I've spent the better part of the evening deflecting Lochlan's request to remove the previous entry. He used to be my biggest champion for having this outlet, a place where I mostly work through the words I need to arrange. Probably because I looked up to him. I craved some kind of approval and affection from Lochlan that I have chased since I was a child. Even when Jake and I were newly married it was so easy to go find Lochlan and curl up in one of his arms and close my eyes and I know Jake worked very hard to make peace with that history. Most of the boys have. It was a given and I would not apologize for it. I don't apologize for much of anything. I haven't had to.
What's interesting is that when I stopped regarding him as the hero in the words here, he stopped advocating for the lack of censorship here. I stopped seeing him as the hero when I realized that in a misguided attempt to continue to play the role of the good guy in my eyes, Lochlan had inadvertently driven me into the arms of his intended fall guy. He left Ben to do the dirty work and through that I came to see how selfless and compassionate Ben could be. Maybe he wasn't the shallow fratboy of our group. Every other emotion towards Ben quickly followed and it was an epiphany of the grandest sort to get another chance to see Ben the way no one else does. He doesn't let people in, he'd rather pretend to be the monster, and then he doesn't have to let people see that sometimes he isn't fifteen feet tall, and he doesn't have to be strong. He just stays mean outwardly and then it's easier. Push them all away and keep things light.
Ben still attempts to live this philosophy even though we all tore it down a long time ago. True to form tonight he came barging into the house, took a quick inventory to ensure that the children were in another part of the house entirely and gave Lochlan a shove that sent him stumbling backwards onto the couch in the living room.
The shouting commenced, as Ben tried to intimidate and Lochlan chose to reason, charming the ever-loving shit out of impressionable unrefined Ben, extolling the virtues of being permitted close access to Bridget and how perfect she is and how lucky Ben is.
Compliment everyone. Diffuse the bomb. Quiet the monkey. Reassure the princess. Everyone settled back in and for once I spoke up. For once. Jesus, I never bother but sometimes I have a question and I'll be damned if I'm going to take a hug over an answer.
Okay, most times that's preferable. Sometimes, though, I really want to know.
Are we going to keep living this way forever?
True to form, I was given hugs instead of words.
Answer me, Ben. Please.
Nothing. He just held on tighter.
Death by frustration! Who knew it was an option? If anyone needs me, I'll be in the dumbwaiter banging my head against whatever's hard enough to knock me out.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
The human cannonball.
On the road we pass the time playing cards behind the tent.
Lochlan is capable of acting exactly the way I do, which flies in the face of how generally logical and steadfast and stern he is. And it was the same old argument we always seem to have. The one revolving around why I rejected their grand polyamoric plan in favor of marrying Ben, so I will save you the nitty-gritty shout-for-shout repost and Lochlan the abject embarrassment. Besides, it was disconcerting enough to watch him weasling out of PJ's good graces. I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
But not.
Because he is hard on me.
Or maybe it's because I know had he played his cards a little better he wouldn't be in this position and neither would I, the open secret that waits like a disloyal, eventual trophy on the shelf to the winner with the strongest hand. Ben got a royal flush, Lochlan revealed a full house. It isn't my fault he sucks at cards. He said he wanted to sit in on the game so he can't complain that he doesn't understand the rules. The rules are so very simple but he won't listen.
And I don't mean eventual trophy, because there is no eventual for Lochlan, except maybe in his dreams. He does not believe me and just about every week now he comes to me with threats and ultimatums and figures I'll throw in more value if he raises the ante.
I ignore the threats and life continues on. Seriously. It does. It's sadly comical and frustrating and maddening that sometimes my neighbors probably don't understand the history here or the arrangments but we all just point out that we are co-tenants who are also friends and the big old house is subdivided and everyone seems satisfied and says they hope we can reach a resolution.
The resolution here would be for Lochlan to learn what "good enough"means and eat some goddamned crow of his own because he's cutting into the joy I feel for knowing we won't leave Sam behind, that Ben managed to get another chip and spend another week learning how to put things behind him instead of pushing things along in front of him, and for the fact that Lochlan totally ruined a day that I was going to spend eating chocolate-covered cherries and writing cheques with a four-thousand-dollar fountain pen. Instead I stuck pins into Loch with my imagination and fended off Caleb's inquiries into where I was with feeling feverish enough that he didn't even want to speak on the phone for fear that he might catch something and ruin his perfection somehow.
I suppose this entry will out me in that tiny white lie but really when it comes to Lochlan barging through my heart and throwing pieces around until the whole thing collapses like a house of counted cards, there is a sort of fever that makes me want to go sleep until I don't feel sad anymore and avoid him until he has a change of heart and comes crawling back for absolution from both myself and Ben, because messing with me is messing with the big guy. Only I worry because Lochlan knows how to play Ben and Ben hardly notices because he is busy Not Drinking and busy Holding Bridget's Heart.
Those are full time jobs and Lochlan is the homeless ne'er do well on the corner of my life.
(Thatreallyreallycompellingone.)
It doesn't matter. I have to work tomorrow now because I didn't work today. I have to contend with Ben's sidelong glances when he thinks I'm not paying attention and wonder what's inside his head but then he'll encourage things and feelings and actions that lie perpendicular to what he should be feeling and that I will never understand. I am such a reluctant prize.
Lochlan is a con artist. If this were Vegas he would be in prison, but since it's the circus he's one of the star performers. (Just keep your eye on your valuables, namely your wife!)
So save your breath, I will not hearLochlan wasn't getting enough attention so instead of just acting like a grownup, he decided to take the princess route and throw a shouting party with me in the driveway this morning. I'm guessing my neighbors are thrilled we're leaving, in spite of the fact that their leaves are raked and snow is shoveled year after year. Lochlan waited until I dissolved into tears and flutters and THEN he dropped the subject. Or maybe it was because PJ finally came out and threatened to put him in his place, which was ten feet straight down into the frozen ground. And I had to come inside and hold ice under my eyes and try and fix myself up to deal with Satan all morning, working on his Christmas cards/bonuses/everything that has to be wrapped up for the end of the year here business-wise.
I think I made it very clear
You couldn't hate enough to love
Is that supposed to be enough?
I only wish you weren't my friend
Then I could hurt you in the end
I never claimed to be a saint
My own was banished long ago
It took the death of hope to let you go
Lochlan is capable of acting exactly the way I do, which flies in the face of how generally logical and steadfast and stern he is. And it was the same old argument we always seem to have. The one revolving around why I rejected their grand polyamoric plan in favor of marrying Ben, so I will save you the nitty-gritty shout-for-shout repost and Lochlan the abject embarrassment. Besides, it was disconcerting enough to watch him weasling out of PJ's good graces. I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
But not.
Because he is hard on me.
Or maybe it's because I know had he played his cards a little better he wouldn't be in this position and neither would I, the open secret that waits like a disloyal, eventual trophy on the shelf to the winner with the strongest hand. Ben got a royal flush, Lochlan revealed a full house. It isn't my fault he sucks at cards. He said he wanted to sit in on the game so he can't complain that he doesn't understand the rules. The rules are so very simple but he won't listen.
And I don't mean eventual trophy, because there is no eventual for Lochlan, except maybe in his dreams. He does not believe me and just about every week now he comes to me with threats and ultimatums and figures I'll throw in more value if he raises the ante.
I ignore the threats and life continues on. Seriously. It does. It's sadly comical and frustrating and maddening that sometimes my neighbors probably don't understand the history here or the arrangments but we all just point out that we are co-tenants who are also friends and the big old house is subdivided and everyone seems satisfied and says they hope we can reach a resolution.
The resolution here would be for Lochlan to learn what "good enough"means and eat some goddamned crow of his own because he's cutting into the joy I feel for knowing we won't leave Sam behind, that Ben managed to get another chip and spend another week learning how to put things behind him instead of pushing things along in front of him, and for the fact that Lochlan totally ruined a day that I was going to spend eating chocolate-covered cherries and writing cheques with a four-thousand-dollar fountain pen. Instead I stuck pins into Loch with my imagination and fended off Caleb's inquiries into where I was with feeling feverish enough that he didn't even want to speak on the phone for fear that he might catch something and ruin his perfection somehow.
I suppose this entry will out me in that tiny white lie but really when it comes to Lochlan barging through my heart and throwing pieces around until the whole thing collapses like a house of counted cards, there is a sort of fever that makes me want to go sleep until I don't feel sad anymore and avoid him until he has a change of heart and comes crawling back for absolution from both myself and Ben, because messing with me is messing with the big guy. Only I worry because Lochlan knows how to play Ben and Ben hardly notices because he is busy Not Drinking and busy Holding Bridget's Heart.
Those are full time jobs and Lochlan is the homeless ne'er do well on the corner of my life.
(Thatreallyreallycompellingone.)
It doesn't matter. I have to work tomorrow now because I didn't work today. I have to contend with Ben's sidelong glances when he thinks I'm not paying attention and wonder what's inside his head but then he'll encourage things and feelings and actions that lie perpendicular to what he should be feeling and that I will never understand. I am such a reluctant prize.
Lochlan is a con artist. If this were Vegas he would be in prison, but since it's the circus he's one of the star performers. (Just keep your eye on your valuables, namely your wife!)
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
All this and he's handsome too.
Christmas is all about slick sidewalks and icy cold city lights. Hazy piano bars soundtracked with whiskey-throated singers and eggnog that can be lit on fire. Tiny well-wrapped boxes belie things like diamonds and silver or money or a handmade ornament. It's about trees planted everywhere, directly in your path and crowds who are holding onto their sanities with ragged fingernails. It's about taking an extra moment to buy the completely ludicrous cookies at the bakery because they are snowman-shaped, and to drive around on a Saturday night looking for the block with the most lights.
It's about the chipped, ancient nativity set in the yard of the church further up from my house, the baptists who suffer the theft of Jesus and his manger every single year and yet somehow it's always returned in time for storage again, and it's about dipping into those bakery sugar cookies with the gritty, glittery sprinkles on top that always taste good no matter how long they've been sitting out on the plate. It's about the arguments over construction of the gingerbread house and the worries over money and the anticipation of the new year following close behind.
It's about family and friends. Yes, the spirit has hit. Rather abruptly as usual. Normally I wait for it to arrive just as the children have their Christmas concert at school. We didn't go this year so I've been patiently wondering how long it would take to kick in otherwise.
And then I got the phone call which let everything else fall into place. Sam has had his third phone interview with a church on the west coast and they're flying him out in February to complete the approval process and he will be moving too. It never occurred to me that he would now have enough time invested to be considered for endorsement. It never occurred to me that he would seriously consider coming with us.
I never actually thought that Sam liked me all that much, frankly. I am such a pain in the ass. I cut into his friendship with Jacob, I was the liturgical equivalent of Yoko Ono when Jacob chose to leave the church and begin teaching, and then I fought physically and emotionally against Sam through every single day of the program he enlisted to help me deal with my grief over losing Jacob. He's not winced when I've sworn in the sanctuary and he's chosen to always ignore the moments I would lean over his desk to show him something on his computer and realized maybe a different, higher-cut shirt would have been a better choice for the church office and he's calmly and rationally diffused the neighborhood gossip that focused squarely on me when he split with Lisabeth.
Better than that, he's embraced Benjamin as his friend and he loves all the boys as brothers, in spite of a huge mile-wide rift that sometimes divides them into two camps, one of Cole's friends, the other of Jacob's. He is the glue, as it were and has incredible patience. For the God jokes and the What would Bridget Do? braceletgate and stepping in to shoulder the hard parts where someone has to be put back together. He has sat outside my pantry door many a night on the freezing cold kitchen floor while I told anyone who would listen from inside the door that God didn't exist and to please tell me again why I should believe otherwise.
He put Jake back in the box after I dumped it out not once but eleven times so far.
He's a recovering alcoholic, which means he helps the rest of us understand what makes Ben tick, or better yet why he keeps getting run over by the wagon. He hasn't touched a drink in years, and never will again, and the other boys are learning volumes about inner strength and determination and compassion from the guy that was once referred to as Reverend Jake's mini-me.
He's God in Sam-form to most of us and we worship him accordingly. Which pains him but at the same time I think he's incredibly touched to understand how much he means to us as a group and individually and he has chosen to repay us in kind by remaining part of the family. An active part, instead of a former part.
I did not expect this gift, and it makes me wonder if we're on a roll. If so, I'd like a pocket big enough to hide Ben inside and a few people brought back from the dead. Also, bring a woman for PJ. He is far too in love with this Victoria's Secret commercial to notice that Michael Bay doesn't direct real life so his standards need to come back down a little. Perhaps they will, abruptly, just like my Christmas spirit.
If not I'm sure we can instead be incredibly thankful that our bizarre and unconventional and deeply loyal circus family will be together in the new year.
I'm going to go back to putting the lights on the tree now. The day has gotten a whole lot better. Ben is going to be so excited. Everyone is.
It's about the chipped, ancient nativity set in the yard of the church further up from my house, the baptists who suffer the theft of Jesus and his manger every single year and yet somehow it's always returned in time for storage again, and it's about dipping into those bakery sugar cookies with the gritty, glittery sprinkles on top that always taste good no matter how long they've been sitting out on the plate. It's about the arguments over construction of the gingerbread house and the worries over money and the anticipation of the new year following close behind.
It's about family and friends. Yes, the spirit has hit. Rather abruptly as usual. Normally I wait for it to arrive just as the children have their Christmas concert at school. We didn't go this year so I've been patiently wondering how long it would take to kick in otherwise.
And then I got the phone call which let everything else fall into place. Sam has had his third phone interview with a church on the west coast and they're flying him out in February to complete the approval process and he will be moving too. It never occurred to me that he would now have enough time invested to be considered for endorsement. It never occurred to me that he would seriously consider coming with us.
I never actually thought that Sam liked me all that much, frankly. I am such a pain in the ass. I cut into his friendship with Jacob, I was the liturgical equivalent of Yoko Ono when Jacob chose to leave the church and begin teaching, and then I fought physically and emotionally against Sam through every single day of the program he enlisted to help me deal with my grief over losing Jacob. He's not winced when I've sworn in the sanctuary and he's chosen to always ignore the moments I would lean over his desk to show him something on his computer and realized maybe a different, higher-cut shirt would have been a better choice for the church office and he's calmly and rationally diffused the neighborhood gossip that focused squarely on me when he split with Lisabeth.
Better than that, he's embraced Benjamin as his friend and he loves all the boys as brothers, in spite of a huge mile-wide rift that sometimes divides them into two camps, one of Cole's friends, the other of Jacob's. He is the glue, as it were and has incredible patience. For the God jokes and the What would Bridget Do? braceletgate and stepping in to shoulder the hard parts where someone has to be put back together. He has sat outside my pantry door many a night on the freezing cold kitchen floor while I told anyone who would listen from inside the door that God didn't exist and to please tell me again why I should believe otherwise.
He put Jake back in the box after I dumped it out not once but eleven times so far.
He's a recovering alcoholic, which means he helps the rest of us understand what makes Ben tick, or better yet why he keeps getting run over by the wagon. He hasn't touched a drink in years, and never will again, and the other boys are learning volumes about inner strength and determination and compassion from the guy that was once referred to as Reverend Jake's mini-me.
He's God in Sam-form to most of us and we worship him accordingly. Which pains him but at the same time I think he's incredibly touched to understand how much he means to us as a group and individually and he has chosen to repay us in kind by remaining part of the family. An active part, instead of a former part.
I did not expect this gift, and it makes me wonder if we're on a roll. If so, I'd like a pocket big enough to hide Ben inside and a few people brought back from the dead. Also, bring a woman for PJ. He is far too in love with this Victoria's Secret commercial to notice that Michael Bay doesn't direct real life so his standards need to come back down a little. Perhaps they will, abruptly, just like my Christmas spirit.
If not I'm sure we can instead be incredibly thankful that our bizarre and unconventional and deeply loyal circus family will be together in the new year.
I'm going to go back to putting the lights on the tree now. The day has gotten a whole lot better. Ben is going to be so excited. Everyone is.
Too much time and then too little.
(Alternately titled Goldilocks and the 3 Husbands because it's funny.)
Someone sent me an email recently asking me what my deal is. That was it. One line. What's your deal?
If that wasn't a rude demand for something for nothing I don't know what is.
And then it occurred to me that I've removed all of the archives that would have led readers back to oh, 2004. Even though nothing much happened until 2006. That was the year I think the world as I know it exploded.
Here's a really truncated look back because I can barely do this but it's been demanded of me and who am I to ignore a direct command, ever? To match, it's staccato, and just as rude. There will be no poetry today.
I grew up on the shores of the Atlantic, with Lochlan, Caleb, Cole, and Christian. The moment I could I ran away with Lochlan (young love, don't you know, we were practically a Bon Jovi song) to join the midway and then the circus. You will find many references to it. I can't help it, it's in my blood. I read music lyrics like other people read the newspaper because I have a degenerative hearing loss that someday not so far off in my future will leave me with only the music in my head and I'll be damned if I'm going to forget the words when the time comes.
But let's skip forward twenty years or more, shall we?
In April of 2006, I left my artist/photographer husband, Cole. We had been married for twelve years, having just bought a house after he was transferred from the east coast to the Prairies. We had two small kids, Ruth, who was six at the time, and Henry, who was four. Cole was a sadist. I was submissive and already incredibly fragile. I left Cole for Jacob, one of our best friends. He, like many of our friends, had followed us to the middle of the country. Maybe I was never one to play very fairly. The separation began amicably enough but stopped the night Cole broke into the house when I was there alone and hurt me. He broke a lot of bones, I'm five feet tall and ninety-five pounds, fighting back was a fool's game. Jacob saved my life that night and Cole went to jail. Two months later Cole suffered a massive heart attack and died. He was thirty-seven years old. We were not yet divorced.
Something in my head broke and I was never the same again.
In August, Jacob took me for a hot air balloon ride. He proposed, I said yes. We were married two days later in his church. He was a Unitarian Christian minister/University prof. In September we got pregnant and in October we learned that the pregnancy was ectopic. We were doomed but we struggled mightily through the next full year trying to stay afloat. He was trying to fix everything and I kept trying to break it, trying to keep normal going when normal had packed up and moved away.
In October of 2007, Jacob left me. Left us. Just up and said he was already gone. That he wasn't a good person, that he needed to leave. I broke a little more. The resiliency of this one little human must be positively outstanding. I foundered around numb for a week and then on Jacob's birthday, my friends came and told me that he was dead, having taken his own life the night before. He left letters. Hundreds of them. Five years later I still can't get through some of them and so I don't know what they say.
This was when my head exploded. I did a lot of very self-destructive things and then I went away to a lovely place where they fix heads like mine. I came home weeks later, too soon, incapable of being any better off but loathe to abandon my children the way that Jacob had abandoned us. I continued to be self-destructive for a long time after coming home. Honestly I still am sometimes.
The winter after I came home Ben began to show me who he really was. I liked that person. I don't wait anymore. There is no point, I knew what he felt for me. Those of you who have read here for years have witnessed our comment wars and real-life difficulties. We've never had a dealbreaker, he's my boomerang boy. He always came back.
Ben has an unconventional job that I don't talk about much and he may or may not be on the road or in the studio for a good three-quarters of most years but if you ask me I will tell you he's a door-to-door tattoo machine salesman. Hell, we have enough tattoos between us to make a stab at the truth with that one. He is none of your business in that respect so don't ask me what his last name is or if he's famous because that is the only time you will ever catch me in a lie anymore. I'm fine with that.
By April of 2008 we were married and oh, here she goes just like Elizabeth Taylor but really, Ben and I bicker just enough to pass for normal, married people. So far so good. He's lost both of his parents in the midst of all this. He's been to rehab a number of times and fights hard to stay sober. He's been through more than I have, but that's for another day, again. He's a beautiful human and he values his privacy so I don't actually write about him as much as I once did.
When I'm not sharing too much information with the readers who wander in and out and number in the thousands now (thank you for the daily collection of outraged emails) I write short stories and novels too and I look after my friends and my two not-so-little kids (Ruth is now a full-fledged teen and Henry isn't far behind and yes, they were named for candy bars but it could have been worse if I liked Kit-Kats and 3 Musketeers) and I cook dinner for a crowd every night.
In the spring of 2010, the whole extended intentional family (the collective, as we usually refer to it) moved to the west coast. I sold the castle that Cole bought for me in the Prairies and we bought a house that juts out from a cliff, overlooking the beautiful Pacific ocean. Then we bought the one next door to it and now the whole point is ours. We decided to make it into a compound for our intentional family. Our collective. Others have called it a commune. Doesn't bother me one bit, as I would not trade it for the world now.
Caleb lives in the Boathouse, as it's called. It's a two-bedroom modern cottage a stone's throw from the main house. He is Cole's older brother. He's a lawyer/CFO/venture Capitalist/self-made man. He is the Devil incarnate sometimes.
I live in the main house with Ben, Ruth, Henry, Lochlan (like Cole he is also an artist, but more about him in a minute), Sam (Jacob's former student), Dalton, Duncan (Dalton's older brother), Gage (Schuyler's older brother) and PJ. The new house next door holds Andrew (my oldest and dearest friend), John, Christian, Daniel (Ben's younger brother) and Schuyler (Daniel's husband).
Jacob's best friend and my favorite sounding board August lives above the garage in a beautiful airy loft that I designed myself.
Other friends I mention often include Corey, Keith, New-Jake, Joel, and Batman (a nickname for someone who flies into my life when I ask for him. I don't do that anymore.)
In 2011, Ben and I made a huge decision to include Lochlan in our marriage. Lochlan and I have been in love since I was nine. He raised me on the midway circuits and then later in the circus. I am who I am today (strange and wonderful) because of him. He's had a tough job being half-parent, half-lover, we struggle with that every day but some things are just meant to be. Some things just work, you know?
In 2015, Ben and I took a step back, reevaluating what we both want, changing things here, tweaking things there and chose to divorce each other but not break up. In the summer of 2016 I married Lochlan. Legally. He asked, I said yes, We ran off to Coney Island and sealed the deal on the Wonder Wheel. He's the one on the paper now and Ben is 'the main boyfriend' (I sometimes have another or two) and it works, so far. This is a dream I gave up on and then got back and it's one I plan to live to the end.
That's my deal, in a nutshell. What's yours?
[PS: I'm not on very many places on the internet. I am playing with Pinterest just a little. That's all. At last count I saw seventeen 'Saltwater Princess' accounts in one formation or another on Twitter and on Instagram, and people keep googling me, sending me pictures of other Bridgets and such. It's not me. Stop looking. In spite of the fact that I live in a commune, I'm actually a really private person without much internet time at all. The boys don't have any internet aside from the occasional facebook or instagram account but those are all set to private so don't bother. We don't talk to strangers anyway.]
Someone sent me an email recently asking me what my deal is. That was it. One line. What's your deal?
If that wasn't a rude demand for something for nothing I don't know what is.
And then it occurred to me that I've removed all of the archives that would have led readers back to oh, 2004. Even though nothing much happened until 2006. That was the year I think the world as I know it exploded.
Here's a really truncated look back because I can barely do this but it's been demanded of me and who am I to ignore a direct command, ever? To match, it's staccato, and just as rude. There will be no poetry today.
I grew up on the shores of the Atlantic, with Lochlan, Caleb, Cole, and Christian. The moment I could I ran away with Lochlan (young love, don't you know, we were practically a Bon Jovi song) to join the midway and then the circus. You will find many references to it. I can't help it, it's in my blood. I read music lyrics like other people read the newspaper because I have a degenerative hearing loss that someday not so far off in my future will leave me with only the music in my head and I'll be damned if I'm going to forget the words when the time comes.
But let's skip forward twenty years or more, shall we?
In April of 2006, I left my artist/photographer husband, Cole. We had been married for twelve years, having just bought a house after he was transferred from the east coast to the Prairies. We had two small kids, Ruth, who was six at the time, and Henry, who was four. Cole was a sadist. I was submissive and already incredibly fragile. I left Cole for Jacob, one of our best friends. He, like many of our friends, had followed us to the middle of the country. Maybe I was never one to play very fairly. The separation began amicably enough but stopped the night Cole broke into the house when I was there alone and hurt me. He broke a lot of bones, I'm five feet tall and ninety-five pounds, fighting back was a fool's game. Jacob saved my life that night and Cole went to jail. Two months later Cole suffered a massive heart attack and died. He was thirty-seven years old. We were not yet divorced.
Something in my head broke and I was never the same again.
In August, Jacob took me for a hot air balloon ride. He proposed, I said yes. We were married two days later in his church. He was a Unitarian Christian minister/University prof. In September we got pregnant and in October we learned that the pregnancy was ectopic. We were doomed but we struggled mightily through the next full year trying to stay afloat. He was trying to fix everything and I kept trying to break it, trying to keep normal going when normal had packed up and moved away.
In October of 2007, Jacob left me. Left us. Just up and said he was already gone. That he wasn't a good person, that he needed to leave. I broke a little more. The resiliency of this one little human must be positively outstanding. I foundered around numb for a week and then on Jacob's birthday, my friends came and told me that he was dead, having taken his own life the night before. He left letters. Hundreds of them. Five years later I still can't get through some of them and so I don't know what they say.
This was when my head exploded. I did a lot of very self-destructive things and then I went away to a lovely place where they fix heads like mine. I came home weeks later, too soon, incapable of being any better off but loathe to abandon my children the way that Jacob had abandoned us. I continued to be self-destructive for a long time after coming home. Honestly I still am sometimes.
The winter after I came home Ben began to show me who he really was. I liked that person. I don't wait anymore. There is no point, I knew what he felt for me. Those of you who have read here for years have witnessed our comment wars and real-life difficulties. We've never had a dealbreaker, he's my boomerang boy. He always came back.
Ben has an unconventional job that I don't talk about much and he may or may not be on the road or in the studio for a good three-quarters of most years but if you ask me I will tell you he's a door-to-door tattoo machine salesman. Hell, we have enough tattoos between us to make a stab at the truth with that one. He is none of your business in that respect so don't ask me what his last name is or if he's famous because that is the only time you will ever catch me in a lie anymore. I'm fine with that.
By April of 2008 we were married and oh, here she goes just like Elizabeth Taylor but really, Ben and I bicker just enough to pass for normal, married people. So far so good. He's lost both of his parents in the midst of all this. He's been to rehab a number of times and fights hard to stay sober. He's been through more than I have, but that's for another day, again. He's a beautiful human and he values his privacy so I don't actually write about him as much as I once did.
When I'm not sharing too much information with the readers who wander in and out and number in the thousands now (thank you for the daily collection of outraged emails) I write short stories and novels too and I look after my friends and my two not-so-little kids (Ruth is now a full-fledged teen and Henry isn't far behind and yes, they were named for candy bars but it could have been worse if I liked Kit-Kats and 3 Musketeers) and I cook dinner for a crowd every night.
In the spring of 2010, the whole extended intentional family (the collective, as we usually refer to it) moved to the west coast. I sold the castle that Cole bought for me in the Prairies and we bought a house that juts out from a cliff, overlooking the beautiful Pacific ocean. Then we bought the one next door to it and now the whole point is ours. We decided to make it into a compound for our intentional family. Our collective. Others have called it a commune. Doesn't bother me one bit, as I would not trade it for the world now.
Caleb lives in the Boathouse, as it's called. It's a two-bedroom modern cottage a stone's throw from the main house. He is Cole's older brother. He's a lawyer/CFO/venture Capitalist/self-made man. He is the Devil incarnate sometimes.
I live in the main house with Ben, Ruth, Henry, Lochlan (like Cole he is also an artist, but more about him in a minute), Sam (Jacob's former student), Dalton, Duncan (Dalton's older brother), Gage (Schuyler's older brother) and PJ. The new house next door holds Andrew (my oldest and dearest friend), John, Christian, Daniel (Ben's younger brother) and Schuyler (Daniel's husband).
Jacob's best friend and my favorite sounding board August lives above the garage in a beautiful airy loft that I designed myself.
Other friends I mention often include Corey, Keith, New-Jake, Joel, and Batman (a nickname for someone who flies into my life when I ask for him. I don't do that anymore.)
In 2011, Ben and I made a huge decision to include Lochlan in our marriage. Lochlan and I have been in love since I was nine. He raised me on the midway circuits and then later in the circus. I am who I am today (strange and wonderful) because of him. He's had a tough job being half-parent, half-lover, we struggle with that every day but some things are just meant to be. Some things just work, you know?
In 2015, Ben and I took a step back, reevaluating what we both want, changing things here, tweaking things there and chose to divorce each other but not break up. In the summer of 2016 I married Lochlan. Legally. He asked, I said yes, We ran off to Coney Island and sealed the deal on the Wonder Wheel. He's the one on the paper now and Ben is 'the main boyfriend' (I sometimes have another or two) and it works, so far. This is a dream I gave up on and then got back and it's one I plan to live to the end.
That's my deal, in a nutshell. What's yours?
[PS: I'm not on very many places on the internet. I am playing with Pinterest just a little. That's all. At last count I saw seventeen 'Saltwater Princess' accounts in one formation or another on Twitter and on Instagram, and people keep googling me, sending me pictures of other Bridgets and such. It's not me. Stop looking. In spite of the fact that I live in a commune, I'm actually a really private person without much internet time at all. The boys don't have any internet aside from the occasional facebook or instagram account but those are all set to private so don't bother. We don't talk to strangers anyway.]
Monday, 7 December 2009
I played my best for Him.
Was going through my tech cupboard, deciding which things to keep and which to discard and on one of my old cellphones was a video of Jacob singing Little Drummer Boy in church to the Sunday school classes, Christmas Eve 2006.
Wow.
To keep, by far. I would post it if I still had the software to get it off the phone. Arms thrown back, messy blonde curls, eyes closed at the end. Dear lord, my boys singing Christmas carols is oddly especially stinging. All of them. It doesn't matter if PJ is crashing through the house singing I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus or Ben with O Holy Night last year.
It's just a thing, okay?
A really hard thing.
Upward, princess. Onward, go! he would say.
Wow.
To keep, by far. I would post it if I still had the software to get it off the phone. Arms thrown back, messy blonde curls, eyes closed at the end. Dear lord, my boys singing Christmas carols is oddly especially stinging. All of them. It doesn't matter if PJ is crashing through the house singing I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus or Ben with O Holy Night last year.
It's just a thing, okay?
A really hard thing.
Upward, princess. Onward, go! he would say.
Crumb tinies.
I have a wicked awesome Christmas tree!
Which I would have skipped this year if the children weren't my big picture, because it seems really counterproductive to be moving and suddenly drop everything and erect a tree in the living room that we'll spend hours lighting and decorating only to take it all down January first.
I'm working on the bright side, the part that I can see up high if I stand on my tiptoes. And the fact that Ben will be away from us for a few months is maybe a price that must be paid for temperatures currently forty degrees higher than they are here. Maybe it's a small test before the easy part of life kicks in. Maybe it's par for the course and it will shake me out of my now harmless but annoying doom-and-gloom personality that throws shadows on these walls in the absence of light.
Maybe I will gain perspective.
Maybe I'll even get a grip.
Okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's just roll on with one foot in front of the other until we're up to our ankles in the saltwater of the Pacific.
We're going to see Santa this weekend, to ask him to stop bringing character-building kits as gifts and to throw up the horns for a rocking photo op. I may ask him for just a little more luck like the kind that Ben is to me, resplendent in full beard and flannel these days because he's cold and sad that he's leaving ahead of the move and pulling out all the stops to block my tears before they can make it over the falls.
Sorry, the melodrama is just everywhere today. I'm tripping over it and pulling it out of my hair, unsticking it from my lip gloss and clearing it off the window so I can look out. I'm not so sad this morning. Just determined. Frighteningly determined.
I really really really won't miss the cold. In fact, I'll probably rejoice for having made it so many winters here without going entirely crazy.
Wait. What?
Which I would have skipped this year if the children weren't my big picture, because it seems really counterproductive to be moving and suddenly drop everything and erect a tree in the living room that we'll spend hours lighting and decorating only to take it all down January first.
I'm working on the bright side, the part that I can see up high if I stand on my tiptoes. And the fact that Ben will be away from us for a few months is maybe a price that must be paid for temperatures currently forty degrees higher than they are here. Maybe it's a small test before the easy part of life kicks in. Maybe it's par for the course and it will shake me out of my now harmless but annoying doom-and-gloom personality that throws shadows on these walls in the absence of light.
Maybe I will gain perspective.
Maybe I'll even get a grip.
Okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's just roll on with one foot in front of the other until we're up to our ankles in the saltwater of the Pacific.
We're going to see Santa this weekend, to ask him to stop bringing character-building kits as gifts and to throw up the horns for a rocking photo op. I may ask him for just a little more luck like the kind that Ben is to me, resplendent in full beard and flannel these days because he's cold and sad that he's leaving ahead of the move and pulling out all the stops to block my tears before they can make it over the falls.
Sorry, the melodrama is just everywhere today. I'm tripping over it and pulling it out of my hair, unsticking it from my lip gloss and clearing it off the window so I can look out. I'm not so sad this morning. Just determined. Frighteningly determined.
I really really really won't miss the cold. In fact, I'll probably rejoice for having made it so many winters here without going entirely crazy.
Wait. What?
Sunday, 6 December 2009
A moment to remember a night that never should have happened.
* Geneviève Bergeron
* Hélène Colgan
* Nathalie Croteau
* Barbara Daigneault
* Anne-Marie Edward
* Maud Haviernick
* Maryse Laganière
* Maryse Leclair
* Anne-Marie Lemay
* Sonia Pelletier
* Michèle Richard
* Annie St-Arneault
* Annie Turcotte
* Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Hex is fairly obvious, but that's it.
Not a lot has changed since 1987.
I spent the better part of the day passing tools to the boys, much like in the garage out in the country in high school where I would sit on the workbench and pass things.
Bridgie, hand me a Phillips.
Is that the star shaped or the straight slot?
Almost twenty-five years later I'm still asking the same questions, because it's dumb to give last names to screwdrivers when 'straight', 'star' and 'square' would suffice. The boys just sigh and calmly repeat it without the fancy names.
The star one.
Oh, this one! Here.
Today we finished putting insulation in the ceiling of the addition. I call it the addition because it's a rather large and wonderful extra entire house that was tacked on to the main house in the late nineteen forties and it accounts for why there are so many rooms within rooms in my house and very few hallways. It's wonderful. But it was very cold and had wonky doors and windows and odd wiring and coins and love letters in the walls.
All that is gone now.
I kept the coins and love letters. And the 1920 theatrical face paint sticks that I can't explain but somehow it brings joy to me to imagine that other performers lived here once upon a time.
The doors and windows are new now. The wiring has all been replaced and today the boys finished insulating all three floors that were virtually uninsulated up until now. It's so much warmer now. It looks clean and fresh and ready for plasterboard.
Yeah, yeah, just in time to move.
There are still two and a half rooms left. I know we'll run out of time but for now it's good to keep chipping away at finishing the house up to show.
I also managed to fit in a full grocery shop and lunch with chopsticks today. Ruthie had her final painting class (she'll follow her father's footsteps come hell or high water) and Henry helped at the hardware store.
Now everyone has scattered to the four corners of the house to read on laptops, listen to music, or watch sports on television and I'm cooking up a big dinner of beef dip sandwiches and green beans. Then after dinner we'll scatter again to rest up for another round of whatever we can come up with tomorrow to be productive imminent house sellers and human beans.
Off to study my screwdriver names while the garlic bread warms.
I spent the better part of the day passing tools to the boys, much like in the garage out in the country in high school where I would sit on the workbench and pass things.
Bridgie, hand me a Phillips.
Is that the star shaped or the straight slot?
Almost twenty-five years later I'm still asking the same questions, because it's dumb to give last names to screwdrivers when 'straight', 'star' and 'square' would suffice. The boys just sigh and calmly repeat it without the fancy names.
The star one.
Oh, this one! Here.
Today we finished putting insulation in the ceiling of the addition. I call it the addition because it's a rather large and wonderful extra entire house that was tacked on to the main house in the late nineteen forties and it accounts for why there are so many rooms within rooms in my house and very few hallways. It's wonderful. But it was very cold and had wonky doors and windows and odd wiring and coins and love letters in the walls.
All that is gone now.
I kept the coins and love letters. And the 1920 theatrical face paint sticks that I can't explain but somehow it brings joy to me to imagine that other performers lived here once upon a time.
The doors and windows are new now. The wiring has all been replaced and today the boys finished insulating all three floors that were virtually uninsulated up until now. It's so much warmer now. It looks clean and fresh and ready for plasterboard.
Yeah, yeah, just in time to move.
There are still two and a half rooms left. I know we'll run out of time but for now it's good to keep chipping away at finishing the house up to show.
I also managed to fit in a full grocery shop and lunch with chopsticks today. Ruthie had her final painting class (she'll follow her father's footsteps come hell or high water) and Henry helped at the hardware store.
Now everyone has scattered to the four corners of the house to read on laptops, listen to music, or watch sports on television and I'm cooking up a big dinner of beef dip sandwiches and green beans. Then after dinner we'll scatter again to rest up for another round of whatever we can come up with tomorrow to be productive imminent house sellers and human beans.
Off to study my screwdriver names while the garlic bread warms.
Friday, 4 December 2009
Real and Imagined.
Here's this year's Christmas card, another Edward Gorey masterpiece. I love all things Gorey.
I've paired it with a matte pewter wrapping paper this year which is kind of pretty, actually.
I didn't go out for lunch today, instead I joined Schuyler in the tiny kitchen in their wing for some leftover mac and cheese and then I trailed around after the boys while they ran some errands. I didn't buy anything, and I even turned down a chance at Thai takeout for dinner because it's so cold and on top of things I just didn't feel so adventurous today.
My nose is running. I'm worn out. Tonight I hope to sleep more deeply and in larger blocks of time than in recent nights. I'm trying to keep busy, stay organized and remain calm in the face of future chaos.
This weekend is hopefully tree-weekend, and other than the tree, a wreath on each door and the lights damned near everywhere, I'm not decorating. I wrapped all the presents going home this morning, and now I have to find boxes to send them in. I have ordered and shopped for all the gifts staying in the house and need to get two more things for the children and I am finished.
Early for once. With it for once. Hoping to have a really nice peaceful Christmas with Ben before he's banished to never-never land once again and I forget what he looks like.
Okay, that part never ever happens.
I hope I do okay while he's away. That part has decidedly overshadowed just about everything else lately, because I'm dreading his departure. I don't want him to go. I don't want to be here without him. But this is one of those dumb things that must be done and so off he goes and here I stay and I can be peculiar and strange and lonesome and he will be invisible and creepy and uncommon. We'll be who we are apart and then we'll be who we are together and on the other side of this will be the remembered visit.
I'm still so cold though. Thinking of setting my sweater on fire.
But not really.
I've paired it with a matte pewter wrapping paper this year which is kind of pretty, actually.I didn't go out for lunch today, instead I joined Schuyler in the tiny kitchen in their wing for some leftover mac and cheese and then I trailed around after the boys while they ran some errands. I didn't buy anything, and I even turned down a chance at Thai takeout for dinner because it's so cold and on top of things I just didn't feel so adventurous today.
My nose is running. I'm worn out. Tonight I hope to sleep more deeply and in larger blocks of time than in recent nights. I'm trying to keep busy, stay organized and remain calm in the face of future chaos.
This weekend is hopefully tree-weekend, and other than the tree, a wreath on each door and the lights damned near everywhere, I'm not decorating. I wrapped all the presents going home this morning, and now I have to find boxes to send them in. I have ordered and shopped for all the gifts staying in the house and need to get two more things for the children and I am finished.
Early for once. With it for once. Hoping to have a really nice peaceful Christmas with Ben before he's banished to never-never land once again and I forget what he looks like.
Okay, that part never ever happens.
I hope I do okay while he's away. That part has decidedly overshadowed just about everything else lately, because I'm dreading his departure. I don't want him to go. I don't want to be here without him. But this is one of those dumb things that must be done and so off he goes and here I stay and I can be peculiar and strange and lonesome and he will be invisible and creepy and uncommon. We'll be who we are apart and then we'll be who we are together and on the other side of this will be the remembered visit.
I'm still so cold though. Thinking of setting my sweater on fire.
But not really.
By Satellite.
Here. Go watch this. I'm going out for lunch.
PS. Not only are heights my absolute downfall, the dark is not far behind as enemy number two. Any suggestions for getting rid of either fear?
PS. Not only are heights my absolute downfall, the dark is not far behind as enemy number two. Any suggestions for getting rid of either fear?
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