Can you hear me now?

What the hell have I meant
If this how the day ends, I regret,
Close your eyes and dream now the world so far
Your heart sounds alone and I connect,
In all the ways I've dreamed you,
I chose a song to reach you,
But why it's sad again,
Only now I see it,

Ben's call kind of threw me off. No, I mean it really threw me off. Alternately, I expected the charming, everything will be fine Ben or I expected the stripped-down bare bones I can't do this Ben. That's what I got. Yes, both. Everything. He talked a mile a minute, one minute planning our future into old age and the next minute giving me away again, dropping that permission between us that he would not blame me for a second if I ran for the hills, or to one of his friends, one, in particular. Telling me he was relieved to be there and the next minute he was crawling out of his skin because he was there.

It's beautiful, no, baby, it's horrible. I love you, I hate you. I wish you hadn't done this to me, go away. I need you. I'm fine by myself, got this far didn't I? Are you okay? I don't care if you are or not.

I've been reassured by virtually everyone on the planet (and then some) who know much better than me and at this early stage, for once, it means Ben is doing well. Really well. And I have been promised that they'll put him back together so I will still recognize him when he makes it back to me. Sometime at the end of April, but hey let's please not talk about how far away that is because Bridget will put her head down between her elbows and slide right out of your grasp, okay?

Because seriously, I've been picked up off the floor enough since that call.

One bad thing to come out of this was Lochlan's attitude, which was a take-charge kind of resolution because his spin on the confusion was to decide Ben is too messed up to be human and will never come home and the time has come to take back what he had before Cole came into my life and maybe do it right this time.

And Lochlan maybe is going deaf now that he's in his forties and maybe he's not paying attention but I didn't take Ben's advice and I'm not going to be forced or coerced into being with Lochlan in any kind of permanent way. In fact, I would prefer that he stop with the proposals and stop forcing my head around, making it move so that I am looking in his eyes and I wish he would know that no, well it means no. It means stop touching me like that. It means I don't want to play games and it means get your priorities straight and it means even though it appears everyone else has?

I'm not giving up on Ben.

I'm not letting go of him, I'm not letting him go and once again I think it's time that I shore up my strength and I ball up my fists and I invoke every last measure of borrowed expectation that I can find, and I'm going to wait. Wait for my husband to get better and come home and be the man he promised he would be and wow, if he manages to come back and we follow through with even half the plans he spelled out in one of his more hopeful moments in which we could hear each other's voices, well, then I will be a happy girl. I will be a happy girl if he can lay some of his demons to rest once and for all, plans or no plans. I don't care. I want him to get better and come home to me.

And if he never makes it and never comes back and none of this works out and I pop another attempt at a fairy tale like a bubble landing in the tall grass on a hot summer day?

Well, I'll tell you right now, the plan will not be Lochlan.

Bridget and her third world kitchen.

Somehow yesterday I found myself in a swanky home furnishings place, in the kitchen section. Little did I know I was supposed to have all this stuff to make my life easier. I had to buy fuel for the fondue burners, because fondue=fun and I needed a hamper because the laundry basket, filled to overflowing, always sitting in the corner of my giant bathroom, looks ridiculous.

I used to have a saying, that when you felt like decorating, it meant you had no problems left in the world. And though I am prone to never taking a single thing in my life for granted and constantly waiting for the telltale footfall of that other shoe dropping, sometimes I want life to look nice and be slightly easier, too.

But not enough, apparently.

We wound up being ambushed by a saleswoman who steered us away from the unknown fly-by-night ninja-manufacturer blender and toward the Cuisinarts, because they chop and blend. And frankly Ben has wanted a blender around here forever because he is big on smoothies and floats and scratch soup and guacamole and whatever else provides the health-nut yang to his McDonalds-penchant yin. So surprise, when he gets home there will be a blender here.

Now, apparently the deciding factors in buying a blender are that it's by a reputable brand name (check), it has dishwasher-safe attachments (I have no dishwasher) and it matches the appliances (WHAT).

I'm much better at buying cars. At least they haggle and throw in fun things. This was $149.99 (OMG Bridget you can't NEGOTIATE at the checkout) and the only fun thing included was a recipe booklet that I don't think included a single thing that I already have on hand. Which means, now I have to go grocery shopping.

I thought this thing was supposed to make my life easier.

I am assured that all things look easier after you've downed a few of the mocha frappes in this booklet. I will report back later and let you know, even though I know my collective public is aghast that I have just revealed that the castle is indeed as medieval as you all have feared, since, I mean, come on, the appliances don't even match.

I have my priorities in order. I'd much rather have a butler, and then he can deal with the fact that there's no dishwasher around to put the swanky new blender parts in.

Sky captain.

The finale of Battlestar Galactica was EPIC.

I know, shut up already, that's all the entire internet is talking about. Well, maybe you should have watched it. It was pretty profound for a science fiction series. After the first hour of total space carnage, that is.

Some of my boys cried. I won't say who or why, for those of you who have TIVO or similar devices and haven't managed to catch it yet (Chase/Andrew/Schuyler). I won't go on about it too much, really, for I'm busy living my own incredibly profound life that has an equal amount of action and carnage and hope, death and resurrection too.

Bravo.

Echo.

November.

My much-anticipated phone call came last night and for once it wasn't what I expected. Well, half of it was expected and the other half complete surprise, cleaved down the middle in a firm dividing line of opposites and it left me confused and somewhat happy and somewhat sad and I haven't talked to anyone about it. Not Daniel. Not Lochlan and not anyone else either. Quiet once again. I don't know where to begin and so I won't even try until I figure it out for myself. I don't mean to worry people, hell I was the last of several to talk to him this week and I have a feeling my call was a whole lot different then theirs were. And so the party line goes something like this: He is working very hard, and we are very proud of him.

I guess for you coming to gape and to gawk at my life the highlight of this post is knowing that yes, Ben is okay and he is still where he needs to be right now and that is the only bottom line I have for you, so please don't ask me for any more than that and I promise not to spoil the ending of Battlestar Galactica for you in return.

TBSGF.

Instead of writing about my wet run this morning through a spring taking it's SWEET TIME to arrive, to the point where I think my hair grows faster than the snow is melting, and instead of telling you about that time (yesterday) when PJ forgot that he was supposed to spend the day with me so I wound up alone for too long and got into the home movies and oh just FAIL already Bridget, you stupid, drippy, unpredictable sentimentalist, I'm going to do something different.

(For the record, PJ did not actually forget to hang out with me. His email said ten and I assumed he meant ten in the morning, not ten at night. I never clarified and happily sent Lochlan off thinking PJ would arrive any minute. I wound up spending most of the afternoon at August's office and then PJ came and got me and by eight last night I had a whole collection of men hanging out in the living room watching home movies. Which made it far less difficult in the end.)

Now, let's move on.

It's Friday.

It's the vernal equinox, which means the sun will cross the equator, day and night are suddenly the same length and this marks the official end of my seventh winter here. One small step for Bridget, one giant leap for the rest of you who have to listen to her complain.

It's above freezing. Did I mention spring is coming?

Seriously. It's just hard to get past that part.

Tonight is the very last episode of Battlestar Galactica. Did I mention the winters here are long and cold and the boys have officially hooked me on all kinds of things I couldn't stand before. I laugh every single time someone says "frack!". Did I mention I'm also looking forward to the Tron sequel?

Did I mention my birthday is forty-six days away and the boys say I'm just finally getting cooler as I get older? Did I mention they're all huge liars and cringing at the thought of me walking around repeating the number of years I am old in total disbelief, wondering how I got to this place when my brain is forever seventeen years old? The hype is unbelievable this year. I do unbirthdays. I am worried now.

Tonight we're going to have something without vegetables for dinner. Because we can.

Tonight I'll listen to music that is attached to no one and brings forth no memories.

Today I noticed my ponytail does what it used to do and it made me feel like me again.

Today I noticed that black nailpolish has incredibly short wear time, even though for once I put it on myself and used topcoat and everything and still chipped all to rock-club junkie hell within twelve hours.

Today I noticed I'm singing along with the stereo again.

Today I turned down a lunch date from Satan and accepted one from Jesus (Sam).

Today I will vaccume the living room. I'm a thirty-something-year-old writer who can't spell that word for the machine that sucks lint out of my lovely Turkish rug. Fuck it. Some things can't be helped.

Today I'll have the last cream soda freezie from the freezer. That leaves all the orange and the coconut.

It's a good day. A surprisingly damn good day.

This has nothing to do with the once-rumored now-confirmed phone call scheduled for tonight from Ben. I just hope he doesn't call during Battlestar Galactica.

Oh my God, I'm kidding. Geez, lighten up.

A different sort of hotness.

Last night saw a trip to the hardware store to look at fixtures and more fixtures and floor coverings and sometimes taps, though the salesman called them faucets, and almost flinched when I asked if the three-hundred-dollar coating on one was any stronger than the $69 chrome plate. I was asking from experience, because if you've ever tried to lift a pot over the sink and accidentally dinged the new expensively-coated faucet, you would know it chips even more easily than the previous cheap chrome one that made it through a good three decades before you took up cooking in there.

As John led me around by the hand, my other hand clutching a hot cup of coffee, I people-watched endlessly. It wasn't until we were leaving (empty-handed because John cannot settle on exactly which plunge-router he is going to purchase) that I realized I had stumbled on a new phenomenon sweeping the men of this city.

Overbearding.

Yes, that's what I called it. Overbearding. You know, when a man grows a beard that seemingly comes up past his nostrils, almost covering his cheeks? You're not sure if he's that unaware that he is growing wall-to-wall facial hair or if he's desperate to cover up the dark circles under his eyes or maybe, perhaps, he just doesn't know any better.

John had the answer for me, as we drove home in the dark.

We've just come out of a long cold winter, princess. Trust me, if you could grow hair all over your face, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Makes sense to me.

Please don't let me fall forever.

(Hi, it's one of those days where it just all pours out. Like a flood. Don't be alarmed. I'm actually fine. Well, if fine is relative. I'm relative, then. And I have no idea what that means, exactly.)

Henry's hair is getting long. So much so that I used a half a can of hairspray this morning on him because he wanted a fauxhawk for school and his hair is heavy and reluctant and I don't keep gel in the house. I don't use it (okay, Ben would eat it if it was just sitting around). I'm certain Henry's hair will be flat again by the first bell because in a few minutes he has to put his winter hat on to go to school.

Tonight it will take several washes to get all of that out, so I'm guessing today is going to be all about make-work projects and about compulsively checking my phone in between rings to see if it is on. Does that make sense? Yes, I know. It will ring and be Duncan or Mark or Dylan on the other end and then if ten minutes goes by after I hang up I'll check status again. Do I have capital EDGE? Okay, good. Okay, no, that's bad, Bridget. Because I haven't talked to Ben this week. He moved on Saturday and that was when I spoke to him last. This place doesn't allow for cellphones. They do have nightly phone times available but he hasn't called. The last thing he said was Go away.

Maybe this journal has become about rejection. Rejecting reality, rejecting life. Rejecting Bridget. Maybe Bridget is the one who is the problem and make rejection is teaching me more about time and space and control and choices better than death, better than religion, or better than that pearl-blue western sky. Maybe I'm going about it all wrong. Maybe the clear and present temptation does nothing but allow me to fail time and time again, while time fails me.

Or just maybe I'm doing fine, and this is life and I've simply run out of luck, which is something I think I said I did in 2006 but no one listened back then because they thought I was ungrateful. I wasn't ungrateful, I was predicting the future. A future with an empty place at the dinner table where my heart is supposed to sit and an empty can of hairspray from trying to pretend everything is completely normal.

Who was I kidding, anyway?

This isn't to say I don't have hope. I don't know exactly how I feel. Maybe he'll never change and maybe he thinks I never will. I just know that I am here bookended by some of the most together, stable, handsome and caring men on the planet and all I can think about is that messed-up, unstable, handsome and completely-self-centered one who isn't here.

Maybe he feels the same way. That's my hope, anyway. And I might not be the only one with hope seeping in around the cracks, since the past couple of days, all the boys have been showing up with black-painted fingernails, a small and quiet show of support for Benjamin, who has no idea how much he is missed by everyone.

They look completely ridiculous and I love it.

I tried to save you but
I can't find the answer
I'm holding on to you
I'll never let go

Okay, I have no idea what the sweep part means.

Drunk on failure's regrets
Letters of silence confess burdens within
Speaking as loneliness listens
While hopelessly feeling
Casted out

One of the joys of this morning was shopping with August.

August sets his own schedule, and he's been an absolute godsend to me lately (maybe that's a Jakesend), hanging out, encouraging me to talk just a little more, not because he wants to get inside my head but so that everything inside my head can get out. He's listened to me prattle on since I met him, he thinks my head is extraordinary, and he thinks I'm beautiful. He's also one of the few who just hugs without asking, and for that alone, I'm going to get a very large jar, stuff him in it, and put him on the shelf as the one and only miracle product of Bridget's tiny apothecary.

We stopped at the tailor he uses, who is actually an ancient and wizened little Chinese lady who lives on the second floor of the most run-down building I have ever set foot in. She had him strip to the waist and she took about eight hundred measurements and she's going to make him four hemp dress shirts. Seriously. Bespoke hippie clothes, people. She asked him if his beautiful wife would like anything made, that she would be honored but I'll be damned if I could understand her and August repeated her question to me and I didn't want to be rude so she's going to make me a lovely olive-green wrap skirt. I think he is paying for it. I don't know, we go back in ten days and everything will be ready.

I was just very happy she didn't ask me to strip to take measurements. I think August was very happy I might someday be planning to wear something that isn't black, though I've become rather attached to my ability to walk into a room and suck the light out of it.

I suppose now you'll tell me that's not a good thing...

We finished our shopping by heading for the global market, as August is also hunting for a dress belt, the caveat being it has to be vegan. After an hour of looking and asking and googling on the go even I finally looked up, slightly crazed and asked him why the belt had to be vegan, if he had steak at my house last night? What code of ethics ran that show, anyway?

Hey, there was a pretty girl standing there holding a plate piled high with steak. Show me a Vegan who will turn that down and I'll show you a fucking idiot.

Except, once again I had to get him to slow it down and translate because his accent is still thicker than that of the tailor. I'm hoping that with time, that will change too.

There is absolutely nothing going on today but people seemed nervous that I didn't post.

The sun is out, the snow is melting, I had a long catharsis of a run this morning, and I don't feel nearly as gloomy as I usually do. I can see the end of having to wear practical boots and my heavy wool coat and a hood that perpetually flattens the perky chin-length hair cut that is so flat it's almost shoulder-length again. Or maybe it grew. I don't know, spring is coming, so who cares about anything else right now?

Even the kids are losing their ever-loving minds. You would think they've never seen sunshine before.

Trust me, living here, sometimes that's what it feels like.

I'm about to go wedge myself in the corner of the couch under John's elbow and finish going over Christian's writing, and then hopefully if all goes well I'm going to make an early dinner of steak and baked potatoes and be in bed by nine.

I will try to write earlier tomorrow, for those of you losing your minds. I feel loved. Which is kind of creepy when it comes from total strangers on the internet.

This might have a soundtrack by Prokofiev or someone whimsical like that.

Is there an easy way? Great. I'll be over here under the sign labeled "danger". You requested honesty and here, have it for fucking breakfast and then leave me alone.

I will love him, thoroughly and unapologetically. I will throw down my guard and my trust and he will gobble them up and spit the bones back out and smile in the half-assed, charming way that he smiles and splits the crack in my heart open just a little wider, in order to wedge himself in deep. Go ahead. Deeper. Please.

It hurts, you know. It burns and it aches and at the same time it feels good in the most twisted way.

Just like in order to weigh down my fingers, I wear so many rings. Rings that are borrowed and bought and given freely and with conditions. Rings with skulls and roses and words and scratches too. Rings that when you squeeze my hand too hard I may squeal because it hurts and my knuckles are bruised in between.

Will I take them off?

Not on your life.

This one from him, is all skulls and darkness. It's my tie to him while he's gone. Another spins around and around, wearing a bell sound into my skull. He has a matching one, and he left that for me too, for twice the comfort but his is so big I wear it below mine, so mine will hold it on. Others include my wedding ring, and more rings that mean different things. They serve to provide a nice heft to keep my fingers remembered in their tasks of spelling properly and using punctuation and then I sound less crazy because I have dotted the i and used a comma where a comma should be and I'm rather presentable because I'm beautifully accessorized even if it is in an over-the-top rockstar boyfriend format. It's okay, I won't apologize if you don't ask to see them up close. There are so many now that I keep a little blue pottery bowl by the sink to hold them when I wash dishes, wash my hands, wash an apple. Wash away the hurt part.

In the event that it is needed, I could simply use them as tools, wedging them far into that crack in my heart to hold his place. I've done it before, I'll do it again. In the event that it is needed I will melt them down and fashion a silver bullet and save us all.

But I will not apologize for loving him. And I'll be really proud of him for getting through detox and then moving to a slightly closer program, one that has a family weekend once a month.

He always wanted a family.

Now he has one.

And we'll be there in April to spend that weekend with him, which I think falls on our very first wedding anniversary. I can't remember right this second. Emotion overload, okay? I don't mind talking about things that are over. It's things that are ongoing that are so difficult in a watchful public eye where people pass judgement without fully understanding the gravity involved. I worry. I'm afraid. What if I self-destruct while he's gone? What if I forget him? What if he comes out different? What if he comes out the same? What if I miss him too much, hell, what if I miss him too little? What if neither one of us can get through what is going to be a very long and painful separation?

My head is unpredictable, and therein lies the reason behind holding that place with as much silver as I can find, a representation of something good and pure, like the very incredibly overwhelming love I have for someone I'm not sure that I don't hate right now.

That stupid half-charming, half-fratboy Tucker smile will fix everything, and I can't wait to see it again.

Treasures. Two for Saturday. This never happens.

Oh my goodness. Fuck the previous post. Look what was found for me on the 'tube. God knows, I still have the hugest crush on Jesse Hasek's voice and this doesn't help matters any, now, does it?

Beautiful, acoustic.

Okay, now, enough with the youtube links. I promise.

Wow.