I ducked underneath the basement stairs (fully finished, but it's a storage space) to pull out the big rubbermaid bins of Christmas lights and decorations. Ben resisted, saying they would look after it but none of them fit. Hell, it's a squeeze for me even. I pushed out four huge bins and then realized I was missing one and ducked back in for the last one, and whacked the top of my head squarely and with force against the concrete header. I thought it was painted drywall but nope. It's painted concrete. Christmas decor will now feature tiny birdies and stars circling Bridget's head because ow.

"Stardom can be a guilded (sic) slavery" -Helen Hayes.

I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off her love, drunk from her hate,
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love her the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me
She fucking hates me and I love it.
"Wait! Where you going?"
"I'm leaving you!"
"No you ain't. Come back."
We're running right back.
Here we go again
It's so insane 'cause when it's going good, it's going great
I'm Superman with the wind at his back, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful, I feel so ashamed I snap,
"Who's that dude?"
"I don't even know his name."

I'm just going to stand here and mark the time before I leap off the standard rotation of ballads and death metal into the vapid void of Christmas music, because this is how I roll. I know the moment I click the playlist I won't be able to shield my ears any longer. I've held out a little longer than normal because it's easy to let Lochlan pick the music or I fall into a void of a whole different genre.

(Shotgun shuts his cakehole)

In other news I've grown to be someone so anti-union only because it inconveniences me personally and risks the easy holiday of those I love and can't be with, which seems selfish, like everything else. Way back when I was little and they tried to unionize the show workers, Lochlan told me it was so everyone got paid enough, that we had the benefits we were supposed to have and deserved and so that we would be protected from the awful evil big bosses, the management, the underworld trying to peel a dollar off our backs even as we stood there and shivered and starved, stomachs growling like a thunder rumbling underneath the swelling music like a bass line.

I nodded. That's a really good idea. 

It is, Peanut. It means more for us. He smiled with his hollow cheekbones, starving in a way only teenage boys who never get enough to eat do.

(Oh, my heart.)

Now he still struggles to hold on to his weight but he also still believes in fighting for the little people, the workers, the bottom row front line of any war, corporate or otherwise and I have softened in crying that the world is against me in case my presents don't arrive at their intended targets in time.

It's a step back against the day and I remember who I am and what I came from and I call my loved ones to remind them that if the presents don't come, they will eventually.

Of course they will.

He was pleased with my nostalgia, and how I recalled being there, how I was able to pull myself back out of Caleb's mold, reshaping myself into the gritty little girl Lochlan remembers, the one he poured from that original mold that he made with his own hands, working nights, carving out small divots, forgetting other parts completely (I can't hear, I can't read maps, I can't make a poker face to save my soul, I couldn't save my soul, I can't breathe without affection, I can't pass up a piece of chocolate cake no matter how full I am.) and popping me out, proclaiming me perfect, even though I am far, far from it.

Noodles.

Dragged myself home last night, after asking to leave early and being refused (ha, we were short-handed so please please stay) and Caleb was making dinner. He made spaghetti with roast peppers and garlic bread and a really good wine that mixed well with my cold medicine, which kept wearing off so I would take more and I think I lost track of it completely and had to bail on cleanup help (with approval) so I staggered down to Ben's studio, where he had escaped to after dinner and came up behind him where he sat at the board and I threw my arms around him.

He reached up and pulled me right over his shoulder and into his lap.

See? It's the flannel! It's mag...nétique. 

Is that french, Bee?

Yes, I'm being fancy tonight. 

Ah, I see. It is magnetic. It attracted you. 

Like lint. 

Right. Warm and fuzzy. Little bit. 

Wow. Déjà vu.

Hmm? 

Lil' bit. I think it was the nickname Pa used for Laura in Little House on the Prairie. I could be wrong though. 

What on earth are you talking about?

Best books ever. You should read them. 

Okay. I'm going to escort you upstairs so you can go to bed. This cold has made you delirious. 

Right. But just a little bit. C'est magnifique. 

Christ on a pancake. 

We had those LAST night, remember? Speaking of food, do you want turkey for Thanksgiving? 

No, we've assimilated, remember? 

Oh, thank God. I'm too sick to plan a big fussy dinner this week.

(Update: It wasn't Little House. That nickname was Half Pint. Lil Bit was from Fried Green Tomatoes. Thank you Daniel.)

Hey I've gone viral.

Don't worry. I didn't stay with PJ very long. He was half asleep, but only the top half and didn't want to let me stay in my pajamas. I wanted to stay in my pajamas, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek, ignored his sleepy dismay and went back to my own room where I elbowed my way back to the centre of my bed where I belong and Lochlan pulled me in tight against him and told me somewhat thickly to stop wandering. But he was also hardly awake and so I don't know if he knew I left until later on when he repeated himself. That imprinting? It goes both ways. Even in his sleep he knows of my proximity. Even in his sleep he disapproves if it's too great.

But it's fine because I'm not in any trouble. I put on my big girl shoes and went to work today still sick and came home afterward to find the doctor already here.

Must be viral, he says after looking at my throat, listening to my lungs and generally absorbing all of the hand-wringing and concern of the boys who are all but despondent when I'm sick but somehow loathe to fix it. Sleep? Naw, wake her up. Stay home and rest? No way, there are things to do. Split up her chores? Why? We all have to pitch in around here.

Hide her fucking car keys?

(Yes, you should do that. Seriously.)

But no. So I went and withstood nine hours of complaints and rudeness while holding a hot pot of boiling liquid (and boy, are people brave to bitch when I'm doing that, don't you think?) and a little sweetness here and there and figured out some stuff as I do every day and now I'm home and I made at least three hundred pancakes (that's what it felt like) and cleaned the mirrors and ran the dishwasher and now my chores are done and I can finally, blissfully sleep.

With Lochlan, who reminded me not ten minutes ago that I wasn't to be wandering tonight. He said he'll light a fire and bring up a nightcap for us and it won't be so late or so long and we'll asleep.

I'm so looking forward to that I could cry.

Godless Sundays.

Sleeping in this morning, forehead pressed against Caleb's neck and not even noticing I wasn't in my own bed until I shifted slightly but had space to move and that woke me up, wondering who was missing. Usually I'm packed in tightly in between, just enough room to catch my breath.

I startled awake at the empty space and Caleb just pulled me back in without opening his eyes.

I'm not sure anything beats your version of sleepwalking, Neamhchiontach. Waking up to find you crawling in with me has made my week. 

That's what PJ says too. 

Caleb swears and pushes me away again. I guess that's my cue to go back to my own bed. But when I get there they've left no room for me as Sam is taking up at least three-quarters of the space I had previously and I don't want to wake him or anyone else up trying to reclaim my spot. So I shrug, rub my eyes and head down to snooze with PJ. Might as well make as many weeks as I can. 

Because why lie on the floor when supposedly lying on a fake wicker couch is that much better? YEESH.

Did I mention I finished my shopping for the away folks this week?

Amazing. Also I've procured the advent calendars and new Christmas cards (hard to find black ones, y'all) and wrapping paper (Okay it's not black, it's baby blue with little snowmen all over it and it's cute!) and the two cases of tape that we will probably still run out of.

I even have a couple of gifts for Ruth and Henry already.

But I also have far less time than I did before and that's going to make things tougher this year so I'm trying to get it all done in the next couple of weeks or so. We shall see. Next weekend will be very busy and also I'm sick again (this. goddamned. cold) but Lochlan's been really great about delegating, since I never have the heart to.

We even practiced and I still couldn't do it.

Tell him, Peanut. 

Hey PJ? Can you...uh..find a place that makes that yellow curry I love so much? I miss it. 

You were supposed to ask him to get out the patio set for the gazebo. 

But then I won't have room to lie on the floor anymore.

And you wonder why you don't get better. 

You don't get colds from being cold. You get them from germs! Also the gazebo is heated.

Yeah, okay. I raised you. YOU get them from being cold. I can almost set my watch by it. And the gazebo counts as 'outside'.

You hardly even wear your watch any more. 

Don't change the subject. Also, hey, PJ. Want to help me set the gazebo back up? 

I watch the master but I'll never be able to order my friends around. It just feels too weird. Even for me.

A Sea of trouble.

I'm pretty sure true bliss is lying on the floor of a heated gazebo on a cold sunny Friday listening to the Black Holes album by the Blue Stones and eating Kung Pao noodles out of a microwave envelope.

You can't beat that sort of a morning, actually.

But why are you lying on the floor?

Someone put the patio furniture away for the winter.

That was you, Bridget. 

Well, I think we can get it back out. It's twenty degrees. Winter is clearly over.

An apple a day (will not keep you from getting chased into a pool to be tickled).

And I cannot guess what we'll discover
When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
But I know our filthy hands can wash one anothers
And not one speck will remain

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too

I'm pretty sure being sat on and tickled at the bottom of the pool while he sings Death Cab lyrics at me so loudly and off-key I think I might choke, failing to catch my own breath is a rarity for a random Thursday in late November.

Stop it! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP PLEEEEEEAAAAAASE!!!

And Lochlan stops on a dime, pulling me up out of the rain puddle that found a way to try and fill the pool against Caleb's wishes because it's almost winter.

And so I'm soaked and cold and it's pouring and he's still singing but I don't know the words to this one, I only know it's great, and I wish for monumental payback in the form of holding him down and belting out a Type O Negative or even an Amon Amarth classic in my half-assed growl.

He did make it up to me, slicing up a granny smith apple with tiny slivers of smoked cheese on each and every one, but then he ate half of it. He always eats half of it. We shared the bowlful while we found fresh warm clothes to put on after coming inside and shedding our soaked clothes and then he asked what I wanted to do.

Get a start on Christmas shopping, I said. It might be tough to send things across the country this year.

He nodded. Okay. No music in the truck today though. 

Excuse me? 

It was a song, and I feel like you talking about me singing it made it seem like I was saying those things, and I wouldn't-

Oh, no one thinks you wrote those words, Loch. 

I just mean-

I'm just amazed at how many lyrics you can remember. 

Probably not as many as you, Bridge. 

Oh, I don't know about that. I learned from the absolute best, and that's you for a reason.

Purely disfunctional or really really meant for each other.

Driving down the highway late last night on our way home from dinner and on the stereo comes the saddest song in the world that you'll never get out of your head. That Rihanna/Eminem song Love the Way You Lie that's so stupid-catchy and I'm only an Eminem fan when he's really angry anyway so I know this one so I start singing Rihanna's part and then Lochlan picks up the Eminem parts and when we pull into the driveway it ends.

We've sung the whole song together and I'm not sure now if I should be plotting divorce or instead a world tour.

I'm thinking tour.

All the land, I said.

A moment ago I was sweltering from the inside out day after day and suddenly it's dark at 3:30pm and I have to scrape my car in the mornings, and then sit in it shivering while I wait for the inside of the windows to defog.

PJ has offered, no less than every single morning to have the car warmed up, scraped and ready for me but I like him warm better than cold and I need to keep him that way.

Besides, I'm beginning to think I'm on a roll here. Should I build just enough character in this lifetime I can give it a face and a name and just maybe, I'll get my Jacob back. But don't tell them I told you this or they'll pad the walls of my room with feather-down mattress pads.

Don't laugh. We have a big squared off eight-inch-thick mattress pad on our bed that makes you feel as if you're falling asleep in an actual cloud. Or maybe that's on an actual goose, I suppose since clouds aren't made of feathers.

But that's okay, neither are Bridgets. Bridgets are made of rusted thumbtacks and linty pulls of cotton candy, loose strings of pink yarn and stray tortoiseshell buttons.

Or maybe that was magazine prizes, popcorn boxes, lollipops and dried blood. I don't even know, Lochlan changed it every single time he described me and he would always include some ingredient that surprised and ultimately dismayed me.

(Why do you say these things?

So you don't get full of yourself. 

Well, that's silly, who else would I be full of. I'm Bridget to the very top of my head. 

Yes, you are. 

When I grow up will you start my car for me on cold snowy days? 

I asked him this as we sat in his mother's car in his driveway while on this day he decided I was full of frozen pennies, stuck in a mudpuddle, broken popsicle sticks and one single left mitten.

No, because I hate doing this. I'm freezing. Maybe we can find someone to do it for both of us. 

Huh? 

Like a neighbor or a person who rents a room from us. We'll be landlords.

Oh, I see, like of all the land before us. Like kings. But wait! Why would they do that for us?

Maybe we'll do something for them too. 

Like what? 

I don't know, exactly. I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we get there. 

We're going to live on the other side of a bridge?

Probably. 

Like on an island? 

There are all kinds of bridges that don't lead to islands. 

But the good ones do. 

It's an idiom. 

I thought it was called an island. 

No, no. The phrase. 

All good bridges lead to islands? 

You know what? You're right. Let's leave it at that, Peanut.)

Hey, PJ? On second though, would you mind starting it for me? I think that would be nice. And I'll bring you home some of that roast beef you like so much from the restaurant.