (Shhhhh) and I won't ever believe it was and he chose to take the low road and had his lawyer send me a letter telling I should stop or else, in case I felt like writing about the stalking, because I was going to.

It would be pathetic but the space cowgirl thinks it's hilarious.

I have a lawyer too, no worries.

I'm not risking anything or fighting any more battles with my former family so I took it down the other place and I won't be writing about his alleged obsession with me. I think he wanted a fight or a drawn out drama that he could be the center of and it would enable him to be close to me for a while longer but in that regard he will be denied.

While I will be closely held.

By Jacob.

    It'll be a day like this one
    When the world caves in

Who is back to keeping a list of people he would like to murder and busy looking after me as I pass out in compromising positions in my lingerie. That alone would keep anyone close.

I won't censor fuck all. I just won't write about Caleb for a while. Simple solution to a problem that I don't really care about, because these pills are fucking awesome. And I am too.

Untouchable. You can't hurt me.

You might, however, find me passed out somewhere sans proper attire. Just try to avert your eyes. Or at least look while I'm out of it. I'm fucking spectacular.

Or so I was told this morning.

Right. High with a capital F. Fucked up. And O for obnoxious too. Space cadet reporting for duty, Captain.

    Does justice never find you? Do the wicked never lose?
    Is there any honest song to sing besides these blues?

Underwater: Nyquil and porn.

I'm awake, sick, with no voice and fluid in my ears that has throttled off my pathetic hearing completely. We're in the deep end of the sensory pool today, so that means no music, no telephone and no conversation that isn't carried out with my inventive frenzied charades.

I've been over playing on myspace and generally seeing to what extent boredom will wrap it's tentacles around me this morning. Oh, it's got a hold of me now. I'm just about butter here.

Last night the boys were all gone by ten thirty, and silly Jacob steered me upstairs to take some Nyquil with a promise that he would complete everything which might probably needs to be done (read: drunk guy about to wash dishes) and I should wait for him up there.

I love NyQuil.

He said when he came upstairs an hour later I was face down on the bed with my underwear still on and one arm out of my shirt. Fast asleep.

He contemplated trying on his horns for a whole fifteen minutes, he said, before he decided against the risk of waking me up. Instead he fished me out of the rest of my clothes and got both of us under the blankets where he woke me up anyway with the drunken explorations of his hands on my flushed skin.

That's okay. I didn't mind. It was a little like making love underwater.

But you didn't hear that from me.

Bowlfuls of super, or boys on the side.

This afternoon my home will be invaded by six guys with nothing better to do than watch the big TV and possibly spill Frank's red hot sauce on my couch. They'll drink all this beer, cheer too loud and ooze testosterone all over the place.

I was asked to make chicken wings and Philly cheesesteak sandwiches but not officially invited because I have been told I'm distracting and also, no chicks allowed.

Right.

Jacob, Loch, PJ, Christian, Tamerlane (is that not the coolest name ever?) and Jason are doing the Superbowl thing here. I will confiscate car keys and ensure that the taxi numbers are by the phone and the food is plentiful and hot and the beer is distributed and then I will make myself scarce. With the kids.

Where I will explain to them that Jake and the others are not actually football fans or anything, this is simply an excuse to indulge their caveman roots and act like fools. It's tradition. It's fun. It's a good excuse to throw a party on the coldest night of the year. His guests won't feel a thing when they leave anyway.

But first! Church! Because it's Sunday and while everyone else will skip it in favor of getting ready for tonight, I'll be greeting at the door, with Jake and the kids, the whole twelve people who will be in church today. Even the older people will stay home because it's a hella walk on a cold day and most people aren't venturing out this weekend.

They might be on to something.

Brrr. Gotta go!

Bridgerella.

We have found some fun ways to spend special moments together on a whim and a shoestring, as late last night would demonstrate.

We took a warm blanket and two mugs of hot chocolate when the moon was high and we snuggled on the steps outside and blew bubbles and then caught them and broke them on the tips of our fingers, on each other's noses, in our hair.

Because bubbles shatter below -30. They crinkle up and disintegrate like burning paper. It's neat and kind of unbelievable. We had sparklers too but we couldn't even get them to light at that temperature.

Of course, all of this took place in the 8 minutes we could stand being outdoors.

And the rest took place inside where we warmed each other up with x-rated whims on the staircase, until we decided that the hard stairs weren't any more comfortable than sitting outdoors in Antarctica was.

We finished the night at the end of a trail of flannel and corduroy, in the giant bed. Where Jacob produced the bubbles again and we wound up covered in soap and ashes, because naked sparkler fun is kind of a thrilling and risky sport. Not for the faint of heart, but they lit up just fine indoors.

Whims and shoestrings. Not every week can be jetting off to ski resorts or hot air balloon rides. And damn, I looked really weird covered with ashes. Like I just ran in from the burning man festival or perhaps had recently escaped a band of cannibals.

Today we slept in just a little before bundling up to head out once again in the freezing temperatures, this time for Jacob and Henry's father-son (!) hockey exhibition game. Ruth and I took pictures and cheered and drank even more hot chocolate and watched with adoration.

And now I think a movie is in order. But I'm not going to watch, I'm going to sleep sitting up and pretend it's interesting becau....Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

There's a first time for everything.

In the interest of political correctness and what is and is not acceptable conversation among adults these days and under threat of future extortion (which is a very long and unfunny story), I have chosen to edit a couple of entries for privacy. Sometimes in an effort to unload baggage and work through difficult times I wade into uncomfortable waters and this time I touched a few nerves. We'll just say Feb. 1 is always going to be a difficult day in my life for two reasons, both of which failed miserably and frankly, I'm really glad I failed at something. Twice.

I know.

Let's just forget it and move on. I promised I would never censor and I'm going to keep that promise but protecting my kids from people who might someday fill their heads with false information takes priority.

I promise I left all the porn.

Thanks.

The casual bard.

I don't even think I can do this justice.

He likened it to a flame, brought forth with sparks and sweat and tears and effort. A tiny flame that was fanned and kept alive and sometimes carried in hand to a safer place, a sheltered place and then it ignited everything around it and it smoldered and licked at the edges of the lives of those who held it precious.

This hidden fire kept a slow and steady burn for so long before it threatened to and at last was able to grow large enough to consume everything within reach and out of reach, an explosion of heat and flame that melted the ice and hastened a permanent spring, bright ashes falling down and dissolving. And now it simmers, a flickering longing that can never be extinguished with water or sand.

That's beautiful. You're speaking of faith?

No, Bridge. I'm speaking of us.

No, I can't do it justice and he won't repeat it. He just smiles at me. He's gorgeous. Just gorgeous.

Fog city diner.

I think inclement weather and hole-in-the-wall urban coffee shops are simply our things, one of the many common themes that string together all the random altercations and memories of our early years together, a close friendship that developed, thumbing our noses at, and accomplished beyond the grasp of my workaholic husband and Jacob's mountain of studying to be done, back in those early days.

One of my favorite places in the world used to be a tiny restaurant in a tiny, unremarkable, if not downright seedy neighborhood. This diner existed for a little over two years, I believe, before one day the doors were shut and the entire block was torn down to make way for a big-box store.

But while the diner was in business, we were regulars. It was shiny and clean, dimly lit with a couple of coveted booths and a handful of tiny wobbly tables. We would spend hours sitting there and talking over cake and coffee while rain poured in sheets down the windows and the light failed to encroach on the dark's firm hold. There was a coat rack inside the door and we would drape our raincoats over the hooks and lean our umbrellas up against the base. Then we would shake off the drops and smooth our sweaters and rattle off our orders of club sandwiches and hot soup without ever needing menus. Jacob always asked them to light the candle on the table.

Some days I miss that place.

Within the first six months I was too pregnant to fit comfortably in the booths anymore and we switched to one of the tables and I would sit out from it and sip my soup slowly, trying to savor the atmosphere. I hardly ever saw another person in that diner. Jacob would tell me stories about graduate school and he always wanted to know how I had slept and how I felt, what the doctor gave for the heartbeat that week and if I wanted to do anything special after we ate. We discussed the value of introducing babies to tie-dye and classic rock from birth so that free love and harmony would be ensured in future generations on this planet.

The idealism was mind-numbing., our innocence would bring you to your knees.

The barely-veiled attraction between us was effervescent, bubbling out around the edges constantly.

The owner assumed we were married, and would come over and chat with us. One day out of the blue Jacob pointed out that I was married but not to him. She shook her head sadly and clucked at us.

Oh, see, now, you should be married. I never did see a nicer couple together.

Jacob just sat back and crossed his arms, dimples in full effect while I blushed and said nothing.

We knew that already. We heard it everywhere we went.

Those rainy Monday lunches downtown are something I don't think we'll have again. Sure, the diner food can be found everywhere, the rains will eventually return to this new city of ours and there's always time to go out for a long lunch, but what would be missing now would be our naive ease with one another, the idealism quashed by truth, the innocence replaced with the wrinkles of experience and knowledge firmly rooted because we have lived that future now. We found our dreams and fulfilled them and we made it past simple attraction and fell in love so hard. So that makes it okay to have these memories. They don't need to be recreated or drawn out. Life is now.

But if I could return to that tiny diner in that other rainy city I would proudly take the kids in and Jacob too and I would correct myself for demurring and I would say,

Yes, he's my husband and see our kids? They wore tie dye when they were babies, they love classic rock and yeah, we all still believe in love.

It's one of our things.

A reassurance post.

Okay, that's enough. I'm going to bury it with nonsense. Since a bunch of you have tagged me as bipolar, which I'm not and I know people who are and my doctors have all confirmed that I am not, thank you oh so very much. There's not a whole lot of mania around here. We've just got the depression and the PTSD/baggage and everything else is a mirage. He's dead, the only way through is up.

Let's be happy, please?

Here's where I point out if you Google Stoli and blow, I'm the fifth hit. Which is funny, because life doesn't get that exciting around here. Thank goodness (or is that My god, I'm dull?).

Here's where I point out that Jacob has become obsessed with my hands. He can cover my whole fist with one of his. He can put my whole hand in his mouth, which wasn't funny, it was scary and I threatened to take out his wisdom teeth with my bare hands while I was captive.

He walks past me and stops to warm my fingers in his hands. My fingertips are cracked and split from the cold and the dry air. It's his way of finding something to be fussy over so he can keep an eye on me. The sweetness.

We're okay. I swear. We still love each other beyond words, nothing there has changed, even though our relationship appears to have an obstacle course that makes the one that the army uses the nursery-school run.

Loch sent me flowers. Pink roses. Just as touching was the thirty four emails (and counting) with sweet support inside from readers. Only 2 icky ones (so far). Thank you, I'll be responding soon.

And lastly, marmalade and butter. Why? Just because.

Because I watched Last Tango in Paris and butter has been a favorite word ever since.

Because you can knock me down but you won't make me any less perverted.

Hugs all around. Hugs all round.