Fair traffic control

Ok, this phone just rules everything. Not only for the epic little camera (I have not shared the good pictures with you), but for the easy to personalize interface and all the apps! Just like an iPhone, only I can have all the pink icons and heart-dotted fonts and crazy looking weather skins that I want. There are two things that bother me and they aren't deal-breakers anymore. One is the keyboard. I know it's been just two weeks or less but I'm finding it a slow process to type.

The other is battery life. I did not expect the five, six days I could get out of a Blackberry without batting an eye, but really I think this needs to be plugged in once, preferably twice a day. I can see a solar charger pod in my future for just-in-case.

And yes, I can't get past level four in Angry Birds Easter. The boys are all eye-rollie about that, saying the thrill has passed, but hey, I'm a noob. Let me haz mah flyin' birdies. There were no games like this on my Blackberries.

They think I am funny, because I'm in their faces every ten seconds with HEY! Look, I made my app drawer into a bunny (I want to say bunneh but I'm a grown woman). Or, OMG. MACRO FOR THE WIN.

This is a weird day, or possibly I might be a tiny bit excited. A three-day weekend for everyone looms on today's horizon and I will be there to meet it, waving my arms over my head, showing it where to land.

Nolan is coming up. Joel will be stopping in, since he's in town but for business. Caleb is home from la belle province and in fine form so I may purchase and register a taser and keep it in my pocket and if he gets too close to me I can just erase his memory or knock him down if I'm really lucky.

Codex fell into a permanent place in The Songs That Make Bridget Who She Is (whoever that is) and I added glassblowing to my horrible little private, inadequate, insufficient, reluctant bucket list.

I finished all the alcohol in the house and I gave myself a fucking french manicure with a ten-dollar kit and I swear I can't see the difference between my nails and my neighbor's, though hers have fake length-extensions glued on or something and mine don't. PJ says that means I can wipe my own ass. Har. Perspective AND mean. And questions! We have them.

Here beside the bunneh. Hoppity-hop.

Snort.

Victory. It's mine. Okay a little one only, but that's enough.

As a six-year veteran of gardening in less than ideal conditions, today is a momentous day for me. Behold, I bring you...microlilacs.

Or maybe they are macro-lilacs, since I had to ratchet the camera down to get anything at all and I almost missed them in my travels around the garden, having dismissed this sort of generic looking perennial that I had forgotten the name of over the winter.

I never said I was a conscientious gardener, just a persistent one. I've wanted my own scratch-grown lilacs since forever. Now I got 'em.

Yay.

This is so wholly inadequate as a post, but I don't have time for more.

Three years. That's 1095 days married to Tucker, since we are on a nickname tangent again. Three years of watching perfectly good lip glosses disappear into his giant mouth that could wake the dead (but won't, even by request) with yelling, singing, or a mix of the two (or snoring or laughing, when he really gets going). Ben is only quiet when things aren't good. Boy, is he ever loud these days.

Three years of defiance in the face of relentless pressure. Three years of awesomely destructive food fights and ridiculous laughter that doesn't cease until someone wets their pants (usually me, fine, okay). Three years of doubts and arguments and enough tears to lift a large vessel and carry it to a far-away land and an effort to build a life that is so fucking normal that castles have been replaced with chalets and fairytales with a gritty, perfect reality swept off the sidewalk that leads to nowhere. He took the crown. He put it up somewhere high. I can't have it back, I am told.

(It's the journey, stupid. Stop waiting).

Three years of growing pains and butting heads. Three years of desperate, legendary love. We're doing just fine if you call living in the garden of good and evil acceptable accommodations. We slay people in our day to day lives with our devotion and our loyalties and we worry them with our mutual infatuation. The need to shelter each other is larger than life and it doesn't erode into the sea because we put in a breakwater and everything is going to be okay. We keep testing but these bonds are holding and we are wrapped up in love, held tight by our friends and our promises to each other. They call them vows, we call them promises and promises are things you don't break.

Three years, and we are no longer newlyweds but we still have a long way to go before we qualify as long-haulers. That's okay, time seems to move quickly when it comes to happy things. We'll be there soon enough.

Ben pointed out, while he was in the shower and I was brushing my teeth, that the third year modern anniversary gift category is glass. I asked him what we should do about that. He said he knew, and he pressed himself, fully naked, up against the glass shower door. He actually put too much pressure on the door and it flew open and the bathroom got soaked. I got soaked. Ben didn't care. He pulled me against his chest and hung on until we almost broke our necks on the slippery floor. After that other things may have happened, and I'll leave those up to your imagination for now, I have a date to get ready for.

Happy Anniversary, big Ben. I love you. Still. Always.

Hot damn.

Ex-Nomads and little mysteries.

I see today with a newsprint fray
My night is colored headache-grey
Don't wake me with so much.
The ocean machine is set to nine
I'll squeeze into heaven and valentine
My bed is pulling me, gravity
Daysleeper.

Duncan is the picture of Kerouac-cool today. He's the only one that didn't venture into the depths of retail hell yesterday in search of jeans that weren't shredded and on life support. Every five to seven years I can get the boys to buy some new goods but it's a tough sell until their wallets, phones and cash start to disappear as they're out and about, thanks to the holes holding up their pockets and revealing all their secrets (no, not those secrets. We don't let it come to that.)

Not Duncan though. He travels light and holds his ground. A pack of Belmonts, an ancient moleskin notebook with the stub of a pencil stuck in the middle and his scratched-up but spotless aviator sunglasses. Matches from restaurants he doesn't look like he can afford but can over most people I have met. Two keys. One for the front door of our house and one for his truck. A black elastic looped around one wrist to tie back his hair when it's necessary to do so. His phone. That's it. I've never seen him with anything else, ever.

I have Carte Blanche to read his notebook whenever I want, since we always seem to be sharing the same page in life anyway. He is a poet by definition and a tech by necessity only he is far more seasoned and useful than Dalton, if we are comparing. Dalton is much more pie-in-the-sky and in awe of the world and doesn't get a lot accomplished, though he tries. To his credit he will drop everything and hit the road just like his big brother and so that's how I wound up playing his unofficial real estate agent for so long and why it made so much sense for him to move into the house when August decided to play musical addresses over the winter.

They are firmly on Team Jacob, if we are keeping score, but we aren't so that's okay too. I met Dalton (we call him TJ, if you want to read more) through Jacob and then later on when they met Ben they defected quickly and wound up on Team Benjamin. But Ben doesn't actually have a team because he's an independent door to door salesman, okay?

And Duncan didn't technically need a job because he's paid his dues and got a little lucky too and he and Andrew discovered they could go around the world with backpacks and knowledge and they did it for a long time and now they have settled down a little more. I think age does that, though Duncan said he has seen the world three times over and now he just wants to be home with us and that makes me really warm when he says it like that and I really enjoy having TJ living here now, it's like yet another piece of the puzzle has fallen into place and at some point here we are finally going to see the Big Picture.

Because I still have no idea what it is.

Hardly interested in your definition of how well-adjusted we are.

This is a silly day. We are having slow wake-ups and long coffees. The dishwasher is droning in my ears, the dryer one floor below thumping along with a quiet hum. I'm a huge fan of dumb things like putting the laundry in at five in the morning and then it's done and away by eight.

Ben is assaulting my ears with the latest Solid Steel podcast. I can't figure this part of him out, after all this time. He is all METALMETALMETAL and then throws in a hint of Techno or whatever it is. He says this is akin to my need to infuse classical music into my metal crushes like sprinkles on a chocolate cupcake. Quirks, we got 'em. We don't have chocolate cupcakes, however. Maybe that can be rectified soon.

We snuggled in last night and watched Hereafter. A fantastic-directed movie, and I have a huge crush on Matt Damon anyway. I thought it would be like What Dreams May Come but it wasn't. It wasn't sad or difficult to watch either, even though I have a preoccupation with death and with sad, too. A good way to spend two hours. I only feel asleep very briefly once. A coup, if you will. Because this morning I saw the trailer for 2012, I was like what's with the spaceship? And the boys were all like Bridge...you slept through it. It's an ark. Don't ask.

And I am not going to draw out the issue of whether or not Lochlan will be permitted to decide Ruth's future so you can stop emailing me about that. I'm sure we'll butt heads on that subject and a zillion others over the next decade.

Ruth will be twelve this summer, a positively bittersweet number and don't think it doesn't bring up a lot of reluctant nostalgia in everyone. Well, three of us, to be sure. And I bet it is frustrating for you to come and read and not understand the gravity of this and not have all the facts and wonder what in the hell transpired but really it's very complicated and I have always tried to structure my writing around my relationships and some total fluff too and leave out pertinent facts because it's my choice to do so.

Just like Lochlan has made his choice to return to my life under less-ideal circumstances because, like my readers seem to feel, some Bridget is better than no Bridget at all.

And now if you'll excuse me, there is a conference call to be navigated and a dishwasher to be unloaded and then the day will be fully underway and free to indulge in anything we want.

The hard way.

The circus is the only ageless delight you can buy for money.
~Ernest Hemingway.

Over lunch Ruth was extolling the virtues of her gymnastics class, bragging rights sewn down when she demonstrated some serious contortionist moves for us in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I pointed out that soon she'd be able to earn her keep with her natural talents, and maybe she should consider joining the circus.

How old do you have to be?

Eighteen.

I have a little time left to prepare, then.

Yes.

A lot has changed in the days since our run. Now there are age minimums, insurance mandates, regular health care, and on-site education. There are cross-country auditions and the Internet, and a whole faction of people who oppose all circuses based on a few bad apples who spoiled what should be a magical event no matter what age you claim as your own (the ones who used wild animals and kept them in tiny cages on the road for endless months straight, to be clear).

And still Lochlan shook his head violently, meeting my eyes over the tops of their heads, accusing me of being impulsive to willingly encourage my daughter to venture in to the land of freakshow-calibre darkness and depravity.

Only it's not an impulse. It's right there, within her blood as it was in mine and I could think of nothing better than to live by one's wits, skipping over formal education and predictable paths, running straight up the centre of foolish, making a left at ridiculous, and then coming to a full stop at impetuous and calling it home.

I'm not going to fight about it now. He can spend the next six years trying to talk her out of it, if he wants. If Ruth is anything like me, she won't listen anyway.

Rhymes with glitch (it's okay, I know the way to hell).

Play it like a cameo, and watch her overflow
She’ll find a way to go down
Run like a candidate, like any minute made
You’ll find a way to go down

I’m sick of the faces, the scene and the light
We’ll be fine when the faces connect with the spine

Sophie called just as I tackled Daniel, ripping the very last gummy tarantula out of his hand and stuffing it in my mouth. My reward is to be flipped onto my back and held down while he lets a long string of spit descend from his mouth until it almost touches my nose and then he sucks it back in. I break into a laughing scream, because Ew! Dancooties! He has the worst ones. Just like his brother, he sees absolutely nothing wrong with sneezing on people or cornering someone to pass gas in their face. Did I mention they throw food as well?

Finally he lets me up and I feign throwing up and take the phone. Yes, my very sophisticated, pulled-together nemesis should be made to feel that much more superior by virtue of my ridiculous immaturity. I live in a frat house. Such is life here and I wouldn't change it for anything.

Hello?

Bridget, hi. Is this a difficult time to talk?

No, why?

I heard lots of...noises.

It's nothing. Why are you calling? (My God, look how fucking smooth I am!)

I wanted to...well, I wanted to see if you needed anything.

I'm guessing Caleb is there and you're discussing the state of my brain.

Well, actually-

Well, actually, Sophie, Caleb is the one who told me Jacob was still alive, and then he back-tracked just enough to make me seem crazy and then he made sure I am aware of what he is capable of doing by having some other very important documents altered. So there is no question in my mind what's wrong in my life. Clearly it's his presence. You might want to think about how knowing him might impact your own life. I would anyway, if I were you. Thankfully, I'm not.

*CLICK*

It felt so fucking good to hang up on her. Almost as good as not getting spit on by Danny.

Not often I indulge in this sort of total nonsense so here.

I am experimenting with the front-facing camera on my Nexus. I think it works well. What do you think? It was about time I got rid of the photo in my profile in which I am hiding behind a Blackberry. A curve 8300, no less. That was like three phones ago! Now I have FIVE mega-pixies! FIVE! I love me some pixies. Please bring me a crowd.

<-----------------Enjoy.

Not often you get to glimpse a real princess, hey?

(Oh, kiss my little arse, PJ.)

Value.

I am your satisfaction
I am your memory
I am your suffocation
I am your sanity

I was hurrying past him to get the pitcher of lemonade and he grabbed me, holding my arms. I stopped struggling instantly (in through the nose, out through the mouth.) He was in one of those moods and I had to watch myself. A little too enthusiastic. A little too loud. Fast and loose with the praise and the condemnations again. I spent the better part of twenty minutes watching him butt heads with Lochlan before I saw an escape window. Lemonade refills. I can make fresh.

Who's your monster, Bridget?

What?

Who's your monster? What keeps you awake in the dark?

There is but one answer, and it's right and wrong. I smile at him and ask for a kiss instead. I have discovered Bravery in my apron pocket. It has a best-before time stamped on it and I gobble it down, choking on gristle.

Cole grins and gives me a long hard kiss. Silence falls around the table. His intensity is a force to be reckoned with and I know there are unspoken questions as to whether or not I am managing it at all or maybe I'm just hiding his flaws behind my back so that his friends see his good side and continue to worship him. Maybe I am deluded and submerged, over my head. Maybe I am in danger. I drowned years ago, when no one was watching. Drowning is silent and pitiful. It's permanent, too.

When he pulls away the fleeting lust and complimentary tenderness in his eyes buries all of that for precious few seconds before the temperamental clouds roll in again. Jacob, ever watchful, asks if I need help with the drinks.

I shake my head, not taking my eyes away from Cole's. Right now, help would not be a good idea. Later on it will mean the difference between life and death and Jacob will be nowhere to be seen. Time's up. I hasten into the kitchen. Maybe there is another little bundle of Courage in a different pocket somewhere. I have time to search around a little if I hurry. Jacob drops his offer upon registering my expression. He will grill me later, for he carries a small bundle of Truth.

Not sure it's enough to outweigh Obedient, but whatever.

Bang.

I stood in the shadows near the door, breathing quietly. Waiting. Finally the sounds fell away from the room in front of me, and all was silent again. I stepped from the darkness, my pupils dilating. Huge black holes broadcasting my intentions to the night.

I walked carefully. These shoes are killer, the straps from my stockings digging into my skin. Biting my lip, I pause and reach down to unfasten the clips at my thighs. I need the extra focus, and no one's going to care when I am through. I slip out of my coat and let it fall in a puddle on the floor.

And then I raise the gun. I flip off the safety, squinting behind the sight. He is centered, one kill shot and everything is over. I straddle his lap. My chin begins to tremble and I shake my head once quickly, pulling my chin to the right and readjusting my balance. My chin starts again and my eyes begin to fill. I bite my lip harder and close my eyes, willing composure. It fails me but it's dark and he's not awake and I should hurry before they realize I am missing. I should hurry before I lose what's left of this nerve, this pretend courage.

I raise the gun once more, two little hands and a pocketful of determination this time, a far cry from how I look in tousled curls, lip gloss, long black eyelashes and his favorite outfit, the baby pink and black corset, worn as an unseen goodbye-kiss.

I squeeze my fingers around the trigger. I am aiming for right between his eyebrows, I don't want him to suffer any more than necessary. Tears fill my eyes to the brims and I resolve to shoot blindly, if need be.

He sighs and my heart screams out of my chest and runs off down the hall into utter black. My chin goes to the right again and I shake my head violently to clear my eyes. It isn't working. I have to get it right and I'm not going to. I admit a provisional defeat, stepping closer. I climb off his lap and stand beside his chair.

I run my hand lightly down his cool cheek and then pick up the cigar, still smoldering in the ashtray on the table next to him. I jam it between my teeth and turn away, putting the safety back on, jamming the regret home for coming here at all. I watch the rain slide down the windowpanes, blurring the city lights and I check the time. Time to go. I drop the cigar into the inch of warm whiskey left in his glass.

I turn to leave, my goosebumps turning to icicles when he quietly thanks me for not killing him.

I don't say a word or turn around, I just keeping walking until I am far enough away from him to exhale and I drop the gun on the narrow table in the hallway and enter the elevator. The lights are harsh, unforgiving. The night has grown old and I break into shivers. Time is up, fragile Miss. Now tell me, what have you done?