Commodified (I must look dumb.)

August said Mercury's retrograde in Aries will be over in a couple of days and things will be back to normal. I haven't felt like myself in spite of all efforts to get rest and slow down and be healthy. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough or maybe I should listen to doctors instead of hippie social workers. He gave me my horoscope for the month while drinking Kombucha and listening to Dope Lemon.

(Dope Lemon is the shit. Seriously. I could listen to their albums all day. Wait, I am. Nevermind.)

But watch out for Pluto, he says and I remember I'm supposed to be taking notes. I haven't heard a thing in between Mercury and Pluto but if my diligent attention back in my earlier years when Lochlan taught me outer space onsite is of any use, the parts I missed are Mars, Venus, Earth, Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune.

Hope I'm right.

I'll watch out for Pluto, I promise him instead and he smiles.

Good girl. 

***

The doctor came by anyway for the checkup he told me about two weeks ago that would happen this week but apparently I forgot. It's okay. We can look after it now, but here is also some correspondence from Mr. M_____. He hands me a smallish envelope. Bigger than a letter, smaller than a greeting card.

I get a good report. Blood tests because I look pale. More advice to take it easy, that I will indeed be very tired and low on energy and to eat well, drink lots and rest for a few more weeks. I nod soberly as if I'm totally doing all that. He says I'll be called with the results but to continue getting better. That pneumonia has a way of coming back around to wallop people. Though he didn't say wallop, I just envisioned this big black creature turning around, marching back and smacking me to the ground, where I'll writhe helplessly, trapped in a huge blob of translucent phlegm.

Yum.

When he goes to give Caleb all of the private details of my checkup I open the envelope. It is indeed from Mr. M himself. Not from his secretary or his assistant either. He wants to know how I am feeling, that he's sorry to hear I'm under the weather and that if he can do anything, he's enclosed his private number, once again, on the card with this letter, to call him if I need anything.

Right.

Yeah. No.

Close to normal, just for you.

I sat down in the hard cold pew this morning. My skin sizzled and popped but I bore it without expression. PJ smiles a sly smile and holds up a loaf of bread so I can see it. God, what a mess. We're going to put slices in the collection plates today. Sam will try and figure out how to sweep or mop afterwards and give up quickly, asking me to call whichever cleaning service I call, because he won't look in the very comprehensive contact list I keep on the church computer for him. He hardly knows how to turn it on, preferring to bring his own laptop with him every day. He doesn't even have a receptionist currently. Says the church is hardly big enough for the four full-time people it employs now. He does most of it himself. I help him a lot. We get it done.

But on a day like this I feel like an outsider, a heathen. An anomaly. Maybe I am every day. Lochlan slides in beside me, tsks at PJ and grabs my hand, squeezing it warmly. He leans in and whispers against my ear, asking me if I'm warm enough. I shake my head. Churches are like movie theatres. I'm always cold in them. He puts his arm around me and pulls me close to him. He is warm all over. He kisses the side of my mouth and sits back comfortably to listen. Ben is in a few minutes later and squeezes my whole head with his hand as he edges past Lochlan and sits on my other side. PJ and John move down a bit for him. Ben takes my other hand and kisses the back of it before smiling at me. He keeps my hand in his, his leg pressed against mine. Hip to hip, hand to hand we all sit and listen as Sam spins an old yarn into a comforting wrap. A story with subtle but glaring metaphors, reminders, tips for life and instructions on how to be redeemed. It's back to standard issue sermons and the church is noticeably less-full than it was in the days leading up to Easter.

After church we all pile into a diner, taking up three tables and two booths. We order fried food and milkshakes, coffee and juice and we eat and laugh and plan the week (which won't be as busy as the last few) and the day too (which won't be busy at all) and then we scatter back to the trucks and form a line up the highway to home. Everyone disappears and Lochlan looks at me.

Horror movie? 

With you?

Sure. 

Really? 

Say yes before I change my mind. (Lochlan hates horror movies. Hates 'em. I keep telling him watching the Canucks earn their draft picks every year is more horror than a silly movie and he laughs and tells me I'm probably right.)

I made a quick call to the cleaning company we use for the church sometimes to come and sweep up all the bread crumbs and mop the sanctuary proper and then I head downstairs to join him.

Resulting in eleven hours of sleep.

I was pulled into warm arms reluctantly, lifted down into his lap, kissed gently and then harshly too, and largely ignored for my exhaustion. My shaky limbs were directed, as I was hauled in tight, legs draped over hips, arms looped around necks, shoulders kissed in a flush of darkness, for it coated me like a shroud.

Too tired, PJ. 

Shhhh, Bridget. Enjoy it. I will. 

I push at him but he just pins my arms in between us, palms against his chest, beard tickling my ears, my cheek. He tries to hold back but he can't and by the time he gives me back I'm raw and ruined. I can't feel my fingers anymore, can't tell you what day it is, might be far too drunk for anything resembling agreement and about to black through into morning.

They don't care.

I rewound the day in my head before I fell through the night to figure out how I got here. Oh right. I smiled. I said Sure, just one more though. I thought I meant drinks. They meant friends. Or maybe I have that backwards. Like I said, I don't know. I slept well though. Worth it.

"The kites. The kites! Get 'em ready!"

Woo. Dance party in the kitchen as my phone came back to life like the Bride of Frankenstein after thirty hours under rice. I think the Apple battery case saved it's life and the only casualty seems to be a slightly blown speaker, but only slightly. Lochlan says it sounds like 'mild vinyl' (I love that he described the sound like that) and that I'll never notice it and if I do, it's akin to playing a record softly so I'm good to go.

The battery case will be vetted by him after another week under. He said it's lithium (HA) so he wants to be sure before he lets me put it back on the phone. Otherwise, he said, it could turn into an IED and we don't want that.

No. No, we don't want that. 

Welcome back old friend. I love my phone. I hate technology but I really love my phone.

Daniel and I had a fun dance party though. PJ watched and asked what kind of party it would have been if the phone hadn't powered up at all.

A sad sad Poor Bridget pity party. 

Bridge, if you need a phone, I'll buy you a phone. 

(At last count, I had nine offers similar to that in less than those thirty hours I waited out that phone).

I'm good. It's back. See? 

But the 7 is waterproof, PJ says with a wink.

I stop dancing. Seriously? 

Fuck things up.

This morning I was finishing up cleaning the bathrooms and I ran in to put a new box of tissues in the one just off the kitchen and I slipped on the freshly-mopped floor and my iPhone (my beautiful iPhone loaded with 128 GB of music, all music all the time) went sliding out of it's customary emergency position under my elbow (because I run out of hands) and straight into a toilet full of Pine Sol.

Lavender-scented fucking Pine Sol.

I screamed and plucked it out and now it's in Pine-Sol lavender-scented rice.

FUCKKKKK.

So now I'm using Henry's old 5C with a whopping 12 GB of space and ARGHHHHHHHHHH. I can't put my new obsession on it (Dope Lemon's Honey Bones album) and it's pissing me off.

"Creative minds are uneven, and the best of fabrics have their dull spots."

This is a battleground, I'm caught in the crossfire
My words are weaponry and I'm waiting patiently
You win the battle now but I will return the fire
'Cause I'd crawl on broken glass
To be the one who laughs last

Ben picked up the dark yesterday and ran with it. The weather cleared and he brought me down to the beach for a windswept, threatening picnic by the driftwood house. He stood on the rocks at the shore and read aloud from Lovecraft. He did his own annotations.

He read until the wind made it too hard for me to hear him and then we ate. Garlic salami, green olives stuffed with garlic, havarti, tiny rounds of thin toast. Grapes. Chocolate popsicles for dessert. Sparkling water. Then he asked what was for lunch and wrapped me in his hoodie.

Me.

He laughed and said Funny, that's what I'm craving. 

But we didn't leave.

We just sat there looking out at the gentle waves, watching the advance of the water until I started to feel sleepy and sunburned.

Better? He asked quietly.

So much better.

Good because you see that cloud? That's the rain coming back. I made a deal with it to hold off for a bit and it's waited as long as it can. 

Rain.

I hung on to today and am navigating it all fake-like and full of bullshit, easy shallow responses to keep from giving away how I really feel, saved only by the wrong people asking the right questions. Change that to the right people asking the wrong questions and I'll be had, found in the depths, a liar and a thief of positivity on a day when I can't see that the glass truly is half full. 

These white knuckles are sore. These black clouds are dark and I'm going to escape upstairs to myself as soon as dinner is done. Before it's too late. 

Leaves, Leafs and Mr. Presley.

Now Samson told Delilah loud and clear
Keep your cotton pickin' fingers out my curly hair
Oh yeah, ever since the world began
A hard-headed woman been a thorn in the side of man.

The Toronto Maple Leafs are out of the playoffs thanks to last night's overtime but they had a good run, we all aged and I feel vindicated as the only fan here in a sea of Canucks supporters (you know, the team that didn't even make the playoffs, coming in second-last in the league) and a loyal fan at that.

I stuck my lip out in a pout when their trip ended and that was that. Now I can get on with my life because once they're out I stop watching hockey save for the occasional glance at the scores (every chance I get) or trip through the sports section of the newspaper.

Nothing wrong with that. And Lochlan picked me some almost-dead cherry blossoms, while he barely missed a beat singing Elvis songs at the top of his lungs while cutting branches now that the blooms are done.

He's threatened to juggle chainsaws. I pointed out that we only have one and he says So?, eyebrows raised in mock annoyance. He's not a big fan of hardcore gardening like trimming trees back but Ben is too sick and so Lochlan, a full foot shorter and half as strong has decided to pick up the slack. I'm sure he's plotting to make the offending branches disappear using magic. I don't know how but I bet it crossed his mind. My job involves wearing gloves, standing around for a while far back away from his work area and then getting clearance to drag the branches over into a pile near the side of the garage so he can chop it into firewood later. I offered to do it but he wouldn't hear of it. Cole used to let me split wood when we went camping. I mean, I almost cut off my legs below the knee more than..okay just about every single time but at least I tried. Axes are heavy.

We got the whole thing done. Us and Elvis and Lochlan's great impression of him and impressive volume of memorized lyrics for songs that we were force-fed behind the tents most of the time on the sideshow. Standard fare, harmless overmusic that winds up part of you in spite of efforts to leave it behind. He sang all the way back to the house and inside, only finishing off when I took off my rubber boots and gardening gloves, leaving them on the patio steps where I'll probably forget and come back to find boots full of rain. It only happens every second week or so, so it's not the end of the world.

Coffee? Lochlan asks, as if I'd ever say no to it. The fuck is that.

Yes, please.

Ben was up when we came inside too. He's got what I had, just not as bad, thank heavens. He's good at sleeping though, so hopefully he'll get better quickly. Cross you fingers. At least my coughing is down to only two or three times a day. So glad. My garden needs me. I can't afford to be sick anymore.

Nature vs. nurture.

Caleb is home, just at the crucial junction between not really having it sink in that he's not present and missing him very terribly. I tried to quash it somewhat. I woke up slow with Lochlan. I went running with Dalton. I went up and listened to music with August. I took Ruthie on a tour of the neighborhood where her university is, where she'll be spending all her time this fall. I had a lunch date with Sam after skipping church (I skipped, not him). I helped PJ vacuum out his Jeep. I took all the glitter off my nails and plotted fresh. I had a quick swing in the rain with Ben and we planned some garden things. He's my farmer. He loves working outside in the garden and so do I so it's great. I declined coffee with Batman. I brushed the dog.

And then Caleb walked through the side door and said Hey with a big smile on his face. Not sure who missed who more but his smile spread to my face and I flew into a crushing hug that lasted far longer than most.

He had an easy trip. Luxury seating on the plane, cushy drive to the mountains, and was treated like a King in his castle because I hired people who like to be paid well to do that. A housekeeper and a butler. The cook is on call and the landscaping/maintenance service is scheduled regularly. I'm a little jealous of an empty house that runs better than this one. I regularly destroy myself trying to keep this one clean and the boys help so much but none of us ever seem to be able to do enough but it's not the same. It's easy to spend his money. It's easy to follow his directives and make an operation run like a top, it's a whole other story to manage a commune full of headstrong, passionate people with a common focus but no long term goals. What are we working toward? Utopia? What does that mean and why is the answer different depending on who you ask?

Does it matter? He's home and he brought me a teeny tiny pinecone bracelet made from a real pinecone, dipped in white gold.

Am busy! Lying in bed watching the Relient K live show on Instagram. It's so good!