Weathering and worn.

There is a hole in my favorite vintage wool car coat.

Not a huge one, but noticeable nevertheless. I noticed it on my sleeve when I lifted my cup in the coffeeshop downtown after yet another random shuffle of a schedule which has gone all to hell now, and what was going to be my therapy day yesterday with Christian playing chauffeur became a Tuesday visit with Jacob by my side. Jacob, who always tempts me with a suggestion of a late breakfast stop at the coffee shop around that corner from the office building that holds so many of my secrets it's become like a second home. Or at least a diary made of columns and cornerstones only I don't have the key.

So there I sit, depleted and exhausted and somewhat satisfied with how the day went as I chattered and listened with Jacob while we sipped good coffee and he ate a cinnamon bun the size of my head and I picked at a butter tart and he pointed to my sleeve and said I needed a new coat.

This coat was purchased at a terrific little vintage store in Vancouver and made it through four decades intact, I wear it for a few winters and it disintegrates right off my bones.

I do that. I ruin things. Just by being near them.

But sometimes things are fixable. Even people. They're sometimes fixable too.

I agree to Jacob's offer and then I sit and study him while he describes something he is working on and I notice the lines around his eyes, what we call squint lines from living in the sun for so long that are very noticeable now. I see also a few strands of white in the strawberry blonde beard he is growing back and his hands, his huge hands which have always shown his age first. Their rough, battered covering of skin stretched tight and strong over his big bones. Capable and knowledgeable, his hands show that he hasn't forged a life of leisure. He could build a house or end a life with those hands and yet he is able to fasten the most delicate bracelet around my wrist or pick up seed beads from the cracks between the boards of the floor, or to trace my flesh and make me tremble with the softest touch ever.

What are you doing, princess?

Just looking at you.

Then why do you look so sad? I thought you said I was okay-looking?
I shook my head and spoke softly, No, I actually find you incredibly beautiful, Jacob.

Then why the long face?

I've made you look tired.

I think everyone looks tired. It's been a long winter, princess.

Yes it has.
He smiled at me with love brimming in his eyes, sometimes we don't have to say a whole lot to understand each other.

So how about the new coat now?

No, I think I'd like to just wear this one for a bit longer.

He looked at me a little funny but he didn't say any more on the subject, and being as tiny as I am, the sleeves were long enough on me to turn under and re-hem in order to hide the hole.

If only I could re-hem Bridget. You know, to hide the places that show the most wear.

Too big, too little and just right.

The shortcut across the ball field proved to be a mistake on a bitterly cold windy morning on the way home from the school. I walked lightly across the frozen crust of snow and ice that sat on top of the layers of softer snow, the result of a brief melt that was cut off by a new storm, a new cold front. Jacob forged ahead with equal ease, despite dropping down through the ice with every step, sinking almost halfway to his knees, making me taller than he is for the first and last time ever, which I pointed out with glee. He just grinned and kept going, hands jammed deep in corduroy pockets, scarf up around his ears, hat flaps down and a curse to grow his hair back as long as it was before.

When we finally made it back, we decided to skip coffee and make hot chocolate instead. I dragged the step stool over to the counter, but he beat me to it, and easily reached the top shelf in the cupboard. He passed me the jar and smiled and I made two cups, with baby marshmallows floating in the tops, and fixed a plate of graham crackers and grapes, and we retired to the study to sit on either side of his big desk, he in his big chair and me on my knees in the Windsor chair halfway across the desk so I can see what he's writing.

Almost at the same time we both felt the need to point out we wanted to stay home for March Break and just do kid stuff. We laughed. We've been tossing short trip ideas around for a few weeks but neither once of us want to really go anywhere. Instead we're going to spend next week schlepping the kids to the library, the museum, the planetarium and probably Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Jacob the lionhearted.

   Cowardly Lion: All right, I'll go in there for Dorothy. Wicked Witch or no Wicked Witch, guards or no guards, I'll tear them apart. I may not come out alive, but I'm going in there. There's only one thing I want you fellows to do.

    Tin Woodsman: What's that?

    Cowardly Lion: Talk me out of it.

Last night we came home in a cab, without the truck and more than a little early. I won't drive medicated. He was half loaded and on a mission. It was the return of Jacob the Pooh.

Bridget, something very important has occurred and I think I would much like to go over it with you in so much as you need to hear this, I think. Listen way more carefully than usual for me, my princess and I'll begin to tell you all of it.

Jacob-

No, Bridget, I have figured all of it out. It's amazing, baby girl. I've got it.

Okay.

Shhh. Just let me while I have so much of this feeling of courage. I can meet you halfway.

Halfway.

Shhh. Yes. Halfway. If I bring the light in and shine it around we can see what we've got.

I waited, listening.

Are you with me? Say something.

I have no idea what you're talking about, Jacob.

You can show me what you want because I tuned you out and now I'm in the dark but I've got the light so you show me where you want to go and I'm open to trying it and I won't draw the line unless you're going to get hurt. Okay, princess, we need to go now before I change my minds. Because in a while I may have a difficult time with this and so it must be now.

Okay Hubbell.

What?

Nevermind. Jake, I don't think you're in any shape to make this kind of decision.

Well you know what I know already and that's that you're mine. You're mine and no one else's-they cannot have you! You're my girl now and I love you and I want you to have everything that I haven't given you yet and I think right about now is a time that would be good for that, don't you think and then you really would be all mine. That's all I ever wanted, princess, was for you to be mine of my own.

Oh hell, now he's slurring himself into incomprehensible whispers. And my eyes are watering from the whiskey fumes he is emanating and from trying to not cry at the generosity of his efforts.

Oh this is great, princess, the ceiling is turning. Come and see this view for ourselves.

Jacob, you're so fucked.

No, it's cool. Come here so I can hold you and I never want to be in another spot except for this one because this one is where I want to be.

He pulled down my jeans (that I opted to wear at the last minute instead of a dress) and then swore because I was still fully dressed while he fumbled with my clothes and his own and I opted not to help him because I never help him unless he asks, he likes it that way. Then he just stopped and lay flat on his back with his arms spread out.

Oh God, princess. Make it stop.

Jacob, it has to wear off.

Oh my God. This is horrible.

No, you know what's going to suck? Tomorrow. Ever heard the saying "The bigger they are the harder they fall?" You're going to fall, preacher boy and it's going to be from very high up.

Oh my God.

How much did you have?

Two drinks. Just two.

You've got to be kidding me. I'm totally ashamed of you right now.

There is not enough of your Irish in me tonight.

That's because I'm so much tougher than most people, Jacob. Right?

Oh my God, you are so fucking sweet. Come here.
He got his hands into my jeans again and promptly fell asleep.

Today is going to be long.

Love song.

Do you think Dorothy Parker knew Jacob in a past life?

I laughed so much this morning over coffee and Baileys while I read this out loud that I can be left with no other conclusion. It's all in jest though, because I wouldn't trade him for the world, but darn it if I don't see him all over this poem.

    My own dear love, he is strong and bold
    And he cares not what comes after.
    His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
    And his eyes are lit with laughter.
    He is jubilant as a flag unfurled
    Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
    My own dear love, he is all my world,
    And I wish I'd never met him.

    My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
    And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
    The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
    And the skies are sunlit for him.
    As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
    As the fragrance of acacia.
    My own dear love, he is all my dreams,
    And I wish he were in Asia.

    My love runs by like a day in June,
    And he makes no friends of sorrows.
    He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
    In the pathway of the morrows.
    He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
    Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
    My own dear love, he is all my heart,
    And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
And to think, as I learn about Dorothy, I had no idea she was the author of a quote I use all the time, Brevity is the soul of lingerie. And little did I realize exactly how much we have in common. Somewhat fascinating and eerie all at once.

You can take a whore to culture, but you can't make her think.
Indeed.

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.