Best intentions.

After lunch this afternoon I got in the car and pulled out of the garage into the sunshine and sat for a few moments waiting for the car to warm up. The boys have told me I can't just let my car sit for long periods without at least warming it up every now and then so I've been dutiful (before you email me, we're talking -30 or worse temperatures most of the time) though they probably say it just as much to get me out of the house.

I figured I would put it in gear and go to the hardware store and maybe stop for a coffee on the way home. A little treat since I haven't spent a dime or left the house for any reason other than school and one trip grocery shopping for two weeks straight.

Huh.

I pulled back into the garage, turned the car off, plugged it in and came inside.

I made coffee in the coffee maker. Odds are Ben will want to visit a few places tomorrow anyway so we'll go out then and maybe we can tack on a nice lunch out somewhere and a coffee on the way back.

I think it's self-preservation. I have a headache. I'm way beyond overtired and everything is melty and the roads are very slippery. It's not that I am in bed with the covers pulled up over my head wishing away the world, it's more that I don't feel like wasting the energy and stressing myself out more when I know I'm overtaxed.

This morning I painted and caught up on the laundry and cleaned and I got everything ready for Ben's return tonight. His towels are out. His favorite foods are stocked in the kitchen. The house is clean. I even brushed the dog. He's so excited to be coming home, even if it's just for a long weekend and I am still plotting to bar the doors and ground all the planes so that he can't go back next week. I hope I'm successful but I think instead I'll be expected to be an adult.

Hmph. Fat chance of that ever happening in this lifetime.

He's coming home, though! That's all that matters.

Lachrymose and twee.

One more sleep to go and then I can fill this massive hole where Ben is supposed to be but isn't. I've been edging around this hole for almost two weeks now and no amount of contingency plans, rickety fences or reassurance keeps the fear of falling in away from me.

One more sleep.

I'm so excited my heart is already pounding and I have that weird sickish feeling in my throat. I'm looking so forward to being able to sleep with both eyes closed, getting the giant princess-crushing hugs and general feeling of safety that Ben provides and a million other reasons. I miss seeing his eyes in person. I miss the grin and the beard he said he is keeping until we're with him for good and I miss being able to feel my heart beating because he has it with him and hell, even at Build-A-Bear they have a beating heart you can buy to stuff into your animal as it's made. It's important. It's basic comfort like nothing else.

Like Ben.

In other boy-news, I heard from my fair-weather lover too after mentioning how well I do when he is away. Lochlan called me and swore at me. Nice. I swore back because I am such a lady, and a petulant, immature one at that. Then I cried because he doesn't miss me the way Ben does.

He said I had no way of knowing that, simply because he doesn't moon over me the way the others do presently. I pointed out they don't, haven't and aren't so what does he know, anyway? He said he isn't given the privilege of showing any vulnerability when it comes to Bridget any more because everyone gets their guard up and I fall apart and it's just a bad scene all around. Fair enough. We'll finish that conversation when I see him next. But see? I can just leave Lochlan there and not be sad.

I can, I swear.

Okay, not really.

I'm just trying to focus. I got a lot accomplished in the past two weeks. A lot I didn't expect to accomplish and I even picked up my bravery cape and tried it on a few times. Maybe it fits. I'm just not sure about the color or the weight. But it's there on the hook and when the sun is shining I might drape it over my arm or twirl once or twice in front of the mirror wearing it.

Maybe I'll sleep in it tonight.

Fifty hours left until Ben comes home! Yay! or boo, that's way too long.

And there's a hippo loose in Montenegro.

• The saved voice notes on my BlackBerry are hilarious. I forgot they were there, and so I'm amusing myself right now playing them all back. Conway Twitty and The Night Bacon one is my favorite. Ben cracks up and has to start over. Twice.
  
• I've never seen an episode of the Simpsons, Mad Men, Desperate Housewives, American Idol or whatever else everyone seems to live-Twitter. I don't really like TV. Okay, I loved NCIS before it disappeared, and I liked Ice Road Truckers and Ice Pilots NWT. I love watching the Dakar Rally when it's on, the winter Olympics (but not really the summer ones except for men's swimming..hmm...fancy that) and my all-time favorite thing to watch was Eco-Challenge. LONG gone. I don't watch the news. I love movies but lately I haven't had enough peace of mind to sit down long enough to watch one. Maybe this weekend. We still have a bunch of new Blu-Rays just sitting here that haven't been opened yet.
• When I'm painting/drywalling/making a mess, I twist my wet hair up in two knots behind each ear and secure with hair elastics. Not only does it make the mailman laugh when I forget it's like that and take the dog for a walk as Princess Leia, but when I take them out later when my hair is dry, it is all ringletty and pretty, which is just a nice bonus after spending the day feeling yuck.
  
• I have no idea where Montenegro is. I looked it up and I still have no idea. Bad maps or inept Geography teacher. I'll let you decide.
• the first thing I plan to buy in Vancouver is a fake Louis Vuitton bag. Why? Because I always wanted one. Ben wanted to buy me a real one in Paris but then we had the fight and came home and really, let's just not go there.
• My new plan for world domination includes taking out The Weather Network first. They were off by fifteen degrees today. They got my hopes up for the last time. I'm a fan of Weather Underground now. As always, last to the party.
  
• I'm addicted to themes for my BlackBerry. (You may know this if you follow me on Twitter. Are you following me? You should follow me. I warn you, I post alot and then delete half of it later, but I'm impulsive like that.) I follow all the theme making girls. They make such nice themes and my new Bold can hold dozens of them. I change my theme or at least my wallpaper every single day.
  
• I realize I've been reading my Christmas book for three weeks already. I'm hoping to finish it tonight this month.
• I would vote for this as the most useful thing on the internet. No, I'm not kidding. (Also, cute ministers..it's a thing. Go away.)
• Ben has been very patient. I would tell you how patient, but then I just look like a drama queen. What's that? Oh, shut up.
  
• There are 55 hours left until he gets home. FIFTY-FIVE! Karma, if you're going to be a bitch, do it now.
  
• Lochlan has dropped off the face of the earth. I hate it when he does that but really, he doesn't have much patience for me. He never has. He'll resurface when he's good and ready. I am fine with him being gone when he goes and stays away. Ironic.
  
• Point form posts are sometimes what Bridget gives you when she's had three hours of sleep because Henry has been coughing again. With any luck tonight (aka a hot bath and some children's Nyquil) he'll sleep a lot better and then maybe I will also. Cross your fingers.

Not like the other: A chip. Or two.

Yes, I saw it. I looked out over the snowswept plain and I considered the gusts and the barren stillness and remoteness of it all and I gave it an appropriate length of deliberation. I took a pass.

Jacob warmed his hands by rubbing them together.

Where are your gloves?

I don't know. Is this alright, then?

No, it isn't.

I wouldn't have picked this for you either.

You don't get to make decisions anymore, you're dead.

Exactly. And you haven't been left behind.

* * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, I stopped using CFL bulbs today. As in, I went around the house replacing perfectly good spendy dim CFLs with good old-fashioned incandescent bulbs. And wow. What a difference. The light is bright and warm again. I can toss spent bulbs in recycling again. I can put them in outdoor fixtures without them failing, know that I can flip a light on and off without shortening its lifespan (which, for the record is NO longer) and I don't have to wait three seconds for the light to come on. By then, I am already across the room and have tripped over the dog. I can happily use my pretty lamps with clip on shades. And incandescents are two for a dollar.

So stuff it.

You want to talk to me about the environment? About saving energy and helping the planet? Trust me, you don't want to get into it with me. I could almost guarantee you I'll win the war on who is more ubercrunchay with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back.

And I'll do it brightly and warmly lit.

(Snort.)

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.