It's a beautiful day and I am stuck in the church office.

Do I get extra points for this?

Functional freaks.

I only wanted to try
To find my way back inside
My imitation of life

The longer I live, the more carnival stereotypes I see and the closer I feel to my own kind. Living within the boundaries of normal, but not normal by a long shot. Outside chance, they call from the red and white striped booth with the spinning wheel. Are you the betting type? A question dripping with dare and courage, an unmistakable challenge.

Would you pass that up?

Me neither. I smile as I dig with one grimy hand into my back pocket for one solitary final coin. Luck be a lady tonight, he calls and he gives the wheel a spin.

Suddenly the sounds close in, and the lights blink faster and faster, harsh against the dark. The noise and the calliope, that fucking evil calliope overwhelms me and I stumble, scraping my knees in the gravel and the dust of the road upon which the fair was constructed.

The coin rolls out of my hand across the dirt. I reach for it blindly and then suddenly a hand closes around me, pulling me back to my feet, practically wrenching my arm out of the socket. I cry out and then I am in arms that are cool and tight. I open my eyes to see Ben smiling at me, dressed in his carnival best.

He hands me back the coin, and I play on.

He spins the wheel fastest, and I always win.

Holier than thou.

First order of business today? We're going to ready the office. Ben is moving his desk into the room, stealing one of the comfortable dining room chairs because the office chair bites and generally is thrilled with the room that I made him. We're both a little hesitant because this means when he works at home he'll be on a different floor and away from the family. He's already away from the family too much but at the same time, it's imperative that he have a place to zone out quietly at home. Privacy at home. A luxury in this house. I think it will take no time at all for it to become his favorite place in the universe.

Second order of business? Go see G.I. Joe. What a fun movie. Non-stop action and adventure. A little romance. A lot of muscle and tech. A few moments of breath-holding and a great creepy medieval tie-in that ran smoothly through the entire film. A surprise or two. Worth the price of admission and honestly? Better than Transformers 2 because Transformers had more cheesecakeryfake and G.I. Joe has a quiet confidence that makes it easier to digest. You couldn't always tell when something wasn't real and that is a huge plus, in my book.

Quality plus heart, for the win.

Not so impressive was the terrific trailer for Shutter Island. I want to see it, of course, but it's wise to note that G.I. Joe is rated 14A, so the trailers will be questionable for kids. Henry covered his eyes, bless his heart. I do that when Leonardo DiCaprio is onscreen as well.

I jest. He's perfectly wonderful as an actor.

Sometimes.

Sometimes he's holier than thou, like my title today.

I have issues with people who learn of a topic and then foist it upon everyone else like their way is THE way instead of learning to apply it to their own lives. I don't need to be preached at. I don't need to have my face rubbed in your knowledge or Life As You See It. And I don't mean just any topic, but big life events that change one forever.

Don't you think when it comes to big life events, everyone has their own way of managing? They, after all, are living their own lives, all around you.

I've encountered it everywhere. In dating. In getting married. In motherhood. In religion. In widowhood. In mental illness. In sobriety (not my own). And I never ask for advice, except rhetorically (and that's only because when I start talking I rarely shut up).

I never give advice, unless it's with a massive, obnoxious disclaimer to remember who the advice is coming from. I've quietly done the things I wanted to do as a mother with young babies (cloth diapering, sling versus strollers, homeschooling) without the need to bully others into my choices or wax loudly about how my way is better and I know more than you do so you must listen to me. I played the role of a minister's wife and still swore through a couple of church meetings like a sailor on shore leave instead of projecting my intended stereotype like a free movie in Market Square, never once expecting others to watch themselves like they would in a service.

I've become a widow twice over without accepting the paid engagements to speak or write on how to overcome adversity and pain and continue to move forward when the person you put all your love into and hung your heart on is dead and cold. Without accepting the wellmeaningsers who think I am their project and they can fix me if I'd just listen. Ditto mental illness. You've read extensively about a topic and think I fit? Great. Now keep it to yourself.

I do.

I write here, I hope, with my own personal story and you can read it and walk away knowing I wasn't trying to shove anything down your throat. I write about MY feelings and MY experience and I'm sure it's frustrating if you come looking for help and I offer none. That's not my place. Go build your own damn character. I seem wrong? Right. Because I'm not you, I'm me.

And don't ever, EVER tell me you know exactly how I feel.

In fact, just strike that sentence from your vocabulary forever, because it's possibly the worst thing you could ever say to another human being as long as you live.

There, advice. Take it. It's what's for breakfast.

Patience fails.

Today is a day for a fresh cup of rich dark black coffee and a tiny rickety corner table in a cafe downtown. I have an unlined notebook and my fountain pen and while I wait, I write. I don't carry my laptop very many places, I prefer to travel a little more lightly, though you'd never know it, I carry giant bags, a holdover from the days of sippy cups and extra books/jackets/wipes/toys. Everyone hands me their stuff to hold when we're out. Me, I'm always holding someone's hand and my phone, so there's no extra arms for more things.

The pen glides smoothly over the clean paper and I smile at the page, because it's tightly packed with my unique block-printing that runs slightly uphill, the sign of an optimist. A lie I no longer believe.

The rain hits the window with force and puddles between the bricks of the sidewalk outside. I see blurry people rushing to and fro. I become mesmerized by the sheets of water pouring down over the glass and fail to notice August has joined me at the table until it bumps when he pulls his chair in and I startle back to reality, back to the warmth and dimly lit room and he shakes his hair back from his face and pulls his sweater off the boy-way, which is to reach up behind his head with both hands and pull. I love watching that. It looks neat. If I do it, I'd have earrings and hearing aids flying everywhere so I just watch instead.

I catch Michael Buble playing across the sound system, just for a microsecond. It's a strange choice of music for a Friday morning in a coffee shop but I imagine they are tuned into one of the CBC light stations that cranks out steady music that guarantees not to offend. The thought makes me smile again because I gravitate to oversexed, chaotic alternative metal that offends everyone who doesn't love it and I've never cared that I look like I'm cold, like I don't even listen to music at all, let alone immerse myself in it constantly, banging back and forth painfully between classical and that metal and sometimes mixing them together. I love noise and heart. Both kinds of music hold both absolutes, for me, at least.

August orders a coffee and a muffin with fruit from the server and then smiles at me. He is a variation on Jesus himself. A beautiful man with long hair and a no bullshit attitude mixed thoroughly with mellow. It's now been almost four years since I first met him, standing behind Jacob while I stood outside and tried to channel up the ocean and turn it into the sky somehow. He was watchful and carried a confidence that was overshadowed mightily by Jake and his movie-handsomeness. Everything paled under Jacob's halo.

Oh crap. I hear Shawn Mullins playing. One of those songs that I focus right in on and then become sad, almost unconsciously and I ask August how his day looks, if he can make it for dinner tonight, if he thinks the rain will stop and if maybe he's talked to Ben, or Seth at the very least, to get the barometer on how the building excitement might be affecting Ben's resolve. August gives me a perplexed look before disguising it with his news. He knows.

I reach up in frustration and pull the other pen out of my hair and the knot untangles itself, curls resting against my back. I let the wall come down because I feel like I'm about to cry and I have warning again, whole minutes with which to prepare and to either hide my face or find somewhere private to go. Before the tears would just come, suddenly, like a water main break on a busy street and they would stream down my face and I wouldn't feel a thing because I don't feel anything anymore and yet I feel everything sometimes, at a higher level than most. It's the tightrope. I thought I had it mastered but then I wobbled and the crowd gasped, because..she does this stunt without a net, stupid girl. One false move and the show will close forever.

August grabs for my hand and misses as I pull up my bag, coat and notebook in one shaky move, I stand and tell him I'm sorry and then I head out into the rain and run across the sidewalk to my car, fumbling for my keys, which are in my bag, buried at the bottom under the GI Joe toys from a trip to Burger King last week and all of Ben's notes from writing he was doing when he was last home and with despair I see that the ink has run because they are sodden now and I find my keys and feel a river of water running over my toes because high heels in the rain are a guaranteed disaster and I finally get the door open and jump in and slam it against the weather and suddenly the city noise is gone and then the other door flies open and August gets in and closes his door and he just stares at me.

The music.

I know, Bridget.

I'll be happy when I can't hear it anymore.

No, you won't.

Then I'm never leaving my house.

We both know that's not reasonable.

Neither is this all the time, August.

It's getting better.

Oh, don't bullshit me.

I don't.

I look up at him and he's staring back. Convicted. Reassuring.

Better, huh?

Yes. Every month I see improvements in you.

I'm getting over them? What if I don't want to?

This isn't a bad thing-

Oh, stop right there. I've heard all that.

Then you tell me.

Tell you what?

Why getting over them would be wrong?

I don't want logic right now, August. I don't want a session with you. I wanted a cup of coffee but I don't think I'm up to it. I'm sorry.

I'll call Loch to come get you and take you home.

I DON'T WANT HIM HERE! (Fuck, I kinda went off there. I didn't mean to.)

August waited for me to self-correct and I did because he doesn't need that. Composurecomposurecomposure.

I'll drop you at work and go home. I'm fine. Really.

I know, Bridget.

I drove him the two blocks to his office and he sat looking out the window at the blurry people on the sidewalk and then he turned to me. I was studying the lights up ahead. He was studying me. Green yellow red. Green yellow red. Green yellow red. Stop, Bridget. Slow down, Bridget. Go, Bridget.

The guilt is normal, you know.

He leaned over and kissed my cheek and got out of the car, slamming the door and running through the rain until he was safely inside the front door of his building. He waved once and then went up the steps and down the hall until I couldn't see him anymore.

There's nothing normal about this, August.

I said it to thin air as I checked my mirrors, and then looked over my shoulder before pulling away from the curb.

Nothing normal at all.

I came home, opened the back door and all the lights were blazing. There's only one person who turns lights on and never turns them off as he leaves a room.

Ben is home. I didn't expect him this weekend. What a tremendous and much-needed surprise.

Funny how I have no guilt when it comes to him. He's like the antidote or something. Something wonderful.

Everything okay?

It is now.

PJ said he would rule at Women's wakeboarding.

Want to be a winner
Want to be the man
Want to drive yourself insane
Join up with the band
Want to fall in love
Want to make your mark
Want to get out in the storm
want to break a thousand hearts

It's the house of loud around here today, with old music vying with new for space in our ears, thumping in my chest, tapping in my fingers as I roll the big skull ring over and over around the first knuckle, fourth finger of my right hand.

It's not a bad day. I still have a mild leftover headache from the paint fumes/silicone caulking/lack of sleep/straight rum (oh, hush) but otherwise things have been better. This morning I did some outside chores and the children rode their bicycles up and down the sidewalk eighty-five times, then we went in to cool off for lunch and sacked out afterwards in front of the television with ice cream, watched a little of the X games and talked about which sports we would master when we grew up.

I think I would do anything save for skateboarding. My first trip, down a steep paved hill littered with gravel, on Lochlan's skateboard, no less, ended badly when I was twelve and I flew off it and landed on my face. Lost most of my front teeth and a whole lot of skin from my limbs and got to start Junior High School as the human road rash.

He is still laughing.

I am still glaring at him.

We don't tend to let things go. But better a skateboard accident then the three (almost four) marriages, three babies and the heaven in a drive-in movie theatre back field between us, he always says.

He thinks this house is his. Stole my newspaper twice this week, even after I pointed out I need it for the dog, so he goes in the right place instead of wherever he wants. Drank the last of the coffee I was saving for the four o'clock Narcoleptic Princess Experience, and erased the list of new albums by date from the white board in the kitchen that I was using as my guide so I would be able to make the weekly pilgrimage to HMV where they take my credit card and return it to me with scorch marks and I get new music to dive into like a fresh backyard pool, ice cold, coming up with wet curls, burning eyes and chlorine in my nostrils, bikini straps cutting against the slight sunburn of the previous day.

The X games got pretty old after about an hour, though. One spectacular moto x crash, and far too many qualifying drills to make an afternoon of it, and instead I'm trading messages with Ben and listening to Spy Adventures from upstairs somewhere when they take place right over my head here on the window seat in the kitchen and the dog is lying on the hardwood planks like he's just finished his own X games and really it feels like a Friday but it's not, not quite yet. I'm trying to do nothing for once and it feels rather weird.

I could clean the bathroom. I could finish raking along the side of the house where all the leaves tend to pile up and I could practice my spelling, since there are at least three words in existence that I use almost daily that I can't spell at all but I'm not sharing them right now, because I don't feel like looking them up and they never come up in spellcheck. I could file my ragged nails and paint them black to match Ben's. I could start dinner so that it's extra-awesome instead of just good, an effort I fight for mightily.

Or I could close my eyes for a bit, and imagine my arms going up around the back of Ben's neck, getting a coffee-and-cigarettes kiss which would be totally gross from anyone else and totally perfect from him. I could sleep for just very few minutes and then be awake enough to enjoy a movie or another evening spent out on the patio with boys and guitars and sleepy children, or I could just not move or do anything at all. And just wait for a moment. One perfect moment with quiet, with sunshine, with a light cool breeze and a little peace inside my head. A slow down and take it easy, Bridget moment that I never actually take, I'm stockpiling them in hopes that I can cash them all in at the same time, click my heels together and be transported to that resort in Tortola where they have a hammock and a view of nothing but ocean.

I'll lie in that hammock and spend my minutes with abandon, and I won't have to wash a dish, scrub up a puppy accident or break up a fight for an entire day. I won't get hungry or sunburned, and I really, really won't give a shit that I can't spell vaccume.

So there.

Terrible Eights.

There must be something in the water. Every time I turn around Henry is screaming about some perceived atrocity and Ruth, true to form, is cold and usually ignores him, rolls her eyes or uses stealth and devium to exact revenge by pinching or namecalling when no one is looking.

Sure he has crappy impulse control.

Yes, children fight.

It's the first time in his entire life I've been tempted to say "Wait until your father hears about this."

Only that would be pointless. He wouldn't know what to do either.

It's nothing serious, just the growing up, lack of sleep, boring week so far type of outbursts that make me want to squeeze my fingers into the palms of my hands until I see blood and I have to grit my teeth not to yell back at him, which is easy, really.

I remember the unfairness of being eight.

All I can do it try to help him keep it as painless as possible.

On an up note, things won't be so DULL around here anymore. Ben's office is finished! Which means furniture moving and picture hanging and probably couch shopping but that isn't important. what's important is that I did it. By myself. Every single square inch of perfect, painted surface is my handiwork and it's a labor of love for my guy who has been so sweet to me even when I'm a whirling shrew.

Especially when I'm a whirling shrew.

Must draw that, it sounds intriguing.

Now I need to go lie down. Paint fume headache with a side of narcolepsy. Such a prize.

Like a princess to a flame.

Fail to mention your intentions, fail to mention why.
The actions of your life contradict your words.
The path in which you walk, a line of no remorse.
Washing conscience from the skin, claiming innocence.
Ignore the signs.

Painting clothes are old army pants and a t-shirt that is too pink and too tight to wear outside the house. Ponytail. No jewelry. And I never bother to take a shower on days I plan to be a mess.

The good news? Ben's office is just about ready. Meaning the ceiling is beautifully finished and the walls have two coats of the most awesomemest shade of melted milk chocolate ever on them and there are no spots left to touch up. Tomorrow morning I will paint the trim and then when that's dry I'll clean the floor and put up new curtains so by supper time tomorrow night it will be ready.

And the paint for the other rooms that need to be painted is going to sit for a few days, because I don't want to see it. I'm tired. We did the fence two weeks ago, that was three straight days of labour, then last weekend was kitchen stuff and really in and around all of that I am still cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, breaking up fights, organizing our lives and generally winding up with maybe thirty minutes a day to myself.

So yes, as a matter of face, I am averaging a whole half-page a day of The Time Traveler's Wife and getting no writing done at all.

But on the upside, the house looks fantastic. I want it in market condition so that if we decide to sell abruptly we can (and enjoy it besides). If this coming winter matches the summer, so far with it's fifteen degrees below average temperatures, we'll be gone before we can realize we're cold.

I have a headache. A mile wide, from a combination of sleeping on Ben's feather pillows and from not sleeping at all. From being pre-menstrual. From stress thinking about life and from an inbox and an outbox I can't make a dent in.

From wishing the summer had involved a cabin on the beach and a threadbare quilt for the sand and little else. Candles, potato salad and some really good hair conditioner, perhaps. That's enough 'else' when on vacation. Time to read my book and enjoy the little bit of life that is mine. Ours. Yours.

And I think PJ is drugging my food but really that's a whole lot of speculation and no fact to go on whatsoever, I've just noticed the past two weeks that my brain isn't working at ALL, but it is probably the cold nights and absent rest and just about whatever else I can pin it on.

Even though when I've suspected similar situations I've been right, every time. Keep her calm and she won't miss Ben so much all the time, right?

In other news, because I don't know if I told you, did you know I ordered the parts to fix my phone? $50 all told, which is cheaper than paying $600 for a replacement phone when I'm exactly twelve months from a sanctioned upgrade. Ben is going to fix it when the parts come and he's been sending me links to some crazy protective cases.

Sigh.

I need to go, I want to have a hot shower and rest for a few minutes before I begin dinner preparations. And I'm noticing the wick is low on one end here, and if you want to burn a candle at both ends, it's always good to have extra on hand, right?

Eggshell finish.

I'm so warm and calm inside
I no longer have to hide
Lets talk about someone else
Steaming soup against her mouth
Nothing really bothers her
She just wants to love herself

Here today, gone tomorrow. It's unintentional immersion into my worst fears, for I only can reach my arms around him and he's gone again, the living spectre in this ghost story, the one you think you see in the shadowy darkness up ahead, but then when you return to the safety of the bright lights, you dismiss your sighting as a trick of the mind.

I'm getting better at the goodbyes now, able to save the great hitching sobs and endless tears for after he's gone, instead of during or worse, before the goodbyes. He holds me so tight, it's as if he could just absorb me into him and I could ride along for the duration and never be away from him.

He went on a spree of domestic bliss before he left, putting in the new range hood, mowing the lawns, giving the puppy a thorough bath and spending individual time with each child. He played his guitar for me and held me safely while I slept, going out of his way to make the days count for as much as they can while we continue to navigate life after death, hand in hand.

It still sucks that Ben is always leaving, though.

Now I must go, I'm making a surprise for him, I'm painting the den so he'll have his very own man-cave here at home that he can disappear into that isn't the basement music room with the work connotations. An oasis in plaster and paint and wood. It's okay though, he knows I'm doing it, he just doesn't know the color I've picked out or the actual decorating plans. It will be a nice surprise overall and it will be finished by the next time he comes home.

I hope. I'm not all that psyched to paint a whole room by myself but it's one of those things I think I should be proficient at doing. Along with other life skills like changing a flat tire and pole dancing.

Er..

Snort.

Wish me luck. I've got my drop sheets and I'm going in!

(If you don't see me by lunchtime, could you send a search party? Okay, thanks. Bye.)

That's it, I'm kissing all of your foreheads from here on out.

This time I won't go softly
(I never wanted to be)
Refuse to simply fade away
(I never wanted to be)
Still holding on 'cause this is
Far from over
I won't say goodnight
My heart's grown colder
Waiting for the sun to rise again
Crawling closer
So save your kiss goodbye
It's far from over

Last evening Andrew took us to the movies (I dozed off, no idea), then out to a new to us diner in a nearby borough and then we played pinball for a couple of hours before the kids finally wore out and I got them into baths and then to bed quite easily.

We popped Sunshine into the DVD player and measured out some positively lethal South American spirits and that was it for Bridget. Movies are my celluloid narcolepsy these days and it makes me mad because I love to escape into a movie, just not quite so thoroughly. I drifted off just as Cillian Murphy was staring into the sun.

I woke up in Ben's arms.

He came home sometime during the night and like a giant, clumsy ninja, managed to bypass all the alarms and Andrew in the spare room and the new restless and light-sleeping puppy at the foot of our bed and he sacked right out, falling asleep with his arms around me and his boots and jacket still on. Backpack on the floor. Airplane fuel fumes drifting lightly through the room.

I turned over into his face and kissed him on the forehead and his eyes opened instantly. Okay, so he didn't fall asleep. He asked if I was going to continue to mentally hand myself to the devil every time we have an argument. I nodded and he said to stop it. Then he said he was sorry but the whole not trusting him with really important facts out of misguided kindness or even fear was ridiculous at this point in time and it has to stop. Then he said So there and kissed my forehead.

We both smiled, not taking it for granted that we are together, in the same room again. A gift.

Then I sat up really quickly and surprised him and he sat up and we bumped a head on an elbow and both cringed and then laughed and he asked what happened. I pointed out I just realized he was home. Here. With us.

Where else would I go, little bee?

Anywhere. You could go anywhere.

My heart is here. My kids, my wife.

(I choked up right there and nodded, unable to say anything.)

I'm still mad at you.

You didn't have to come back.

And let the devil have you? I don't think so. Preacher raised us up right.

Oh he did, did he?

He tried, Bridge. And maybe he wasn't as misguided as you think.

Can we not do this right now?

Fine. We'll fit it in later on, after I ravage you in the shower.

Oh, see, now you're on to something.

Not yet, I'm not. Give me a few minutes and I most definitely will be, though.

But we were forced to take a raincheck on the ravaging, thanks to light-sleeping puppy that needed to be walked and children that wanted banana bread for breakfast (warmed, butternauts on the side, though in Henry's case they are butter aliens that resemble lumps of, well, butter) and juice and the phone started ringing and Ben made some comment about it being grand central as usual and then when he smiled I saw that he loves every second of this.

Every second. Even the bitter parts. Which balance out the sweet and make this domestic bliss almost palatable, an acquired taste that he's learning to crave almost as much as I crave the calm now. The peaceful no-drama, everyone lives their lives and makes a better effort to simply get along and we might have half a shot here at normal.

That blissful mediocrity we crave and then can't stand when we have it.

Yeah, I know. But Ben is home and this is good. Off to pick strawberries now. That always separates the real rock stars from the intended-awkward tattooed dads. Or so he tells me.

Diners are people too.

Bridget, what in the hell are you doing?

Giving the internet something to chew on, since they won't leave Ben alone.

He's got a thick skin about it, why don't you?

I'm not the star, Andrew. I don't have to read the crappy things people say about me. I can turn off my comments and delete my mail, I'm a nobody, after all.

That isn't true. You're our girl.

So then let me take some of the flack for him.

That isn't how it works.

I wish it worked like that.

So will you take down all the stuff about the commune? Your mother's going to be horrified.

No, in fact, I think it's time for another detailed lap dance post and I can finish myself off.

So the internet is your imaginary adversary now?

Sometimes.

Destroy all monsters?

If I could.

Do you know why we're here?

Lap dances?

I wish. That would be nice but your husband would crush me. We're here because we want to destroy the monsters for you.

What if you guys are my monsters?

That's what we're all afraid of, princess.

Maybe you just need thicker skins, then.

Oh, I see what you did there.

I'm good, aren't I?

The very best.