I got to be Diane Lane for a night. Don't laugh too hard.

Notice I'm not sleeping in, which is kind of ironic and not surprising at all. I'm so used to the kids getting me up earlier and the pets wanting to be fed that I am up regardless.

Last night was fun. I played third wheel on a date with Daniel and Schuyler and they took me to see a movie in another language (Korean, I think) with no subtitles so it was very difficult to figure out what happened. Then we went to what had to be the world's most dimly-lit Italian restaurant, where they make these GIGANTIC overstuffed tortellinis and at every bite you promise you're done. But then they pour more wine and bring more baskets of olive-oil-soaked bread, and before I knew it, it was after midnight and they had pulled the tables back and turned the music up and we were dancing.

Okay, they were dancing.

I was watching for a long time and eventually the bread ran out too and Daniel gave me his coat because they had opened the doors to the patio for some air and the elderly owner came over and offered me his arm so I did a waltz with him, very slowly. Twice around. Older men have no issues, he stared into my eyes, a delighted smile on his face, sure feet, sure hands. Schuyler has video. Everyone stopped dancing and I got this twinge as we moved. Like why am I here? What in the hell am I doing in this fun and dark little place wearing my husband's little brother's suit coat over my dress dancing intimately with a seventy-year old (at least) man whose name I don't even know and I felt like there was a rock in my stomach and a lump in my throat.

Eventually the music faded and I was passed on to Daniel's arm for the walk to the car, through the snow in my little high heels and thin black wool coat. Lochlan was waiting up. He asked if we had a good time and I said it was the best, save for the homesickness. I was halfway up the stairs and I stopped when I realized he was still talking from the living room below.

It sucks, being a grownup sometimes, doesn't it, princess?

No, Lochlan, it really doesn't. I just danced with a man who is far away from home, too. If I could give him a moment from his memory when he was a young man, dancing with a pretty girl while people clapped, and have the music, the food and everything else the same? Then it definitely didn't suck. By default, I think I learned something.

What's that?

I definitely need to have more fun.

He didn't say anymore and I came upstairs and had a hot shower, tossed my beautiful dress in the hamper, noticing for the first time exactly how much wine and olive oil I had spilled on it, decided I didn't care, and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

No dreams.

Redefine pulse.

Spring break has descended on the house once again and this morning the excitement was palpable as the kids gathered up their backpacks and most treasured books and their new digital cameras for the flight home. They get to go on the little plane with their Uncle Caleb, who is taking the week off and will puddle-jump them from Nova Scotia to Newfoundland before returning them to me at the end of next week.

(Don't ask. First one to say Mafia Uncle under their breath swims with the fishes.)

I would have gone but I don't go, this trip is not for me, it's a chance for the kids to be free of me, free from my rules and my moods and free from the darkness that keeps a fairly tight grip on this beautiful house.

Ben called last evening and talked to each child for a very long time, asking them to be safe and listen carefully to their uncle and their grandparents too and to have fun, that he missed them badly. He talked to me too and then he even talked to Lochlan and then he talked to me again.

And I realized about an hour ago that all of my anchors are now gone.

Crumbs in the guitar.

I can't focus when I'm near you.
Do you notice me at all?

Three-year-olds always know when you're distracted. And my house is no longer childproofed nearly enough for this little tornado of a boy. Gabriel, who is going to piggyback on the rest of my day because his mom got stuck at work this morning and has a chance to take another shift until she can have her husband pick her up on his way home. For those who are new to the story Gabriel is my little neighbor across the street. I look after him when there is an emergency, which amounts to about once every six or eight months.

Gabriel has tried seven times to make me share his peanut butter and jelly.

Share? Bridgie? Some? Eat some? Have some?

No, thank you.

Hungry, Bridgie? Here, half. I have half. Do you have cookies?

Yes, I have cookies and apple slices when you're finished your sandwich.

Chocolate cookies, Bridgie?

Yes, sweetheart. Chocolate. We like chocolate in this house.

Me, too.

He keeps things simple, you know that? Lochlan walked past the living room earlier on his way to get a glass of milk and stopped and watched us. We made a ramp with books and we were driving little bulldozers up into the plants and rearranging the dirt. Okay, I was, because clearly Gabe is a animal-lover and my cats are terrorized beyond belief, having been picked up and hoisted over his shoulder so many times in one morning they have gone off to hide until the tornado warning has ended.

I'm kind of hoping he stays for dinner. It's awfully nice to be with a cute guy who wants to share his sandwich, with no expectations or innuendos otherwise. Of course someday Gabriel is going to grow up and use these blonde curls and blue eyes to wreak all kinds of havoc on hearts everywhere so maybe I'm just tilting at windmills again.

I'll just enjoy it while it lasts.

Because I'll look cute in flannel, that's why.

They make me laugh. I woke up today, the coffee was ready. The paper had already been stolen and dissected, sections spread from the kitchen to the living room to the den. August was in the den with the life and times. Lochlan in the living room with the headlines and PJ had the sports section but was folding it up backwards and he got to me before my toes touched the floor at the bottom of the steps and I looked up at him and muttered a morning greeting that had nothing good within it.

Hallo. There is snow, Padraig.

It won't last, princess.

Did you see how much snow there is?

Yes. I drove over.

I'm moving. Where should we go?

Stop complaining and come eat. Want to run?

No. I won't get anywhere today.

Treadmill?

No.

You're such a little bitch in the mornings. Have some coffee.

Offer me Ben and I'l be nice.

I would if I could just to shut you up.

Ouch, PJ.

I didn't mean it.

Hug?

Sure. Come here.

I could feel his chin pressing against my forehead. PJ hugs so hard when he's in the mood. He wasn't asking me something, I could tell.

What is it, Peej?

Hmm? Nothing?

Liar.

Fine. Did he call?

You already know the answer, one of these turkeys probably filled you in already.

You okay?

Do I get to pick if I am or not?

Always.

I'm actually fine, just don't bring it up.

You brought him up.

He lives in the front of my mind like a giant billboard. A flashing one. In Times Square even. LEDs and everything. Viral. Pick something.

Give him some time.

You guys need to give Ben some time.

We are.

Some of you are.

You're the first priority here. Ben can look after himself.

Ha. Of course he can't. We're the children, aren't we?

Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?

Did you see how much snow there is?

He paused then, realizing the conversation was going to be a loop and changed tactics instead.

You want some coffee?

I would love some coffee.

What do you want to do today, then?

Wallow.

Sorry, you're not allowed. I have a plan.

Oh, God.

Yes, be afraid.

Is this going to be like that time we burned down the campsite?

Nope, better.

The hazmat-suit weekend?

Even better.

I give up. Tell me.

You're going to help us finish your kitchen.

You mean like with tools? And wood...and...tools?

Yes. It will keep you busy and you'll learn something.

I'll have you know I helped build muscle cars before I could drive.

No, Bridget. You sat on the table in your short little skirt and polished chrome and looked adorable. Like a living pin-up poster in a mechanic's garage. Teenage heaven.

Why can't I do that while you finish the kitchen?

Because you need something to keep you busy, that's why. And we're not teenagers anymore.

I turned and eyed Lochlan and he was smiling.

Is this your idea, pretty boy?

Serves you right, princess.

You do realize this won't make me like you MORE. Probably the opposite.

I'll risk it.

You're risking all kinds of things lately.

Some things are worth taking risks for.

And some aren't. Remember that when I saw your fingers off.

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