Flushed.

My work week is finished, the cook gave me a huge piece of cake to bring home (it was broken and he knew I would love it so he didn't throw it out) and when I get home I sit in my Porsche in the driveway in my spot to the left of the garage beside the steps to August's loft and I eat the cake with my fingers.

It was a good plan until Caleb knocked on the window and I dropped a fistful of cake all over my lap. What a waste. But secondary win, my car now smells like chocolate cake.

Eating sweets in secret usually means someone is cheating on their diet.*

What diet? I ask through a mouthful of cake.

He frowns. I don't understand how he managed to raise you with zero manners. 

I have manners! I'm supposed to use them for important people. 

He misses the burn completely, apparently distracted by the fact that it's three in the afternoon and no one's claimed my attention yet. They don't even know I'm home. Actually they might if they heard the car but sometimes they sit outside too, in their vehicles. I always thought they were probably listening to the end of a song or something but from now on I will assume they're also eating secret cake. That must be why Caleb is out here waiting. He's either the nutrition police or he's hoping I will share.

Well I won't and I'll go to jail if I must. Sugar is worth more than oxygen to me.

I agree to come over after dinner. I can stay up a little later, as I don't have to work tomorrow, and he's been great about not trying to monopolize my time. New Year's eve technically didn't exist except I did indeed wait up for Henry and then texted with Ruth around three in the morning and then I got up at five and went to work.

We did absolutely nothing. Loch dozed off. Ben only came upstairs at twelve ten to say Happy New Year and PJ never even made it past ten-thirty. New Jake was a no-show (he said he was on a phone call) and Matt and Sam didn't come over. I haven't seen them in days. So it was sort of a non-existent celebration in which we didn't celebrate but I did make a few resolutions. I gave up pop. Makes me have to pee, never makes me less thirsty, and is always far too sweet anyway. I rarely have it as it is. I'm going to treat myself to more water plus more hot drinks like tea or an afternoon hot chocolate instead (not too sweet since I put a half-teaspoon of mix in for a huge mug). No drugs and by that I mean I went off the shit the doctor put me on. I threw out all of the pills that make me miserable and I plan to keep advil and decongestants in my medicine drawer and the rest is going away. Part of the reason I always feel so tired and energy-less and nauseous is the endless cocktail of birth control (that isn't for preventing pregnancy, long story), sleeping pills, headache pills, cold pills, stomach pills, stress pills, depressing pills, fucking pills holy fucking jesus no more pills so there you go.

I'm just going to eat cake all the time instead. So far so good. Also, it's GOING TO SNOW TONIGHT. Finally! Wait! I HATE snow. But I don't care since I don't have to go to work. Muhahahaha.

*(Edit: Oh, dear readers. Caleb was not fat-shaming me, he was making a gentle joke. I weigh a massive ninety-four pounds and am always working to gain. It hardly works. And no, I don't need tips. I've tried them. I'm not a stress-eater, rather, the stress eats me.)

Absolutely nothing.

I survived work today (it was bonkers at times, and perfect at others) and after working my ass off they let me leave a little early, so I had time to come home, message Ruth, who is already out for the evening, and hear of Henry's first-ever New Years Eve plans (going to a friend's house, has a ride home for 12:30 am from the parents of a different friend who is also going) and am now making spaghetti for eight, as there are eight of us with no plans.

Tomorrow is going to be a tiring day, that's for sure, as I tend to panic if I'm still awake at eleven at night now if I must get up early.

I brought home another pie, as we had too many and since the restaurant is actually closing early anyway (it's not the kind of place you book for NYE) it would have gone to waste.

Tomorrow is such a normal day, except at over twenty dollars an hour. I won't leave early even if they offer.

Batman cancelled our big formal plans at the last minute, and so Caleb has been edging around me, trying to find out what new plans I have in mind for between spaghetti-thirty and eleven, or twelve-thirty, I guess, for as much as PJ tells me he will wait up for Henry, I feel like I should, as Henry is my son and it's not fair to PJ to shoulder that responsibility. I will probably bend to a port or a martini with Caleb and then maybe some of that prosecco (wouldn't you know it's already been transferred from Batman's house to ours, and New Jake is now one of the eight for dinner) at midnight and then I'll slap myself silly to try and stay awake to see everyone safely in. Except I'll probably fall asleep against Lochlan's shoulder and he will see everyone in but since I'm technically there, I'll take credit.

Last day of Christmas vacation and I'm sad as fuck about that.

Trying to have a best day ever once again because I work tomorrow and I don't know if it's going to be crazy-busy or not. I work New Year's morning too and I don't know what to expect then, either.

In the meantime I'm tracing my finger down Lochlan's face and every time he twitches in response he comes close to waking up but not quite and it's become a game to touch his eyelids/nose/cheek as lightly as possible.

Sometimes I don't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep and there's nothing else to do. I can't reach my headphones  from here, they're on the night table on the other side of Ben Mountain, and my phone is on the dresser on the other side of the room anyway. If my feet touch the floor I'm going to wake everyone up so instead I poked at Lochlan until he sat up, wild curls and tattoos everywhere and suggested I go have coffee and read. That's the adult equivalent of making cold cereal and watching cartoons, I think, and so here I am.

The coffee is kind of boring and I don't feel like reading. Sam wandered through in search of sugar (they were out) and suggested I write my resolutions but I don't know what I'm hoping to change or better about myself for 2019.

I'd like to read more, worry less, murder my sweet tooth in favour of more fruits and vegetables. I'd like to cook more, but different, adventurous things. I'd like to go out for noodles more and maybe go out for dessert but without dinner first. I want to finish listening to Demon Hunter's discography before the new double album drops this spring and I'd like to watch more foreign films, with subtitles. I want to go back to dressing weird, losing the black, bringing back the rainbows and I want to not cut my hair ever again. It's to my chin at last and I'm not even cutting it to clean it up at this point. I just want it to grow.

I could make a whole heaping pile of resolutions that have to do with my boys or I could just leave well enough alone.

Oh and when my work-pay account reaches five figures (excluding tips) I'm quitting in order to find something better.

Best. Day. Ever. (and I've only been up for two hours.)

Slept in til ten-thirty.

Ben bathed the dog.

Ruth is making pretzels from the Warcraft cookbook.

It's raining and windy and cozy. There's a fire in the fireplace and sleepy, quiet boys everywhere. We're caught up on Outlander (finally) and maybe will watch the Black Mirror movie later, but maybe we'll watch something else. Who knows? We have turkey soup, leftover turkey and gravy for sandwiches and I'm not going to change from my pajamas because I have zero reason to.

The failed but predictable Group B army recon.

Ha. Between being so sick this year so far and the holidays and the wedding (and..the...the...fist fights) I figured I'd forget to pay all of the bills this month, since I pay them during the last week. Hydro, natural gas, insurance on all of the vehicles and buildings, credit cards, internet, phones, etc. etc. It takes a couple of hours for me to pay everything, do transfers and then enter everything into the big Collective spreadsheet that we have for keeping track.

I'm so caught up I'm actually ahead now, however and I'm happy to report that I plan to not sweat falling behind on everything else as a result. And so I agreed to go on a New Year's Eve supply run with Batman, who also hates crowds but sometimes must venture out into them for a purpose.

Just a Prosecco run, sweetheart. If your monkeys will let you out of their sight. 

Olives too? 

If you like. Batman smiles thoughtfully. He's having a little thing on New Year's Eve. I'll be asleep in my plate face down, as I go back to work that day and then have to go to Batman's for dinner and drinks and then back to work early on New Year's Day. I've been threatening to quit but for some reason knowing I can means I haven't yet, and will soldier on until I can't stand it anymore at all.

Only if they're garlic-stuffed. 

Only for you. He laughs. So picky. 

Not picky. They're the best. 

I prefer pimentos. 

Well, get those then. Don't worry about me. 

Someone has to spoil you. He winks. I shake my head. I try not to be spoiled but it's inevitable.

Okay then we'll get both. I offer a compromise.

That's a good plan. 

Indeed. 

You know what else would be a good plan? 

Olives stuffed with pearl onions!

No, you staying New Years Eve. 

Not a chance. 

Not even a small one? 

Nope. About the same as finding olives stuffed with pearl onions. 

We didn't find any. We spent the rest of the shopping trip in an unfamiliar (but still comfortable) silence.

Caleb hates weddings.

Seven hours of sleep, coffee that is more Baileys than coffee itself (thank God) and a fifteen minute blistering morning sauna followed by an hour-long drunken soak in the hot tub with Caleb and I'm sure I can tick off my self-care regimen and my visitation requirements with the Devil all in this Thursday morning before the snow comes.

And then I'm free.

He's crushing me under the weight of his psychic pain, his need. He hates weddings, mentally planning his own, loathe to celebrate any others until he gets what he wants so desperately and what he'll never ever have.

We can all feel it, he wears it outwardly, an arm-band of black for mourning, and we avoid looking directly at it even as I consent to a little extra time with him over Christmas, because he'd really like to have that time, he needs that time, he wants it in a way he wants it but tenfold, physically painful, inwardly destructive.

So here I am, half-drunk on a Thursday morning at Christmas, bangs stuck to my forehead from the heat, letting the jets roll over my muscles and bones, bringing me back to life only so he can destroy me again at will. It's a resurrection game, a breath-holding, voice-caught kind of urgency at this point but I'm playing along here from rock-bottom, safety net not all that far away honestly so I'm not concerned. It's a stage. A phase. A momentary lapse. A weakness uncontent to be shoved down any more, bubbling up to the surface and boiling over. It's a curse, is what it is, and we'll get through it just like we get through everyone's personality quirks and bad habits and temporary insanities. I would say we're more fucked up then the average bears but I would also say it's probably a crime to live without this level of intensity, truth be told.

Can't get close enough.

It's getting better baby
No one can better this
Still holding on
You're still the one

The beach looked so beautiful. Driftwood tangled in candle holders by the hundreds, custom-blown in smoked teal glass, long tables set like a woodland fairy seaside Christmas (as it is!), set with thick brown runners and copper utensils, dress code well-adhered to, as everyone was asked to wear black. And everyone did, except for Andrew and Schuyler, who wore morning suits in complimentary shades of teal and tan, and they looked incredible. Don't think I've ever seen Andrew with a fresh haircut, in all my years, and don't think I've ever seen Christian let his guard down even for a moment, until he stepped up in front of Andrew before Sam and said his vows, vows I never heard but the look on his face was enough. Who needs words when someone looks at you like that?

We had the clouds, the spring tide and the love of an entire army out in full force and we had everything we needed. We danced on the beach. We cried. We had a moment when we realized how tough these are, these moments in which you choose, and you don't look back and we had our fill of champagne, sparkling water and wedding cake.

We had some incredibly elderly folks make it down to the shore and back with the help of everyone but mainly John who took it upon himself to personally escort those who needed assistance as required. Bless him.

We had the whole point cleared of people by seven in the evening, as it was Christmas Eve and the deal was we will bring you here at no expense to you but you'll also be home before it's time to put out cookies and milk for Santa.

We need no other gifts this Christmas. This was everything. Seeing Chris and Andrew find each other, watching them fall deeper in love and watching them make it permanent, make it real through marriage, before all of our warm gazes and before God was everything we will ever need and Christmas became an afterthought, an oh, yeah, it's Christmas, isn't it?

Caleb offered them a honeymoon as his gift but they didn't want to leave. Batman tried to sweeten the pot along with Caleb and they insist they have everything right here.

Here.

I know what they mean.

Something blue Christmas.

Andrew and Christian got their wish of sunshine and will shortly get their wish of a seaside wedding followed by an early brunch on the beach, complete with:

One server who's entire job is to ensure that all of the candles remain lit, and as they burn down, replace them with new lit candles.

(Sounds like the best job of the day, frankly. Though only because it isn't supposed to be windy.)

People will be arriving soon, and I'm not ready. I've already cried like five times today because this is all so beautiful and I'll be able to describe it one I have a little more free time, and the next time a holiday wedding morphs from New Years Eve to Christmas Eve someone please remind me that it's a little bit much and move it to some random date in June, okay? At least it's happening early on, as we have tons of family who flew in last night and will fly out tonight.

Sam is ready and wandering around calming people down and even sprinting out to the driveway to greet people as they arrive.

I can't even believe that this is happening to two of my oldest and dearest friends. Wish them luck along with me, would you?

Never leave me home alone again.

Everyone is home at last and Ben wants a do-over of my night, having loved facetiming me at the absolute pinnacle of my disco party when I collapsed on my bed in my rollerskates and glitter and nothing else. The music was still loud and he laughed and laughed and pointed out that there was glitter on the dog, even.

Oh my God. So much glitter.

Everyone kept sending me sweet pictures. They went for a huge steak dinner. Then they saw a magic show. Then they went to another place for dessert and then...they shopped and everyone kept sending me photos of Lochlan standing near doorways looking vaguely supportive but like he'd rather be anywhere else and then at nine this morning they were back on the plane and home in the house by noon with a lot of fun and neat wedding presents and souvenirs and it's probably the least typical Vegas trip ever embarked on by twelve grown men but it was a bonding experience. I think they all enjoyed a night off from looking after each other on the point and they loved my solo Saturday night chronicles, which consisted of close-up, haphazard photos with flash for full effect.

I'm so glad they're home. Not even one of them is a Vegas-people, and yet it's good they marked this next step in life with concrete traditions, as brothers should.

They brought me vintage matchbooks from jazz clubs I didn't know existed and Lochlan found me the most beautiful tiny clutch evening bag. Strange mementos from an even stranger weekend.

Housepet disco.

Eleven brusque kisses on the forehead and one prolonged one (Lochlan) and the boys are off to Vegas for a night for a last-minute bachelor party, thanks to Caleb who grabbed a plane and booked a room at a nice restaurant for dinner and a block of hotel rooms and they're going to see a show and do the town and then they will fly home in the morning, though probably not in time for church.

Everyone over five-foot-nine was invited. Caleb's such a dick. Henry laughed and asked if he needed to bring his wallet (Henry leaves his wallet home all the time. I swear he gets his grifting charm from me) and Caleb gently told him not this time around, that someone had to stay behind and look after mom.

Sam demurred and Matt along with him. Sam said to me later, I don't think Vegas is for me. 

Vegas isn't for anyone, honestly. It's like Disneyland for sad people. 

He laughed but he remained somewhat unsettled. Not at having to stay behind, but mostly because of my description. He's content in the fact that no matter how much glue he is to hold this Collective together, no one invites the minister along to their bachelor party.

Which one is going to be the bachelor? I texted Christian enroute. They left so early. I ran out of things to do by noon.

We'll make it up as we go XO. Christian is tired of my jokes but he also rolls with it nicely.

Have fun and be safe, I text and I hear nothing back.

It's now five o'clock and Sam and Matt took me for my first visit to Popeyes Louisiana Fried Chicken (which is a fast food place way the fuck out in the valley but we were all bored and hungry so road trip) and it was delicious but then they disappeared when we came home and now I'm on my own.

 I'm plotting to haul out my roller skates, all of my body glitter and my Bee Gees Greatest Hits album because that's what this princess does when faced with a night all to herself.