Bedtime Stories (Four sleeps left).

Run, rabbit, run. Down the rabbit hole. It goes faster if you tuck your skirt around your legs tightly and close your eyes.

Go, Bridget, go!

I was up off my backside and running, never daring to look behind me, since the shadow stretching out in front of me was enough incentive. In my head the constant soundtracker took over and put Vivaldi to my movements, which made my brain compete with my legs for speed and made me dizzy. I fought to replace it with Bach. Angry, brooding German. Sonata No. 1 in G minor. Hell, pick something, princess, just get moving!

Down further and further, the cavern looped around and around, a spiral deep underground, leading God knows where. A door. It's a door. Open it. Run inside and SLAM! Turn and survey the room. Lightbulb in the ceiling and a tiny bottle on the floor in the center, almost directly underneath the bulb.

DRINK ME.

Who am I to question the weirdness of the moment or the relative recklessness of drinking something that I can't identify?

Whoooooooosh.

I'm tiny. The size of a firefly. My voice is a helium buzz and I laugh, a chipmunk bubble not even loud enough to echo off the stone walls. I can hide anywhere now, the problem is running. It will take weeks to cover the same distance I just ran when I was big.

The door flies open and I hide behind the tiny bottle, crouched down because it's empty. Hoping it's enough.

Fee Fi Fo fum.

What the fuck? I don't remember a giant in this story. But where there are giants, there are beanstalks. And golden eggs. Maybe if I can find both I can buy my way out of this mess. The goose was probably eaten already by the Queen of Hearts and her ludicrous children and I am fresh out of luck and storybooks. Why oh why can't this be The Princess and the Pea? That one is easy.

I step out.

Caleb.

Yes, princess?

It doesn't go like that.

It doesn't matter. I have money, I'll just change it.

But you can't. It's a classic.

Write another.

I don't write fairytales.

Sure you do.

Not until after they happen.

Why is that?

It's just the way I am.

He grinned, and the giant was replaced by the beast.

Stop that.

Stop what?

Stop changing. I can't keep you straight.

That's my point. If you didn't write it, I can do whatever I please. Free reign on the page.

Then it won't be a very good story and no one will read it. A sad ending to your hopes of becoming a classic.

Suddenly he was Caleb again and I blinked and he passed me a cookie. One bite and I was back to Bridget-size, all five feet of anxiety, words and humor that becomes unrecognizable emo swill with one good shake. Nice yellow dress. I don't wear yellow. Christ. He held up the rose. It was already dead. My favorite kind.

So what would make it a classic?

Time.

Hard to have time when you won't stop running, Bridget.

Fairytales have happy endings, and I am nowhere near one right now.

How do you know that?

Because you're here.

Aren't you supposed to give me the gold? Then I'll go away. Unless...

Rumpelstiltskin!

*POOF*

Morning star.

Caleb (most likely with everyone's blessing) is having me watched.

I wasn't sure at first, and at one point I thought maybe he was back in town and content to remain on the fringes, watching me from behind snowbanks or across the street even. I just felt like I was putting on a show of sorts, like we had some sort of (though benevolent) keeper.

It's Mike.

Caleb's driver has a soft spot for me. Not in the way men usually do, but in a Samwise-way, in that he cares very much for my welfare without getting sucked in to my princess force field or whatever it is that casts the spell that ruins all of my friendships in favor of the weirdly thrilling tension-filled relationships that brought me this collective, for lack of a better term.

And I have a soft spot for him, negotiating heavily for a triple Christmas bonus over what Caleb had already generously planned for Mike, because Mike earns it. Who else could navigate for the devil so efficiently and then some? And he brings me pocky sticks. Gold.

And so Mike continues to earn his renumeration by being more than Satan's GPS. It's easier to say driver than second. I'm not blind. Mike only pretends to be subservient. I'm sure he can be just as cold-blooded as Satan himself, I'm sure his role is even larger than we assume but for now I am oddly grateful that we have someone looking out for us, even if I only catch the odd glimpse or feeling of him there. Mike will eventually make his way out west too, to continue his employment under/beside Caleb, and until then I will enjoy his invisible company.

(Oh, come on. Did you really think I wasn't going to call this out?)

Under control.

I had a moment of extreme and uncharacteristic selfishness and said everything I wanted to say out loud. Then I felt the warning waves of regret and that was that. I made my apologies and maybe was forgiven, but probably not. I was told I was and so I tried to just be gracious after that, but really, right now I want my husband and I want us to have our lucky penny day for a while because everyone else has had turn after turn while we build character with cinderblocks of suffering and determination and I'm fucking done. I'm going to sit up here on top of our character castle which is taller than that new tower in Dubai, and I'll swing my bare feet in the wind until someone drops their penny.

Then I will dive for it.

I think that's what Jacob must have done. He missed, or someone with better reflexes grabbed it up quickly, I guess.

After my (un)likely outburst I threw myself into making it up, turning and making it a nice day for my kids, who did not witness my ability to act younger than they do sometimes. We took the dog for a long walk, went to the store for some interim groceries and chocolate bars too, came home and played a game, made our own pizzas (because Ruth is picky and Henry likes pineapple and I like everything) and then watched Night At the Museum on cable. Now they are tucked in and I'm soon to take the dog outside to the backyard for a final survey of the property before it gets much later.

I wish I had some capacity to risk everything on a penny but I don't. I'll wait for one to find me. Otherwise it's just a harder task to finish building this damn tower so I can give it away and hope for a better position in phase three as I like to call it. Maybe Pacifica will stick. Maybe it will be awesome. Maybe I'll get stuck in a million-dollar mortgage and starve. Maybe pigs will fly and pennies will rain down from heaven and I will be blinded and have copper bruises.

It can't be any worse. It will most definitely be better. I will go crazy in the meantime, however and that's what freaks me out most. I still count the minutes between the furnace blowing. I wait for lights to go out. I watch the temperatures fluctuating between OhmyChristalmighty and bearable. I pass every single hour in silent witness and I try not to cry because I miss Ben so much at some moments that I find it hard to breathe and impossible to collect myself.

Maybe no one gets that the waiting is the hardest part. Maybe they think I am spoiled and petulant and I should be excited. I will be, as soon as I am done waiting and done missing and done going insane. I will just try to do it via the old Bridget-method. If they aren't here to witness it, we can all pretend it doesn't exist.

Self-control is an art form and not one of my particular talents. I am too buys looking for pennies, dropped on the road.

Goals. (I hate you people).

I'm drinking sweet champagne
Got the headphones up high
Can't numb you out
Can't drum you out of my mind

Seriously. I'm busy drowning you out with Nazareth. Go away.

My talents are plasterwork and pole dancing. I can cook for lots of people and I'm neat and organized. But apparently that's not enough and I'm supposed to work towards growing, improving and...where are you going? Come back.

I'll share a few of my goals for the year with you. Not all of them, just the things I want you to see, as always. There is always more. That seems to be my motto the past few years when it comes to writing here. I won't write for money, or for parenting columns or adult websites. I won't write for the masses as much as I write for the individual. The same could be said for goals. They're unique to each person.

I want to bring the grocery budget back into this stratosphere. I can cook from scratch but I tend to half and half it most of the time. More carefully meal planning versus 'stock everything and see what everyone wants' would go far to make it easier.

I want to save more before spending more. Pay myself first instead of treat myself first. It's easy to live in the Now or Never when you've won and lost a few times. Trust me on that one.

I want to be braver with things I'm not brave with. Trip planning, heights. The dark. My car. Making a mess. Living on the edge instead of trying to nail down every last contingency until I have a perfect row and a shitload of wasted energy.

I want to sleep more. Like my mirror says, I'm a light sleeper and a heavy dreamer. I'm sure it's related to the sleep apnea/narcolepsy/brain tumor thing but a few unbroken nights would be a godsend.

I want to shop for a house like a princess, by making a list of everything I want, and then putting a star by everything that is non-negotiable. I have never done that. I take what I am given or what I find on the first go because of fear that if I pass and it was good enough God will smite somewhere further down along the line.

I want to stop building character and give some away.

I want to make lists and be excited and inspired again instead of simply pushing uphill against the wind.

I want to wear more black. (that's a joke. I wear black and little else).

I want dreadlocks but I wouldn't actually do that.

I want to spend an entire day in my pajamas with a Snoopy book and a plate of peanut brittle.

Okay, now it's just getting silly. But you get my drift. I don't know how lofty my goals as a whole or whether or not I'll get to accomplish any of them in reality but the grind of working to live versus living to work is a fine balance for anyone and I defy you to say you've got life all figured out. No one does. Okay, a few people do, but they aren't really useful in that this is something that we have to figure out for myself (har).

And I will, probably three days before I die of a brain tumor at the age of 98.

Back to plastering and pole dancing. Which really is every bit as spectacular and entertaining as you can imagine. Just ask the dog. He's getting quite a show.

Bleat.

Because behind its door there's nothing to keep my fingers warm
And all I find are souvenirs from better times
Before the gleam of your tail lights fading east
To find yourself a better life.

So cold. I trudge along, hands in my pockets, marching to the invisible music, for the radio plays on an endless loop inside my head and it's easy to make my feet match the beat, the words tripping down a softened, trampled path. The ties for my hat hang straight and the dog speeds along ahead of me on the end of his leash. Everything is grey and I am alone. They've taken my words. He took my heart and dropped it into a cloud at thirty-seven thousand feet, as best he can do for heaven, hoping he can still find it and bring it back in the future.

The future. It makes my eyes sting and the song begins again.

Fear and anticipation are the instruments, tears are the notes, big fat magnifying drops that blur the page of my book as I read later, the dog sleeping at my feet, the grate blowing warm air over my knees. I pick up the emote control and turn the song down a little so that it becomes the thread that holds my conscience together, a pocket where I will stuff the doubts that spill over the airwaves and melt the microwaves that keep me connected. Only a few threads left to ravel and I will break free to twist in this wind.

My nose is red, my eyes washed in bottle greens, sea glass faded, smashed upon the rocks. I pull my socks up over my knees and put my boots on over them. I button my coat in time with the transitions and hum to myself as I get ready to go out again.

Interesting way to spend an evening.

Tonight when I was carrying the stepladder downstairs, I managed to snag the curtain in the front stairwell. In untangling it, the rod and everything came crashing down on me. Of course, this window is a good twelve or fifteen feet high and even Ben needs to prop the stepladder on the stairs to put it up. I won't (can't?) do that so for now it's an unadorned window that allows people at street level to see into my upstairs hallway.

Not a big deal until the dog went to the top of the stairs, looked out the window at his 'reflection' and started barking. Twenty-five minutes later he is still standing there, hackles raised, barking and growling at the strange little white dog on the roof of my neighbor's house.

Lovely.

8 more sleeps til Ben comes home. Then hopefully he can put the curtain back up. Among other things.

I'll sing for free.

Switchfoot is on the stereo and I'm sitting on the floor painting.

Well, you wanted an update. More later. I mean business. I even have the ROLLER out.

Today was a sleeves-rolled-up, no-holds-barred round of Bridget versus The House. With the house ahead by the slimmest of margins and Bridget quickly gaining ground, we gave up and called it a draw. The fight will resume tomorrow, right after I visit the hardware store for more ammunition.

The good news is the laundry and cleaning is completely up to date and I'm physically and emotionally exhausted which hopefully will result in a quiet night tonight. Last night at around eleven thirty my nose hit the keyboard not once but twice while I waited for Ben to appear on Skype. Bless his heart, he hid notes in all the places in the house that I frequent. My coffee cup, the bookshelf in the dining room, under the lamp in the kitchen. I'm not sure if I have found them all, but I'm enjoying the surprise.

And being fond of complaining loudly and bitterly about the state of my to-do list has nothing to do with Ben. I could claim helplessness but really I honestly and truly believe that earnestness and a good heart will eventually reward me. So if I slave away at the house, maybe someone will see that and buy the damn thing. And really, I'm not the type of girl who sits around eating bon-bons and watching daytime television so what else would I do? I LIKE knowing what kind of mud works with drywall joints. I bought the other kind, so it made it a super challenge and I am learning lots.

Oh, mom, please stop laughing.

In other news, I found some new blogs to read via twitter (did you know I twitter? I don't get twitter but I like it). Some very decent and engaging writers but I'm not going to call them out per se. I'm just going to lovingly point out that if you wind up with financial albatrosses because you didn't feel like paying your bills, then firstly don't be surprised when your dream of a white picket fence and your own vehicle goes up in smoke because of your credit rating, and secondly? Please for the love of God, don't talk about saving money in the new year and then in the very next post talk about running errands that contain the words "tanning salon", "manicure", "drinks", and "trip".

I really had no idea how beautifully poignant and hilarious those idealistic mid-twenties years can be but they maybe read me and think something equally awful about me. Who knows? I'm at least self-aware enough to recognize I might have issues too.

Right. Issues? What issues.

(Life is what you make it, princess.)

You, in the corner? Shut the hell up.

I figure if I work my fingers to the bone and keep on with the mother of all time killers (distraction) then I will be too worn out to cry, too tired to freak the fuck out and too satisfied with my efforts to notice how miserable I truly am without Ben here.

Thank goodness there are only this many more sleeps:

You would love me when I'm angry.

I'm not so much sad, just determined. Get us the fuck out of here. Ben is safely in new location. I am mad. I think I'll put on Henry's Hulk Smash Hands and complete the look.

I'm not really mad, just slightly lost. Fortunately. I have a map. The directions are very clear, the landmarks precise. Visit the following places and at the end of the fucking rainbow will be your husband. And the warmer (albeit rainy) weather.

Rain? Who complains about rain? Talk to me after you've spent a winter here. I'll talk rain over the incredible cold any damn day. I have no designs on good hair days (that's what uptwists are for) and Maybelline makes a wickedly wonderful waterproof mascara.

But anyway, back to the map.

Today I had to visit the temple of wood filler and the tomb of gyproc breakdown and disposal. Also the market (for cake, naturally) and my much beloved shopping center, which is a temple of a different and consumerist sort. I got all that accomplished and even sucked the dirt off the floor with the thingie (are we going there? I don't think we're going there) and walked the kids to school and back.

All that AND we took Ben to the airport at five o'clock this morning.

Fiiiiiiiive. Jesus. And God, because God made Bridget coffee. In her own image.

Let me tell you, at this rate I'm going to blow through the checkpoints and win this multi-provincial endurance race before you can say...uh....March break and then I will unpack my drawing books and my violin bow and my tiny perfect wardrobe of pretty black things and I'll put my hands on my hips and regard my new vistas and I will give it my best Scarlet O'Hara:

As God as my witness, I will never be cold again!

(In any event, this is day one, so eleven more sleeps and Ben is home to add air to the tires on the car and save me from myself, if only briefly.)

Are we there yet?

I have run out of distractions, preparations and courage.

My eyes are burning and I feel like I'm going to vomit. In less than ten hours, none of which will be spent asleep, Ben will be gone, and for me it's the physical equivalent of ripping off my arms and legs, removing my heart and telling me to just deal with it.

Right. I can't fathom how I'm going to pull this off either. The only thing that comes to mind is taking the kids and going and sitting on the floor inside the closet and rocking all three of us until someone (ideally, Ben) comes back and breaks down the door. My head wants escape through any means possible, my heart wants to throw the house to the wolves and just go with him and my very small logical voice, heard in a whisper says to smarten up, grab the paintbrush and get busy. See how much you can get done before he returns.

He is home in eleven days but it's only for three. Then we do the long haul. A month, maybe more. No one has provided me with flight numbers and so I'm going on wary promises and disbelief.

Better things on the other side? I'll believe it when we get there. Until then, please excuse the river of tears and whatever else childish behavior you think is stupid. I'm not good at this and I will be making no apologies.

None of this is good.