A wolf-girl in sheeps' clothing.

I stayed home today. Can't do another cold day. Have a headache from the cold and from the time of the month that it is anyway and had to eat chocolate for breakfast just to be (somewhat) pleasant agreeable human.

Does this mean I 'won'? Caleb is up and remiss to not take the opportunity to have his coffee with me by the fire. I will burn all the wood in the whole province, but I won't be cold again. I'm also shopping for some sort of wind-cutting shearling-lined plain hoodie to wear over my work dress. Just in case it gets cold here again. The look on his face is not an amused one. He's angry.

No. It's a sick day, that's all. Because I'm sick. 

I'm glad you stayed home if it's that cold. 

I nod.

So do you think I am going to win, then? What are the odds? 

The usual. Thirty/seventy. 

Is that all? 

Yes. 

We sip our coffee in silence, me hypnotized and lulled into vacancy by the flames and him reading on his phone.

It's not a contest, Neamhchiontach. 

Everything is a contest with you. 

When you feel differently, let me know. He gets up, pockets his phone, kisses my cheek softly, takes his coffee and leaves me there to be wonder if I should just set my clothes on fire or I might never feel truly warm again. 

Starts bad, ends okay.

PJ walked on eggshells, worried I would crack under the weight as he stepped closer, not sure if I needed a hand or some sort of deadly weapon to wield against another awful day of being cold and tired. Even my period started, as if my body was like, oh, are we making her as miserable as possible? I have a magic trick y'all need to see.

I'll take a hu- 

I didn't even have the whole sentence out of my face and I was wrapped against him in one of PJ's famous massive bear hugs where he is all arms and beard and he doesn't let go until he's sure you're ready to pass out from being unable to breathe.

Then he'll laugh at you. But by then you don't even care, I promise. He gives the best hugs.

There. Think that hug should be called 'The Bloodletter' because I'm sure I squeezed out your whole period.

I laugh so hard I'm concerned I might cry again. PJ, it doesn't work that way.

The hell you say.

Not even kidding. Maybe one every hour for a week might work.

Still can't believe you can bleed like that for a week and not die-

What did I miss? Lochlan arrives at the worst (best?) time possible. Are you harassing her? At least feed her first. He holds up a bag. It better be chocolate bars. Wait. It better be cake.

I chased wakefulness today when I would have been better off chasing starlight. I froze to pieces, I got yelled at, and I finished the day in abject, utter defeat.

Because duh, it's Monday. Is everything in retrograde or is it just me. 

I parked my jeep (in the woods. Getting better at four-low, I am) and walked into the house, right through the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of scotch and kept walking right out the back door, across the lawn to the gazebo, where I went inside, hit the heater button and then sat down on the floor in my work dress and heavy nonslip shoes. Took a big long burning drink of scotch and then lay down on my back, staring up at the copper ceiling and I let myself cry. I let myself feel a little sorry for her, for me, I mean, and then I stopped crying and tried to be mad. I'm not good at turning helplessness into anger, though and mostly I look like a three-year-old, just up from a nap, stomping her feet at surely the most ridiculous of injustices. 

Ben comes outside, frowns at the scotch and asks if everything is okay. He would take the scotch but he prefers not to touch it. That's fine. Right now I prefer he doesn't touch it either. It's for me. 

You alright? 

I take a huge swig again and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Bridget had a bad day. 

(Stomp, stomp.)

He laughs. Oh, did she? Maybe she'd like to talk about it. 

Nope.

(Stomp.)

Talk is better than anaesthetizing herself. The laughter's gone and the life lesson remains. He waits. Three minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

She knows. I hand him the bottle, tightly capped. Sorry, Benny. Days like this I want to quit too. And make everyone happy. 

Then why don't you? 

Because I don't want him to win. 

JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST (aka the coffee plan was a failure, as usual).

I pinned up my hair today. A poor choice because it's minus five on the point this morning and minus five here in the damp is the equivalent of minus twenty in a dry cold. Sam helps me into my long woolen coat (teal with as many buttons as I could have put on it just for the methodical factor) and then shrugs it closed around me tightly. He kisses me on the tip of the nose.

So sweet.

So cold, Samuel.

I already called ahead to make sure they turn up the heat and change the fans.

It doesn't help.

Don't take your coat off.

I didn't plan to.

But Lochlan is ready and comes downstairs in his casual suit, a blanket over his arm. Have a bag for this, Bridge? And I run and get a reusable shopping bag from the grocery store and we're set.

Lochlan drives the Jeep. I think he likes it. It only uses five times more gas than his truck so it's a winner for sure but it's so cute who can hate on it?

When we get to church PJ is three minutes behind us with hot takeout coffee. I don't plan to drink mine, instead I consider pouring it down over my head so I can burn from the heat but then I take a sip and who's going to turn down Starbucks on a cold day like this?

(Maybe it will keep her awake this time.)

Pj packs in beside us in his huge parka and in my coat with my coffee tightly tucked in between he and Lochlan it's not so bad with the blanket around me and eventually I forget my shivering fingertips and aching knees, focusing on Sam's words, talking about familiar weathers and the slow winter slide into spring, into Lent, into lighter times, both literally and figuratively.

Mentally I calculate when I need to have the ingredients on hand for the epic Shrove Tuesday pancake dinner I'll be making very early in March for the night before Lent. Mentally I begin to sort out what I'll give up for the forty days prior to Easter. Mentally I begin to get cold again, as PJ shifts slightly and Lochlan's bad arm gets sore, leading him to remove it from around my shoulders. Mentally I feel the cold locking me in it's icy grip and my only defense, as ever, is to fall asleep, head slowly nodding forward, eyes heavy, words running together in my head then disappearing entirely.

(Nope.)

I didn't wake up until I let go of my still one-quarter-full coffee cup, and it landed on my boots, barely spilling but enough of an odd surprise for Lochlan to very loudly, very clearly swear a blue streak in alarm while almost simultaneously lunging for the cup.

Only a drop or two was spilled, mostly on my coat, missing the blanket at least. His reflexes from throwing fire are exactly as incredible as one would expect.

He sits up. Sorry! He calls out to Sam, who was momentarily stunned into silence wondering what was happening. Dropped my coffee. Carry on. 

I reach for my cup back but Lochlan makes no effort to give it to me. He's not irritated, ever, by my inability to remain awake while not moving, rather he is always concerned instead and figures I will just fall asleep again.

He isn't wrong and this time my handbag lands on the floor. He leaves it there.

An unsentimental journey.

What if you had married me? 

He thought he was being sweet or provocative and he cornered me with the age-old question yet again. It was too late anyway, the candles had burned out, the rain had drowned our will to persist and the music had looped around, back to the beginning and my preteen brain wandered off again, trying to understand how all of these wounded-heart people became such amazing singers to share their pain in these beautiful/ugly ballads I love to listen to so much. 

I would need way more therapy than I've ever gotten thus far. 

It was an offhand, knee-jerk reply and my heart immediately rose to my throat as I waited for him to throw me off the face of the earth in a rage, or worse. 

And I would have gotten it for you. The offer stands. 

It doesn't work. (I'm the worst patient that ever lived. Honestly, just bundle me into a cozy straitjacket, put some headphones on me and leave to rock in the corner and I'm good. Or as good as I can be, I guess.)

If you'd give me a chance, it would. 

No. (Because 2019 is all about limits and protecting myself at all costs. How am I doing?)

You break my heart, Neamhchiontach. 

Ditto. 

A nothing Thursday (also Duncan binge-watched all of True Detective and he's very, very tired).

Just here waiting on the snow, nursing a sore shoulder and a hot cup of chai tea. I rearranged all of the boxes of tea in the cupboard, dumped out all of the tea bag packets and organized them in a big tupperware box so suddenly everyone is trying every flavor as if we've never had tea before. It's kind of funny but at least it's getting used. I also did a big pantry challenge this month and a budget challenge and I still have to do a clothing challenge but I don't care so much about that.

I'm not really a clothes person so no rush.

So we have fresh groceries, I took out some cash, I got gas (that's an every three or four days thing now LOL) and I'm going to hunker down and have a storm break if we do get snow here. If we don't then that's okay too.

Duncan is rather cranky but Ben is not and Lochlan is off helping PJ put things on my jeep (they love to tinker with cars (and bikes/campers/trucks/barbecues/sink faucets and clothes dryers) any chance they get) and yeah, this tea is pretty good. Shoulder's not though, so I'm just going to try and chill for a bit. 

Guarded.

Using both hands I jammed my crown down tight onto my head, hair flattened against my skull, braid pinned underneath the band, golden metal blinding anyone who came within a hundred-yard radius of the tiny princess-at-arms, guarding her own imagination.

She didn't have to do it alone.

The prince was there, too. In his jeans with the perpeputally ripped-open back pocket from putting heavy tools in it absentmindedly, too-big flannel shirt, his own crown crushing his beautiful red curls he stood just slightly in front of her, bearing a sword with a rusted blade cut into with chips, worn dull from use fighting her nightmares. Fighting his own.

He adjusted his crown so it was slightly cocked to match his eyebrow and set his mouth in a determined line.

Ready, Bridgie? 

I don't know, Locket. Are we?

***

He came in tonight, two bags of groceries in one hand, truck keys in the other. Keys are tossed onto the table in the front hall and his arm slides around my waist, pulling me in tight, folding the groceries against my back as he can't resist a full embrace.

I haven't seen him all day so I'm fine to have a bottle of orange juice suddenly pressed against my back.

Ready? 

Do we have plans? 

We do. 

And they are? 

We're going to make dinner together, just you and I and this bottle of red wine (the one I thought was orange juice) and we're going to have it in the gazebo. 

It's cold and raining-

I thought you figured out the heater. 

I keeping forgetting it has one.

We made chicken alfredo for two with bowtie pasta and garlic rolls and opened the wine and took a basket full of candles out with us and a blanket big enough for two and we savoured our quiet, private supper like we rarely get to. It was only when he got up to pack up the dishes that I saw the sword propped up against the back of his chair.

Later-day saint (sic).

Drove the Porsche today so she doesn't feel forgotten. She didn't seem happy at all. I promised I would clean her up maybe on the weekend and she shrugged and let me out quietly in the driveway when I got home.

I brought more pie home. This habit will soon spell certain disaster, as everyone here has a sweet tooth as big as mine and boy do they love pie. Even though I say we're cake people, if you put pie in front of a man's nose he will eat it, to be certain.

I have a bruise on my hand from slamming it against the open corner of the counter at work, repeatedly. It looks terrible and the worst part is I keep slamming it against everything.

I got a rash from my work dress due to it's appealing (snort) synthetic nature and have resolved to find out more about mormon undergarments just for the shield they would provide between my delicate angry skin and that dress.

I wouldn't, honestly. It's sacred to the LDS church, a church I know nothing about but it also sounds so compelling, especially when they describe it as 'armor of God'.

Who wouldn't want to wear that?

Now, if anyone has any other leads on some neck-to-knee cotton bodysuits I'm all ears.

Tiny blonde persecutors and those who narrate them.

Sam's words hit the ceiling of clouds today and I took them all in, soothing their bruises, their cut and dried meanings, their fabric, soaked to the bone and torn to pieces and then I ate them, swallowing gristle whole, choking back the too-big parts, drowning in the sugar and the vinegar of his plan for us. For all of us.

God is a tough parent but a fair one. He is unconditional and patient. 

He's a lot like Lochlan and as I listen to Sam's words in the ice-cold Could we please have a little heat? morning I came to that conclusion that I don't give Lochlan enough credit, though I try very hard to. Maybe I don't have enough to spare or maybe he's crossed from difficult husband into absolute martyrdom when no one was looking but he did the impossible and I'm grateful for it. He is the one person in my life who can rein in my mind long enough to achieve anything, whether it be running without tripping, eating four-squares a day or just being comfortable in my own skin. 

He had to deal with me. Especially in the aftermath of that summer and then the aftermath of the winter of 2007 and he's done the best he could with what he has. With so little patience and yet all the patience in the world. 

So it makes me laugh when he leans in halfway through the sermon and spits,

You didn't eat breakfast, did you?

I had a muffin. 

Lies. I ate the last one last night. 

It was English! I had an English muffin!

Traitor then! 

And we laughed quietly, much to Sam's delight, who thought he was being clever.

I'm not sure how this works.

And you walked away
And I saw fireworks imploding
Frame by frame
Like watching a movie in slow motion
From miles away
Up like a rocket ship ascends
Drifting up into space
And I'm running out of oxygen

I still kind of love these rare early Saturday mornings where the fog lies heavy over the point, giving the point a muffled, muted presence. The boys, the kids and the pets are all sleeping and I have my headphones, a large hot mug of coffee and a sudden discovery that what was previously a lightly-treading soft song is a deeply painful one upon examination of the lyrics.

My favorite kind.

My coffee is barely touched, words hardly finding time to get comfortable on my page when Ben appears, a warm hand on the back of my neck, a kiss landing on the top of my head. He pours a coffee and heads downstairs without a word (we try not to interrupt each other when writing) while I keep pushing letters around until they match the thoughts inside my head.

(That's a myth, actually and I perpetuate it. I've never found the words to properly articulate the way I feel, truth be told. But it's a challenge I've taken on nonetheless.)

I've been struggling lately in a different way that's the same. I'm having trouble sleeping again. My anxiety is through the roof about the smallest things. I feel like I've got one corner of the controllable universe grasped tightly in my hand like a sheet but one good hard flutter and it's going to be yanked away. I hate this feeling but it's one I have to ride along with until something else happens and then I'll be distracted by that and lose my way back to this.

Everyone says it's something that can be helped. Take this blue pill, or this red one maybe. Practice self care. Be mindful. Rest. Take sleeping pills. Take a vacation. Take a break, Bridget.

This is my break. I put on headphones and I fall in love with words and the melody to which they're sung because I can't find the words of my own.