A chore, a dance, a plan.

Caleb is fresh from a round of shovelling with Lochlan and they return to the kitchen, both with messy hair, ruddy cheeks and the sort of exhausted camaraderie I like best. Caleb grabs me in a tight bearhug, growling a laugh while Lochlan puts his cold hands on the back of my neck. I shriek and Caleb lets go but Lochlan does not, pulling me in tight, pushing his hands up the back of my sweater until I beg him for mercy. 

There will be no mercy here today!

Some tonight then? I smile charmingly at him as he moves his hands to the outside of my sweater again. 

He smiles but says nothing. I am spun back to Caleb who tells me if I want mercy tonight I'll have to beg for it, but he's smiling with his eyes when he says it. Was I cold? I'm not cold anymore. 

I nod, kind of surprised that their hour of shoveling resulted in such a warm exchange. 

What time? He kisses me hard on the mouth. 

Ah..

Lochlan pulls me back into his arms, answering for me. Nine. Nine-thirty. He's gazing into my eyes. I nod. 

Yeah. If that's not too late. 

You decide, Neamhchiontach. 

(I thought I did.) Nine-thirty is fine. 

Maybe the snow will get heavier. Can you imagine if the point gets snowed-in? 

I can't, actually. 

Oh, I can. Might be nice to be cut off from the world. 

(I thought we were.) True. 

Or we could have a self-imposed snow day. 

(I think I will.)

Three twists and a winch.

In a perfectly predictable twist of fate the windshield wipers on the Porsche refused to work until I got out and started them with my hand. Now they're fine.

(She goes in for service and a new battery in two weeks, and maybe now a wiper motor. All stuff in the frunk. Hang on girl, you got this.)

In yet another, we discovered this morning that when the custodian mops the sanctuary at Sam's church, he carefully closes all of the furnace vents in the floor first, so as not to get water down into the ductwork. Which explains why the church is so fucking cold every Sunday morning. Sam and Lochlan and I opened all of the vents again and it was almost toasty in there this morning. I was so delighted I didn't even fall asleep. Not even once.

In a third twist, Canada Revenue has decided to not release the 2018 tax package until this coming February 18. Which is the same day netfile goes live. Which means I can't do a thing except continue to collect paperwork for another week and don't have to do tax work today. It's a short week too, with Henry having a school inservice and Ruth only going three days a week for her university classes. It's supposed to be cold and snowy and awful out, much like it has been the past two weeks. I wish the Olympics were on but it's an odd year.

So what would you like to do this afternoon, Peanut? 

Watch King of the Hammers for offroading tips and drink hot chocolate. 

Sounds good to me.

My fingers are cold and the power is still out at every second stoplight and you're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop, assholes.

Stood outside in the freezing cold today and learned to use a rivet gun. Learned to pop out my taillights and pop out the gas cap trim. Learned how to shop for plasma cutters on sale. Learned how to drive in 4-lo again, still a little concerned about my strength and ability to jam that shift knob all the way back up.

Learned I still like Burger King fries better than the others, but fries from Five Guys are still the best of the lot. Five Guys is just really uh...too...warehousey for me. I like ambience. Burger King has way more ambience than Five Guys and it actually has almost none. But almost none is more than none at all so there you go.

I'm exceeding opinionated about things most people hardly stop to consider.

I found a shearling-lined zip-up plain hoodie that's kinda nice for work. If I'm still cold after Monday I'll let the Devil win and quit but then I'll start looking for a job in a warmer place but also not, because I broiled last summer. I'll look for something in a climate-controlled place. Like an auto supply store, as I've spent more time lately at Princess Auto and Lordco, Napa and Canadian Tire than ever before.

(And the dealership, because that's where all the really good parts come from.)

The Jeep is mostly outfitted the way I want now too, barring a good cage and roof rack and then subsequent kayaks on top. And a tent. And maybe the jeep-top hammock. Because freedom panels. I've got 'em.

Places, everything.

Oh..shit. Was bored and when I'm bored I tend to get into trouble. I watch weird things on Netflix. Usually they're too weird to even talk about but this time...well, this time I watched Tidying Up with Marie Kondo and now we're all completely and utterly...fucked. 

The boys like the show. Because we're all about self-improvement over here anyway and because half of them, or perhaps five-quarters of them (at least) are burgeoning metrosexuals as it is, they've decided we need to do that. Purge. Tidy. Organize. 

Nevermind this house is as neat as a pin. One of the funnest, most horrible parts of living in a communal family environment is that if everything doesn't have a place, there's nowhere to put something back and it will subsequently disappear. Into the void. Forever.

(For example, we have four missing ipads currently, because they don't have a place, technically speaking.)

So we're very neat, and exceedingly tidy. I think, anyway.

Ben has already folded all of his t-shirts so that they are stacked vertically on their edges and he swears he knows what he has now. I had a quick gander and noticed at least two hundred black band t-shirts in the drawer. 

You can't see the logos. 

Yeah, I know. 

I have three bags of clothing to donate and I only spent five minutes staring at my closet, wondering what brings me joy. Well, none of it does, frankly, as I don't shop for therapy, pleasure or comfort. I shop because being nude is unacceptable. 

I hate clothes. So it's easy to pick all black and pretend it fits/is comfortable/is warm enough/cold enough/appropriate enough. 

(I know. I don't think I'm an actual girl. They wouldn't act like this.) 

ACTUALLY, my Valentino dresses bring me joy but they're formal. 

So there. 

(Do I get my girl cred back? 

No? Fine.)

We've pledged to work through the weekend, since it's going to be stormy anyway, because everything and everyone has room for improvement, right? 

It is so, and it always will be to me.

Ice-cold pre-dawn finds me in a cloak made from a field of stars, tied with a kuiper belt as I watch the planets revolve around me in a never-ending loop, a static circle of bodies, in a sky as far as the eye can see.

What are you thinking? 

Nothing, actually. Just waiting for the coffee. 

Seriously, Bridge. 

Fine. Did you know that Gerry Kuiper discovered a whole whack-ton of meteors just chilling out by Neptune and once they get nudged into the circle of orbit they are actually tiny planets for a time? 

That's what you're thinking about? 

Mostly. I'm Neptune, and you guys are the tiny planets, except you're actually much bigger and I'm...Pluto, I guess. 

Except Pluto's not a plan-

WE DON'T SPEAK OF THAT.

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.