Like flies (Here, while I'm getting ready for my night).

The company is mine now. Well, mine technically. Outwardly (thankfully) nothing will change. And this hits just in time for year-end which is handy. Really. Get it done before 2011 and he did, a rather important step in this renewed effort to be sure that the things you plan for after you're gone are precisely what you intended.

I hate living like this, but we do.

I stared at Caleb's face for the better part of twelve hours, through the night. We had our war, waged across the marble island of his condo while he shouted and pleaded and I looked for knives to throw and heads to roll. Bowling for psychotic sister-in-laws, outrage for how good they all are at keeping secrets that should never have been kept and spilling ones that have no business seeing the light of day but it keeps leaking in around the edges and we're all fucked and now bad luck is coming to take us away.

Caleb has been trying to head that off with some just-in-case business decisions that I can agree to but on the other hand what happens when I'm not near my wits and flying by the tips of my tights instead? What happens when the sideshow rolls back in and the logic packs up and leaves, terrified of clowns, even more afraid of acrobats and jugglers and their big stupid generous hearts?

I guess we will cross that Bridget when we see her next.

In the meantime we'll do everything we can to protect our collective demons and their big stupid fully genetically defective, faulty hearts. Because sometimes more than good looks and violent romance runs in the family.

Sometimes medical advances prove to be too telling and infarctions leave behind telltale signs that they have paid you a visit and your days might be numbered and they might not and it changes absolutely everything, like it has for Caleb now, and no one wanted to tell me.

Just like death, only it's like you still have something left. Something serious and important and all of it makes the past pale in comparison with the future, which rests with an eleven-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy now.

And God help us if any of us ever fucking forget that again.

Got it.

I can read. It's TONIGHT. Jesus. I possibly need some live-in lawyers to go with everyone else in the house. I can't get the lawyers by tonight. ARGHHHH.

Like a shepherd but with lawyers instead of sheepies.

This is getting difficult. This, in particular.

Another meeting tomorrow. Warning that this isn't over. Would someone please just tell me why he has to make taking every single breath I can so fucking DIFFICULT?

Thanks. I'll be waiting for the answer. I think I AM the answer but whatever, I'd like to hear it from him.

My last Christmas present finally made it!

*(This is not the day's post. Just give me a few hours to absorb Eastern Hymns for Western Shores. It's that awesome. Also Bro-Am tee!!! Squee!)

Musical dirt worship.

Do you know why all staircases descend to the right? So that knights could fight with their swords in their right hands, their dominant, strong hands, while coming down the steps, defending, and infiltrators would be forced to fight with their left. A decided disadvantage.

Oddly enough, both subjects today are left-handed. And hippies, not knights.

The boys are loading up trucks right now. There's a little shift going on in the household. August is moving into Dalton's place, citing a need for more mirror time (this is not even a joke, jerkfaces, August has (okay, had) his own bathroom).

Dalton is moving into my house. In a sense I am trading one friend of Jake's for another. Even though I don't have to give August up, it just won't be the same.

There are a combination of issues that led to this. Beginning with the fact that Dalton isn't used to housing prices here (with a long history of issues related to that subject, frankly) and was on the verge of giving up a six-month investment because he's in a little over his head and refuses help or basic budgeting lessons.

Throw in a little bit of stubbornness on my part and August and I have butted heads a lot lately. He is supposed to easily separate his professional and personal life and he isn't having much luck because he lives with his charges and really I can corrupt him faster than I can hang up the phone. He's as easily charmed as Jacob always was. And he's enough like Jacob that I get to remain mired in some sort of paralysis between the present and the past and that's an unhealthy place for me. When I feel fragile I can just go tuck myself under his arm as he reads and he's the closest living, breathing ringer to Jake there ever was. Right down to the Newfie accent. The mannerisms and the unintentional enthusiastic volume sometimes makes me jump right out of my skin.

But it's okay. It was sort of a surprise that he lived here at all and I have a feeling I got to him during a moment of weakness and now I have gotten to him during a moment of strength and he's standing up to me, taking an opportunity to help fix something important while gaining a little space for himself in the process.

I get to spend the late winter/early spring teaching Dalton the basics of money management, like why paying your mortgage and electric bills before you go shopping for new amps is a good thing. I really hope he's ready for this. I can be intrusive, interruptive and incorrigible.

He says he's totally ready. We shall see now, won't we?

Shack wacky.

I'm very out of sorts today, though Ben has been eyeing me particularly hungrily since I came downstairs dressed and ready to conquer whatever the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing today. I used my new Philosophy vanilla birthday cake shower gel and I smell so delicious you might find me in the corner later gnawing my own arms off after consuming my delicious knees first.

It's that good, yes. I've tried the other ones, this one seems heads above the rest in boy-popularity.

Lochlan is singing Lucky Man (The Verve, not Emerson, Lake and Palmer though on some days, you might be surprised.)and he won't stop and it's sort of beginning to seep into my brain and really I just need a little fresh air (because I ADORE the song) and maybe it's time the Christmas tree was removed because it makes me a little claustrophobic even though the house is huge and I can get away from it and I don't really know...I'm sure it's just cabin fever. Everyone is still too sick to go very far, however.

Some of you have sent in some ridiculously awesome suggestions too, regarding last evening's request for requests. Thank you. Look for them in the coming days because otherwise I will be out in the orchard in the pouring rain imploding. And smelling really good while I do.

Water wings.

If I owe you any stories, I may have forgotten. You can email me at saltwater princess at gmail dot com and I will do my best to post some catch-up entries. Sometimes I wade too deep into my own words and I dip underneath the rope that divides the swimming area from the drowning area and frankly I'm not sure what possessed me to come to the beach today anyway. It's not even warm out.

Lost my place. Long evening. Not sure what you WANT to read so why don't you just tell me.

For once. While I am open to writing for you, as opposed to writing for myself.

Thanks. :)

Christmas cravings.

The candy canes begin as a lark and quickly because weapons, bitten off and sucked to sharp points, crushed against bone and splinted into glittery mint fragments all over the bed. Pieces stick against my shoulders, in my hair, between my fingers. He is dusted with tiny shards. He is the most exquisite broken glass.

It hurts so much but I am loathe to give up first. Not a chance. I smiled and grit my teeth and he grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my face up, crushing a handful of candy canes with his fist, pouring them into my mouth and nose. I shake my head and lick my lips. I am sticky all over. I can't breathe. I fight for air, pinned down, feeling him eating the crushed pieces off my collarbone. I spread my hands out and try and push the remaining canes off the bed, succeeding only in moving them around, making a candy-cane angel where I lie.

He laughs and finds one last cane still intact, licking it, tracing my lips, leaving behind a cool tingle that distracts me. He holds it out for me to take and I suck on it, I am the queen of lethal Christmas cheer. I am the sugar queen. And he is my minty vampire with one cane hooked in each side of his mouth. Fangs made of peppermint.

I start laughing and it's too late. I'm going to be bitten by the monster of Christmas present and there's absolutely nothing I can do.

Oh darn.

tra·di·tion: \trə-di-shən\

Definition of TRADITION: A form of relaxation in which the entire household uses the holiday as great excuse to sleep in, stay in pajamas for the entire day, play with presents endlessly, catch up on laundry, claim leftovers (cake is mine, as always) and engage in low-level, inactive past times like watching things, reading things, listening to things and seeking each other out to have low conversations in quiet spaces.

I might even find the energy to light a candle or two but I doubt it.

Maybe later.

Light bulb.

We are full of turkey, stuffing, chocolate marquise and wine and still laughing after seeing Despicable Me.

The marvel of enjoying a bright Christmas day with temperatures hovering around ten degrees is such an incredible novelty I may never live it down. As does watching Ben expertly carve turkeys like it's something he does every damn day and now listening to Lochlan as he edits the pictures he took today.

Last night I listened to the boys sing for the candlelit service. Every blessing in my life has a name. Every gift I have ever received has a different combination of eye and hair colors, a different voice and a different hug methodology. They are my gifts.

I have been kissed and hugged and spoiled thoroughly. I have been coddled, in generous amounts of help with dinner, and I have been deceitful, in that I spent much of the day with a massive raging fever, unwilling to admit defeat because dammit, it's our first Christmas here and it was going to be perfect no matter what.

It was.

Will you read us a bedtime story?

No.

Pretty please?

The physical appearance of the please makes no difference.

Merry Christmas to you. XOX