The Irish are coming.

Also, now would not be the best time to remind me that St. Patrick's Day is tomorrow and it's my most favorite day of the year and we've accepted a dinner party invite to Sam and Elisabeth's and had planned to have a whole bunch of very adult fun. Sitter is booked, new dress is ready to roll, green moebius shawl finished to match my eyes.

I get my Irish on very well. And I'm starting to feel a little better. Not a lot but I'll take it.

Happy St. Patrick's Day in advance, dear Bridget.

No follow.

Huh. When I went to sleep yesterday I didn't think I would sleep quite that long.

The quiet absence of exciting drama, romance, porn and general nonsense around here this week has been a blessing. I have been felled by the mother of all headaches and barricaded myself in the bedroom to sleep in one of you-know-who's big t-shirts and an ice pack, ignoring phones and doorbells and Jacob and Lochlan's newest boyfight. I'm still shaky and my head still hurts.

My absence means that my kitchen saw no action other than toast and coffee but all the take-out menus are stacked on top of the fridge with the cordless phone. So at least they ate.

Me, not so much. I would wake up and find plates that I would ignore and then go back to sleep and they'd be gone again. I've been rescheduled with Claus for Monday first thing because you don't even want to know what they say about sleeping this much and headaches and tension and stress and general apathy of this magnitude.

They say it's dangerous. Me? I don't care one way or another.

The irony.

It isn't lost on me now.

I really wish my brain would cooperate.

Forget me nots.

(Today's journal entry is from Loch, who wrote a new mermaid poem to cheer me up because winter isn't letting go and Bridget is having a rough day/week/month/life. Enjoy.)

    Way down deep where the lobsters sleep
    The mermaid waited for spring
    Encased in ice she moved so slow
    She couldn't do a thing

    The angel fluttered up so high
    warming just above
    the clouds that held the coldest air
    while he waited for his love

    Her hair snowflakes, her eyes green jewels
    Her lips were a frozen rose
    Her skin was brittle to the touch
    as was her button nose

    Rooted to the ocean floor
    in a prison of clear glass
    the mermaid held her lover's gaze
    her spell forever cast

    And then one day the sun rose high
    above the frozen earth
    the block of ice began to melt
    and he reached his lover's worth

    He stroked her skin while the icicles shrank
    and her skin began to warm
    He watched as her hair began to swirl
    and waves began to form

    Bursting forth from the winter's cage
    the lovers danced through spring
    Finally in each other's arms
    where together they could sing

    Though their love is strong and true
    the trials they must face
    to be together and at peace
    in this godforsaken place

    For when they are together
    and the world is to be seen
    they travel down to their beautiful house
    halfway in between

    And there the mermaid withers
    lost without her sea
    and the angel weighs a ton
    yearning to be free

    For she needs to swim and he must soar
    to be together is so tough
    Both the angel and his mermaid girl
    thought their love would be enough

    Since he is of the skies above
    and she is of the ocean
    All their kisses, all their love
    was going through the motions

    He never gave up his angel wings
    She hid her fins and tail
    defying the odds they made a vow
    their love would never fail

    They made a promise to themselves
    A new dance all their own
    They call it the cloud-and-ocean waltz
    And on them it has grown

    Now if you look out very far
    as far as your eyes can see
    You'll see them on the horizon now
    as close as close can be

    Watch them waltz together now
    a sight, our favorite pair
    but look closely or you will miss
    his kisses in her hair

    And now that she is free from the ice
    it's time to end this letter
    Their life at last is full of hope
    and will get even better.

Derailment.

Here's the part where I stomp my feet and frown and bite my tongue because once again, an emergency takes my beloved Claus away for the morning. As if other people are not allowed to melt down during my appointment time. The nerve.

And then two for the road, because Jacob also was called to hospice this morning which means he might be gone most of the day. But that's not a complaint because he is needed. I'm not the only one he comforts and I am grateful he is where he is needed most right now. I hate days that people die.

I'm salvaging the day, after I get Baby Ruth and Oh Henry through lunch (Ha! Bet you didn't know I secretly named my children after chocolate bars! No, I didn't, these are just more nicknames because everyone has to have seven) I'll run on the treadmill for an hour with some loud music and then make a nice big pot of spaghetti sauce and that way whenever Jacob gets home he can eat.

Petit four.

The newly-minted experimental optimist has a busy day amongst all the disappearing snow and drippy eaves. I had cake and coffee for breakfast, left over petit fours from a meeting at Jacob's church -they wrapped up the cake and sent it home for me because they are sweet and apparently now I can broadcast my cravings through the neighborhood on the wind.

No run today. It's cold and icy and dark and by the time I leave downtown after seeing Claus it will be just about time to pick up the kids and I'll probably be gluing myself back together with honey and paperclips in the car in an effort to appear just dandy so the kids can enjoy the status-quo fairytale they live in, the bubble I made for them so that they are less afffected by my issues than you would think.

Be grateful. I would crawl across broken glass before I would let them be affected by my problems. All they know is that sometimes I am a little sad and that I'm getting help to be a better person.

Whoops, my optimism hat blew off in the cake-crave wind. Let me fish it out of the snow and put it back on, pulling it down tightly over my eyes.

You can't see me.

Oh, wait, yes you can.

Princess edit.

For someone who doesn't mind me talking about the lap dances, he sure has one heck of a strong opinion about today's post, and I don't mind clarifying, to save the preacher a little embarrassment.

-He's really a very nice boy.

-Who doesn't so much think he is better than anyone.

-Who doesn't actually call people names.

-And has only made a few successful knock-out punches in his life because he doesn't think violence is the answer.

And the comment about him being able to work his penis properly maybe should not have ended "with all the readers I have." Because clearly he is not working it with the readers.

Oh shush. Keep your fantasies to yourself.

That is all. Pad Thai awaits, and your Bridget will try to be a little more lucid tomorrow. Last night was a long night. Ice falling, noises, dreams and the penis that worked very very well.

Nice to look at, nice to hold.

This is why I love you, Bridget.

Moments after I froze, blushing madly, because he caught me dancing in the kitchen last night, by myself, which would have looked like a cross between someone caught in the twitches of a very slow and sensual torture and a spiritual revival as experienced by a hippie lovechild.

    It's hidden far away
    But someday I may tell
    The tale of metal tangle
    When into your world I fell
    Without you now I wander soaking
    Secretly afraid
    'Cause in your grasp the fears don't last
    And some of them have stayed

Sample in a Jar was on, and everyone knows I can't sit still during that song. It has to get out, whatever it is. My very own revival.

He laughed. He was still laughing this morning as he headed off the ghost of 5:17 and offered to run with me, which we did and he talked about a concrete trust in us that he didn't recognize before, which is what led him to not stop me when I took off in the first place because he knows he's better than anyone (the return of the rarely seen ego) and if I'm off trying to conjure up ghosts then he knows that I'm going to be unsuccessful at it. My time with Cole is over now. He's not coming back. He isn't Caleb.

Jacob thinks Caleb is a jerk, a creep and an idiot and hopefully not willing to be the victim of any more of Jacob's haymakers, and probably only sent the email to passively stir up some extra trouble and nurse his wounded ego. Jacob was incredibly sympathetic to his plight, pointing out that if I had written something about Jacob not being able to work his penis properly with all the readers I have, he'd dig a hole in the ground and then hit himself in the head with a shovel until he fell in it.

Then he laughed again, because he really doesn't care about Caleb and Caleb isn't Cole and so I'm going to stuff this subject into a rowboat and push it off mightily from shore and it can beach somewhere else. I'm done with it.

    You tricked me like the others
    And now I don't belong
    The simple smiles and good times seem all wrong
Jacob ran slower today and waited for responses and he got to indulge himself in the contents of my silly head quite thoroughly while we splashed through mudpuddles and squinted every time we headed east, since the sun slept in again and came up low over the city.

His official comment is that I'm doing well and I'm still on track to possibly resembling a human bean someday. Not his words, mine, since his were longer and so darned clinical. We'll see what tomorrow brings because I haven't been to therapy in two weeks. I hope Claus has a fresh notepad. In any case, there's a rather optimistic outlook to me and I'm intrigued by that. Since I have no reputation as an optimist, I'm just going to try it out like a six year old on a two-wheeler and strike off shakily down the sidewalk with my helmet askew and see what happens.

Miss trusted.

    Honey why you calling me so late?
    It's kinda hard to talk right now.
    Honey why are you crying? Is everything okay?
    I gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud

    Well, my girl's in the next room
    Sometimes I wish she was you
    I guess we never really moved on

    It's really good to hear your voice say my name
    It sounds so sweet
    Coming from the lips of an angel
    Hearing those words it makes me weak

I humiliated Caleb and to retaliate he's written Jacob a character-obliterating email about me. One riddled with just enough truth and just enough lies to make it hard to discern which is which. He played on Jacob's weaknesses and on my own admissions and my past with Jacob to cast just enough of a shadow of a doubt over last weekend and life in general to set us right back where we were when he called and it's the last thing we need right now.

He can be very eloquent, very convincing, and very much a game-player. He's intriguing, even when he's an asshole about things. Exactly like Cole used to be. Some days I can't even believe Cole and Jacob could ever be so close but then I remember Jacob used Cole as a means to an end and Jacob has me now and I just wish Caleb would leave me alone. It was wrong of me to seek him out for comfort and I will never be more sorry than I am right now, after reading what he wrote about me.

His account of what happened that night are vastly, vastly different from mine and it isn't fair. He's playing cards I forgot he was holding.

Coffee in bed.

Underneath a layer of snow turned hard as glass from months of frozen temperatures, under the ice and the filth from a full winter's duration my heart is still beating, thawing, patiently waiting to feel the sun.

It rained last night. Outside our bedroom window I could hear the pitter-pat of the drops as they fell, washing away the light grime from the house in the early morning darkness and Jacob stirred restlessly and I put my hand up and stroked my fingers through his hair while I listened and my ears were grateful for a sound I haven't heard in a long time.

He turned over, his arm coming down around me and I was rolled into his sleep reluctantly, wide awake in a city of sleepers. His other hand came up under my ear and pulled my face into his, an exhausted kiss left on my lips, abandoned halfway done in his slip back into whatever blissful dream he was having.

His unconscious comfort is welcome but sometimes ineffectual, as is Cole's ghost that stands like a sentry in the corner, always watching and waiting for me in my dreams.

I really wish Cole would go away now.

Sunday comics.

In the end Betty married Moose and then they turned Riverdale upside down.

Probably the funniest description I have ever heard of life in our neck of the woods. Credit goes to Duncan (fool on the hill, who never wants me to write anything about him) as told on a three-way call with Jacob to Andrew, expert out-of-looper and one of our longtime friends. In his defense, Andrew has been away for almost a year and has missed everything because he only called once during his travels and that was last night.