Somewhat fixed.

Did you miss seeing the white, plain blog from last night? Lucky.

Okay. This design is hella minimalist but at least everything works. The sharing buttons are back (! I don't know how) and the header isn't missing, though it's not quite there yet. Patience, people. I have the technological skills of your average newborn. Ruth even gave me some pointers yesterday and then told me to google some tutorials, realizing that she didn't have the kind of time required to teach me everything.

Sigh. I will make it look better eventually but it's readable and that's really the main point here.

Yes, I know the blog is broken.

Stay in the shadows
Cheer at the gallows
This is a round up
This is a low flying panic attack

Oh I fucked up now. In an effort to switch back to Firefox (yes, roll your eyes. He said switch to Chrome, so I switched to Chrome and then he said switch back to Firefox so I switched back because I always wanted to be like the cool kids) I realized my blog looks narrow and outdated (I started it fifteen years ago when 'aesthetic' wasn't a word anyone actually used) and hey, I'm only running a fever of a thousand degrees, sneezing lava on people, and unable to keep anything down or...in, as it were, now's a perfect time to start fucking with HTML.

Did I mention I don't know any HTML?

Right, so I *think* the blog is wider and more pleasant, though it depends on who you ask. If you ask Chrome it's all the way across the page. Ask Firefox? Naw, fam. Ask safari and it's somewhere in between. My header is now missing because I managed to resize it but then couldn't reupload it. Firefox crashed but saved my work so now there's nothing there. Whoops. And I know I checked off to have share buttons for twitter, etc., at the bottom of each post and yes, it's still checked off but are they there? Nope.

And my tech-guy who knows everything about everything won't help me. Why? Oh he's mad that Duncan and I went down to Duncan's den to play Xbox (yes, who DOES run out of Netflix? We did, that's who) and I got very dizzy so I dragged myself to go lie down. I couldn't go far away (Duncan was babysitting, you see and why give the hen to the fox if you're so concerned) and I didn't want to crash in Duncan's room so I picked Dalton's (he wasn't home) (at first) and then Dalton came home, found me fast asleep in his bed, apparently stood there for a good fifteen minutes debating what to do before saying hell, no and going upstairs to get Loch.

Apparently Duncan had gone to his own room to sleep too and Lochlan thought I was with him when confronted with a closed door when he came looking for me, and didn't both checking the next room, where I was. Because that would be too easy.

Yes, I'm still stuck on the fifteen minutes thing too. Debating what? Do I even want to know? These are the things I think about while changing beds, as I pulled maid duty in spite of still being sick. That is the price I was given for borrowing Dalton's bed for the evening. The price I pay though will probably be much higher.

I'll get the header back up when I figure out how. Wish me luck, I think I'll need some today.

Too sick to write anything good today. Was going to put up an interlude of Lochlan juggling fire batons but the compression to Blogger is garbage and I can't figure it out. Maybe tomorrow.

Blah.

Today was a strange departure as I have the flu. But so does Duncan and so we tucked ourselves into warm clothes and watched movies on Netflix all day in the kitchen (oh, don't worry, there's room for  a TV up on the wall, a woodstove, a wraparound couch and three easy chairs in my kitchen and no, that's not the eating area, that's in the big open section between the island and the stairs. That's where the long table is (it seats twenty people). The formal dining room is down the hall between the back staircase, PJ's wing and the foyer. Someday I'll just post the floorplans. It's hard to describe.

This would be called a breakfast nook but it's bigger. There's so much space here. In any case, Duncan kept the woodstove going and we cooked hot chocolate, tea and soup on it while he dozed in between while I (wide awake naturally) managed to clear the entire mending pile in a day.

Then PJ came home. Power out? 

I don't think. I don't know, why? 

You two look Amish. You're sewing and he's cooking on the stove. 

What about the television? Clearly we have power.

Not necessarily. Even the most devout to their belief can be swayed by the magic of Netflix. 

I don't know why you like Netflix so much. Not like there's porn on it. 

Bridget, there's more to my life than porn. 

There is? 

I mean, there could be, if I wanted there to be, I mean. 

Calling in favours.

I..er..have a bodyguard today.

(And IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII will always love yooooooooouuuuuuuo)

Thankfully he's better looking than Kevin Costner and much bigger too. And he eats whatever you put in front of him, saying yes please and thank you and he doesn't let anyone get away with a damned thing.

Including me.

(John's actually driving me nuts. Any takers? He's six-two, long brown hair, long beard, looks like Mark Morton when he smiles and wears enough flannel to make all your dreams come true. And yes, ladies, his boots are a size 14. All the dreams, let me tell you. He has better manners than most and he's retired (accident/settlement) from the industry so no worries about being left alone for endless tours. But he's fine. Other than being too good at keeping me in line, he's good.)

So breakfast with Batman was interesting because Batman took an inordinate amount of time to put his poker face on when he saw John and John very graciously and gently pointed out that he would sit at a different table if Batman would like. Fortunately Batman is a gentleman and shifted the whole tone of the morning into something completely different and we ate together.

Or rather, he talked and I ate everything. Sunday was light on food somehow. There were Monte Cristos. I think Lochlan ate them. So I drank his whiskey to fill the hole and got a little (or maybe a lot) shitfaced before they had time to notice.

What're you doing, Peanut?

Building a hurricane, Locket, I told him with great conviction and then fell off the bed, bottle and all.

So today no one was taking chances and I'm sure that Batman wanted to discuss how ridiculous I am but he demurred in John's presence (or perhaps he realizes John already knows how ridiculous I am) and we talked about Christmas instead.

Which was dumb because I may have hit the lights a week ago but I'm not allowed to put any trees up until a month from now. I have to figure out how to charm them around it. Or maybe I can use leverage. I mean, what's the point of having some much of it if I can't put it to good use?

When are you putting up your tree? I ask Batman as I finish his fried potatoes and his orange juice too. So thirsty. John snorts with a laugh but says nothing, watching the rain out the window.

I was thinking this weekend. 

I stop chewing. That's leverage. If they won't let me put up my tree I'll threaten to go enjoy his. Not like everyone isn't learning that calling my bluffs brings those bluffs running from miles away.

Princesa muy pequeña, experto en hombres.

(I'm still drunk and it's seven in the morning so here's just how obnoxious I can get. Forgive me I'm not myself. I'm objectifying everything in my world right now just like everything in my world objectifies me.)

If you leave your phone on the table just know when you come back I will have wiped it clean and replaced your music with eighteen different remixes of Despacito. 

Because if I'm going to have this fucking song stuck in my head then I'm going to share it with you too.

Also this somehow popped my Beiber cherry which is not a thing I expected to see in this lifetime but he is twenty-three now (somehow) and the video wasn't bad, exactly.

I don't know how it wasn't good either (it kind of looked like something from a Fast and Furious music from the motion picture video too) but he's not a child anymore.

(Oh my GOD. Fuck off, Bridget.)

Also we saw Justice League yesterday so excuse me if testosterone is spilling all over everything. You're going to drown in it or at least in the brains from my head exploding every time Batman was on screen (not my Batman, the real one. Ben Affleck).

Those Affleck brothers though. Goddamnnnnnnnnn.

Was hard to pay attention to the plot. Really disappointed that Steppenwolf wasn't metal in the least and they missed a great opportunity to play Magic Carpet Ride in the credits, I think.

Stay through the credits, people. Two cut scenes. TWO. Everyone in the theatre walked out and we were like LOL. Suckers. 

Quicksilver is amazing! I mean the Flash. I don't have any comics except for The Shade, so I don't get the duplicates. They tell me it's DC versus marvel and I'm a DC girl all the way. Also Jason Momoa still isn't real. I refuse to believe any human could be that freakishly beautiful.

But he still ain't Batman.

(At least he's not Beiber though. I will revisit this thought when he's thirty and an actual man-man. Something happens to men when they hit thirty and they look like men suddenly. Ask me how I know this. No, don't.)

Also we missed church so now we can listen to Despacito on repeat. Because no one set alarms. Because Monte Cristos, whiskey and crowds, shhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sam's going to get fired but he's still asleep so at least he's spared that thought for now. Also I think Sam and Caleb might have buried the hatchet, and no that's not a euphemism for anything, Christ, people.

Incorrigible.

The gift Diabhal had for me was a beautiful weekender bag,  a replacement for the one everyone hates and has tried to replace a few times over the years without succeeding. Part of the appeal of my favorite much-repaired exceedingly colorful carpet bag is that it's distinct and I don't leave it behind as such, it's loud enough that it calls out if I do.

Which is fine. I have a few very loud quirky things. I'm not a fashion person. I don't care for seasons or collections or whatever as long as it's comfortable or pretty, doesn't give me hives and works for what I need it for.

This is a Valentino Garavani travel bag. It's studded, it's black. It costs more than Ruth's tuition for the year and it's going back.

I could be a Valentino girl, hell, I am a Valentino girl any day when it comes to their dresses but this bag is not me. It looks like something Sophie would carry and I point that out to Caleb.

That isn't the point. The point is that it's well-made and will last a lifetime or two. I can return it, however. 

Please. 

He nods, slightly defeated but also well aware that if you spend a lot it should be for something someone adores and will cherish, not resent.

Stop trying to make me into her. 

You always complain that you're not sophisticated. Wearing a furry pink coat and carrying a multicolor patchwork bag isn't helping your fight, that's all. I can find a name for you if you'd like to work with a stylist-

Wow. 

(I say "Wow" from my current vantage point in Frozen-branded Disney pajamas. That are plush. And covered with Olaf. They were 60% off and a girl's large size that fits just fine.)

This was your issue, not mine. Honestly I kind of love the fact that you refuse to conform and then you step out in your dresses and blow everyone off the planet. 

Eclectic. 

Yes. The bag will go back. What do you need then? 

I'm fine. 

What do you want, then? 

Seriously, I'm fine. 

Christmas is only a few weeks away, Neamhchiontach.

Right. So just be nice. That's what I want. Keep being this. This is working. 

I would like to spoil my girlfriend this Christmas. 

Then let's eat Monte Cristos in bed and get drunk on good whiskey, and let's do that with Lochlan and everyone else too. 

I don't think my bed is big enough for everyone. 

That's okay, mine is. 

Blown wide open (rare & honest straight from the devil himself.)

He spoke with a gentleness, a hesitancy he rarely displays. It's been a week, Bridget. We were away and since we've been back you've not come to me. 

I did and you called me names. 

I'm sorry I did that. I was frustrated. Not an excuse, but a reason. I'm very possessive of my time with you. I'm not going to share -or relinquish- it to those who don't have my designation in your life. 

You weren't like this at the Lake, Caleb.

That event was a special occasion.

And what is this?

A random Friday in November. A dreary, lonely day full of rain that I was hoping to spend with you. The world is devoid of color for me when you're not available. I'm finding it rather grey. 

Or you could just say you need me. 

That would be admitting weakness. 

So you don't have a weakness for me? 

Of course I do, I just don't want to come across like a clingy boyfriend. 

So instead you opt for the heavy-handed, possessive stance?

Bridget, I've never done this before. Give me the curve on which to learn and in time I'll trace it perfectly. 

What would you like me to do?

Just like that? I win your favour and your company? 

Depends. 

What if I said I have a present for you? 

Depends on what it is. 

Ah, going the subversive route. 

Better for me than the submissive one. 

Why is that? 

Less dangerous. 

Not from where I sit. 

You sit in a place where you're now requesting my attention and sometimes not getting it based on your behavior. Are you sure you want to be like that? 

Like I said, I want time with you and I'm frustrated that I can't seem to get any as of late.

So, hang out more. 

Time alone where we're not hovered over by everyone in that house. 

Oh. That kind of time. 

Not necessarily. Just time. To watch a movie or read books side by side. Maybe have a snack. Go for a walk. Nap. I don't know, Bridget, like I said, I've never done this before. 

Been a pedestrian, bourgeois boyfriend of a little match girl? 

He kind of giggles. Yes. That. 

I've never heard you laugh like that before. 

I've never felt like this before. 

Like what? 

This. Peaceful, almost. Content in a way that doesn't come easily to people like me. Happy. I just would like to be alone a lot less. 

I'll see what I can do. He's watching my face as I struggle to plan time I never seem to have. 

Maybe PJ is up for more company. He seems to like not being alone. 

I actually think you two would be a good match. 

I think we'd grow to love each other. In time. 

I still get that present though, right? 

Of course. Come in and I'll get it. 

Burn, baby, burn.

There she is.

I'm dragged out of a sound sleep, as his headphones are put over my ears. Ben lifts me up out of my warm dreams, Rob Zombie's voice crashing through my ears, Hands of Death, I think. How fitting. Ben is relentless, Ben is hunting. His hands are warm and hard, pulling me inside out, breath against the top of my head, chest solid against my face. My legs are wrestled out of his way, one on each side of his hips, knees bent back agonizingly and then he's inside me. I cry out and he is gone again as I am turned face down, headphone readjusted, music turned up, hand over my whole face to keep me quiet. He pulls my hips up into him and I close my eyes again. So gloriously painful. His chin comes down against my back, lips against my skull but I can't hear him thanks to the music. God only knows what beautifully terrible things he's telling me he's going to do to me. His mouth is against my shoulder abruptly, teeth softly pressing into my skin (not to bite, but to brace) and I feel his legs widen, taking mine so far out I feel like they might snap off and then I'll be the best girlfriend ever. I cry out anyway and his hand flexes, fingers reaching over my forehead and to each ear. He only holds me tighter, higher and I start to become afraid that he'll drop me from here.

But he's not going to let go, he's going to brace us both with one elbow. Oh my God.

The next hour is a delirious repeat of that song, over and over while he remembers where he is and who he's with. I am turned back over, dumped on my back, headphones pushed back on, scraping my face, as he bends down between my knees that dangle over his shoulders, his hand left over my mouth. I scream and twist against his face but he doesn't let up for even a second, scooping one hand underneath me to push me up against him. The harder I struggle the harder he holds me until I soar up over the atmosphere, unable to breathe, and then and only then does he let me up. His face is thrilled, the rest of him is tense and ready to go. He forces a kiss, says Sorry with a laugh before the headphones are put back once more. He drops his weight on me, at once driving so hard I wonder if I'll die this way.

That would be fine.

Seriously.

I can't hold on. He's too hard. He's too fast. He's not giving me or himself any breaks and fear tingles through me. Tighter. Harder. Rougher. I start to wonder if he knows it's me still, or if Ben is fucking his demons into oblivion so they might leave him alone, violated and ruined in one wide swath of darkness here.

But then he slows to a crawl and I am flooded with victory as he rips the headphones off, kissing my ear, kissing my whole face. Bumblebee, I'm sorry but you just looked so appealing sleeping so deeply, I couldn't help but help myself to you. And he laughs softly once more, asleep before I can reply.

Lochlan stirs sleepily from my other side. Jesus Christ, What the fuck was that? with pure admiration in his thickly dreamy voice and I fall asleep with a huge grin on my face. My lips were stuck to my teeth when I woke up this morning, proper.

Ménage à triage.

We're not even going to dignify the news that the DeLeo brothers have chosen a new life support system singer for Stone Temple Pilots when they should have pulled the plug after Scott died. You would think Chester also dying would have confirmed their inner doubts. Jeff sings flat. His voice has little power, frankly. But more importantly this is not what STP fans want. The band was more than the sum of its parts. Maybe the DeLeos could resurrect Army of Anyone instead? I hear Richard is free, and that album (self-titled) was a freaking masterpiece.

***

(I had a laugh when I chose my title for today's post. A ménage à trois means a threesome. Ménage avec triage means a house with a yard. Ménage à triage to me means this love triangle needs help. This is somewhere in between. The love triangle (square? ...hexagram? in this house needs work. You get it. Nevermind.)

August has thawed. Maybe since Lochlan managed to wrangle my heart back into place though it hardly fits for all the patches and frankenparts that make it up now. Maybe since it appears that I did navigate this seminal anniversary without losing my shit (yet, hence the word seminal) August figures it's safe to make contact.

Just saying that makes me feel alien and unwelcome.

But here he is in all of his dark-blonde wavy-haired flannel Newfie glory, a sight which never goes unappreciated (stop it, Bridget).

Hey, Princess. 

Hiya, Wolverine. 

What? 

Nevermind.  You just quoted a cheesy line from Wolverine. We laughed out loud at how badly Hugh Jackman delivered it before Logan happened and was so much worse I forgot Wolverine until now. 

What are you talking about?

Nothing. Nevermind.

Want to talk?

The question is, do you? 

That's why I'm here. Will you make some coffee? 

You're the one with the gorgeous Breville. 

You've got the press. He smiles and all of my guns hit the floor.

This talk wasn't for me, it was for him, as he says he didn't come with us to Tahoe because he couldn't, because he was dealing with his own marking of this, the tenth anniversary and he wanted to think on it, that I am as much his memory of Jacob as he is Jacob's memory to me and it's not a beneficial relationship because it's parasitic instead but that he wanted to try harder to get us both to a good place where we can help each other instead of ripping each other to shreds.

I thought you were tough as nails. 

No. I'm one of your butternauts. 

Everyone's a butternaut, deep down. 

I'd rather be tough as nails. 

No you wouldn't and I wouldn't like it if you were. 

Being here works better to keep us on track. 

So I'm banned from the loft?

For now. 

That's fine. There's lots of room here. Because I'm incorrigible and I never learn.

He gets it and laughs but changes the subject. Any concerns right now? Today, based on the past two weeks? 

I dump my brain out on the tiny glass table between us. Pieces fall off the edge and roll away under furniture but the big pieces will keep him busy for now. We'll find the rest later.

He frowns. Sam know about all this? 

I would hope it's pretty obvious just by looking at me. 

Mostly it is. 

Can you fix it? 

In time I can but for now we'll have to patch it up and see how that goes. 

Well, hurry. It's starting to hurt again. 

I'll do my best, Bridget.