Coming into his own.

There is no post today, or rather, this will have to suffice. We both managed to finagle the day off, alone, together, and it starts now.

Happy birthday Benjamin.

You look damn good for a forty-year-old.

And I love you.

Over three thousand.

The number of kilometers that our dinner flew in a suitcase, wrapped in tinfoil and ziploc bags, to be transferred to a hot wok, heated, assembled on our plates and then shoveled breathlessly into our poor coastal food-deprived mouths and hearts, courtesy of a most generous man that I haven't even met yet.

Three words that make this princess so very happy.

King of Donair.

Sigh.

(I'm sure he's my father, this elusive king. Since I am the princess, after all, and I love everything he makes.)

The only way out is letting your guard down.

I stand here all alone
And I can see the bottom

The temperature has now dipped down into the complete frigid zone here, and this morning, I trudged across the nicely shoveled, salted sidewalk and through the door, held open just like the car door, since God forbid I drive a vehicle at twenty-five below.

It was Mike's idea, or so he says.

I came in and Caleb took my coat, lingered on a glance at my outfit and then asked what I wanted for music. I yanked my dress down just in case of static and threw Breaking Benjamin over my shoulder as a order. Because I want loud. Because I like angry and bitter on Monday mornings. He frowned and obliged and then went to pour me a cup of coffee and brought over two cups, still hanging on to that endless glance.

I reached a new low this morning, wearing my (forbidden) doll-shoes for Satan.

I needed these shoes today.

They're six inch stiletto-heeled platform pumps with ribbons that tie in a nice plump bow at the ankle. They are my ridiculous, I'm going to kick your ass shoes, and I felt like being a difficult girl today and so on went the shoes. Unfortunately the only thing the shoes look normal with is a tiny little black dress with puffy short sleeves and a little white collar. Very goth french maid. And my hair would not cooperate between the static and the cold so I have these little wings sticking out in front and in back at my neck and I look like I should possibly be painted on the side of a vintage aircraft from the war or maybe a cheeky soft-core porn calendar from the twenties and maybe it's okay because this is how they like me dressed.

You missed the point and I've gone on a personal tangent as a result. I'll blame you. Were you not paying attention when I pointed out Caleb brought ME a cup of coffee this morning?

Right. I don't get it either. He's covered up the fact that he does not need a personal assistant quite nicely today with a list of things a mile long that I need to do. Namely Christmas shopping. Incredibly decadent, intensive Christmas shopping that puts most people to shame. No, forget people, his budget might put a small principality to shame.

I'm just killing time now waiting for him to change his mind because of the 'cold'.

Only since you're still not paying attention I'll point out he'll give the cold as the reason but the true reason will be so that I am around him today and that he can look at me and my shoes whenever he wants.

I'm going to wear my Converse high-tops tomorrow. The pink camouflage ones. We'll see how long it takes him to take me down a peg for violating his wardrobe requirements.

When it stops being fun I'll quit, I swear.

Coffee in my veins, beans in my head.

Everyone buys,
Everyone's got a price
And nothing is new
When will all the failures rise

Caleb in church this morning, winking at me as I took my seat staring at him like what in the heck are you doing here? and he gave me a little smile that said, well, I'm just trying to fit in, and I watched his eyes drift away from mine to see my ears and my hearing aids which I think I only wear for church and that surprises him and everyone else too. There's too many people. It's noisy, I have people who whisper to me and whisper about me and I just cling to Ben's hand which wraps tightly around mine and his other hand opens two of the buttons on his black dress shirt because he doesn't like shirts that aren't comfortable and then afterwards we're gone before I can get to see Sam because Ben avoids Caleb as much as he can and I'm with him far too much as it is.

Out to the diner for a late breakfast and too much coffee and this is why I crash magnificently hard for a nap every night on the couch or any time I am forced to sit still and stare at a screen for more than an hour and I miss certain things about life, like back in the mid-nineties Cole would go and rent three or four movies and we would get a pizza and some pop and snuggle down on the couch and proceed to slog through six or eight hours of new releases and I'm lucky now if I make it through one movie.

I fell asleep during Bolt earlier this week, my chin bumping down against my coat and waking me up and Ben looked across at me and I lied and said, no, I wasn't sleeping but I was and for some reason I never want anyone to know how tired I am because then there are no movies, no time to just stop and just escape and just enjoy without any other thoughts for two whole hours at a stretch and I am told to get some sleep.

He will wrap his hand around my throat and kiss my face and tell me soon, we will get some sleep and my eyes are always heavy these days and if I don't get that late-afternoon cup of coffee that I have come to enjoy at two o'clock every day but always forget on Saturdays then you can be sure that by ten I am nodding again and telling you I am fine.

When we sleep, he is closed off, still and unyielding. When he is busy working or otherwise engaged I spend too much time these days rattling around with myself for company, marveling at how together I seem lately and keeping busy with minor things which enrages the superstitious Irish part of me, that figures if things are good soon something will be bad and we are not to become complacent. My hands no longer shake right now, because things are good.

Nothing in the world could....

....fail me now.

Tattooed on me for a very specific reason. At any point in my life if I invoke this particular piece of poetry that masquerades as a quietly inspired song lyric I know that I am at whatever bottom level of the current situation and I will start fresh and pull myself out and things will keep getting better no matter what. No matter where I am. No matter how well I'm doing.

Home now and checked on Daniel who is still sleeping. Ben has already changed back into a t-shirt and a flannel shirt, open and soft, no buttons buttoned, and jeans so broken in they should be tossed away and he and the kids are flying remote-control helicopters and laughing about the puppies we watched at the pet store yesterday, the pugs that Ruthie once again called Siamese puppies and the Chihuahua-Dachshund crosses that I insisted if we got one (we won't) we would have to name it Pancho Caliente, because it's a Mexican wiener and I don't even know if that's right but it's one of those things that becomes an in-joke but you can't really explain it to anyone else.

Like me falling asleep at the movies.

I need to go get dressed.

I'm determined. And I'm cold right now. A robe and bare legs and an empty coffee cup to bring a day that couldn't be as good as yesterday if it tried.

It could try, though. That would be terrific. As long as it ends on the couch with a plateful of samosas and Bridget sleepy and willing and some fun scary movie on the television it will end just as good.

In other news, it's snowing! Perfect for crazy carpets, less perfect for grocery shopping. The market is closing forever and I'm going to have to figure out how to get the things I need at the other stores that I don't enjoy and really such is life. Changes, progress, learning how to not get too comfortable because then you get mired in ways that make it hard to adapt.

Adapt or die, princess.

Yes, indeed.

Now bring on the samosas, fool, and let's get this show on the road.

Thanks for the cake, boss.

Wait for the light
But you've been still sly
Baby, it's not your sleigh ride
But this yet it's ours
And maybe tomorrow
We're gonna see
Things we'd never believe
I'll make you want me, you'll see

I sorted out payroll yesterday, streamlining it into a better system and making it easier to keep track of everyone. Caleb's accountant has nothing on me. Seriously. In between I was permitted to teeter around the loft calling Daniel repeatedly to see how he was, and in our discussions of a second Thanksgiving dinner to please the Americans among us I mentioned my plans to swing by the market and get the stuffed turkey breasts because I lost track of the days and forgot to defrost the frozen turkey I had.

Satan overheard.

When does he not overhear? I am tempted to start having fake phone conversations with myself and start spreading wild rumors, just for fun. Maybe I'm hard on him, he is very generous. He had dinner catered, on a whole four hours notice. Four courses, dessert (CAKE. Oh my God.) and sparkling soda and juice. Real dishes, two servers, and dinner for fifteen, which meant two tables in two different rooms and dessert on the floor around the fireplace. Music came in the form of Badly Drawn Boy (I've grown attached) and PJ's mom was thrilled at the decadence with which Caleb carries out his holidays. I told her that was nothing and he said he would be thrilled to show himself up for Christmas even. I thought it was a strange thing for him to attempt to invite himself for Christmas considering I had already booked his tickets for the Caribbean, for Caleb and his 'guest' (Holiday girlfriend? Well-compensated companion? Whatever.) She travels with him every now and then and is hoping he'll settle down, I'll bet, and let her loose with her own expense account.

I daresay she is wasting her time. Do I need to mention that she is a Bridget-clone? Seriously. Only way taller.

Okay, but back to dinner, because gravy like we had only pours from heaven and there's no way I can get french bread that warm and still soft at the same time because it just doesn't happen. The icing on the cake though (and I don't mean the double-chocolate torte that had Bridget written all over it) was checkers.

The kids really liked the fact that they beat EVERY grown-up in the room at checkers.

Cutthroats, my kids are. Merciless. Vindictive.

So I will give thanks for that and for what turned out to be another very lovely evening. What's sad is that I spent it listening still, for the sound of that other shoe dropping.

(PS overnight the rest of the cake disappeared into Ben. Should I let that go? I should let it go. Trying.)

Daydreaming.

Since I've been above you seen and loved you so
You pick a place that's where I'll be
Time like your cheek has turned for me

Back to work today. I don't need the whole week off since Daniel is home now (at my house) and doing a lot better. Schuyler is looking after him. There's a turkey frozen solid in the deep freeze and I'll swing by the market on the way home to pick up some stuffed breasts. Otherwise, Happy Thanksgiving (again)!

Today so far I have eaten eleven butterscotch lollipops, walked over to the printer four times and the last time came back to my desk with a splinter which I can't figure out because hello? A splinter? I don't think I even touched anything. And my throat is very sore and scratchy so I'm trying to baby it with tea and suckers because tea gets cold fast and I brought some carrots and celery for lunch but I hope since it's been a long week that someone will swing by and take me out for lunch but I won't plan on it and this skirt is itchy and you know what?

(Take a breath, Bridget)

I would rather be home nestled on the couch with my arms around Ben's neck and my face in his shirt.

That would be good.

Oh so good.

But darn everything and jobs and obligations. In my future post-apocalyptic utopia all work will cease to exist and we will all be free to indulge in endless preferred activities. Number one on my list will be resting my face on flannel-wrapped heartbeats.

You totally thought I would say something else, didn't you?

Clementines in miniature. For the brutes.

I took the hand that was offered only because this weather has settled into a mild winter but everything is covered with a thick layer of bumpy ice and it's very hard to walk on, especially in heels. The hand that was offered in a sort of ownership way, just like my schedule that was set for me. Movie on Saturday, tree cutting on Sunday. I forget about my indignation as I feel my balance wane and I grab the arm that's attached to the hand so I don't land on my head. The arm stiffens and the conversation shifts.

Tell me about your leg bothering you. And you should be wearing decent boots.

It's just a little inflammation. I'm fine. And the boots seem popular. They allow me to be taller.

Don't delude yourself. You still only come up to here.

Nice.

Your leg-

-is fine, PJ.

K. I see you're going to be difficult today.

I'm tired.

Don't let that happen, baby.

Easier said than done.

Is it too much to have them at the house?

No, it's easier. And it keeps me busy. Daniel and I keep good company.

Yeah, that's true.

Another near-miss and we dropped the conversation in favor of another.

Did I tell you I think I've got a date this weekend?

You think you have a date? What, are you hoping she'll ask you so you don't have to stick your neck out?

In a perfect world, sure.

Well, I hope it all works out.

Me, too.

You might want to tip the odds in your favor and ask her out already.

Bridget? Are you giving out relationship advice?

Why not? At least I've had a few.

That went down in flames...

At least there was fuel for my fire.

Oh, that was all kinds of funny. Haha.

Feel the burn, PJ.

That brings me back to your leg. I think you're minimizing how much it hurts.

Do we have to talk about my leg? I wouldn't be wearing these boots if it was that bad. I'm just taking a few weeks off from running, that's all. I'm fine. Change the subject.

What would you like to talk about?

Girls!

This is why you're my best friend, Bridge. Seriously.

Could you slow down then? I'm going to fall and break something in a minute.

Focus on Daniel, you idiots.

Looks like another day staring at this print in the hallway, which I love anyway, being a van Gogh fangirl and thinking about this message that was kindly forwarded to me:

No, man, she put herself squarely in between Ben and Caleb. Together they practically invoke Cole. Which puts her as far away from preacher boy as she could get. It's a knee jerk for sure. I gave it a year but she's still holding on to him so we'll give it another and see where she is then. What's sad is that everyone thinks they can be the one to make a difference. We all want the same thing. Makes me infuckingsane.

Update.

Thank you if you're praying. We've been home for a little while. Daniel has a hefty list of minor injuries, or maybe they're major, I have no idea, I'm just thankful it wasn't any worse. He looks like he got the wrong end of a hockey stick in the face. A broken nose, concussion. Some bruising. Okay, a lot of bruising. He'll be purple-dan by tomorrow. They're keeping him for a few days and then we'll bring him here and spoil him rotten for a few weeks.

It took a lot of convincing to get Schuyler to come here to stay too. He's still at the hospital with Daniel and is worse-off emotionally. They were fighting and from what I gather ultimatums were given and Daniel took off his seatbelt because Schuyler was going to pull over and let him out. But the ice was black and it was still dark and the car is toast.

Daniel was almost toast, and I'm so glad he's okay. So glad to the point where the other shit pales because this is bigger. I daresay it will be a cold day in hell before Schuy forgives himself and we all started suggesting he see a counselor. It broke the black ice around Daniel's bed, anyway. Even Satan showed up, since it was cold there in hell, to check on Daniel and give me the week off because I'm the closest thing to a mother/sister/lover that Daniel has.

You know what I mean.

I'm rattled. Going to bed now.