Nutshell.

I've got new Slipknot music, new tattoos to plan and rain and red wine in my upcoming weekend, a nice change from everything else as we head into the dog days of summer, ignoring the Burning Man elephant in the room. The countdown is on! The invitations are open! And for some stupid reason I have FOMO about it. Fear of missing out. Even despite the relative glamping luxury I was thrust into and still managed to catch a fucking lung infection and a whole heaping pile of misery.

I feel like I'm a part of it now and I'm supposed to show up, but honestly sticking close to home, seeing through the huge harvest of our garden, those new tattoos (not for me but for LOCHLAN who is covering some very old things that he got on a whim and should have dealt with long ago), 3/4 of a cheap red (Vintage Ink whiskey barrel aged, if you're looking. Medium dry, very mellow. Kind of good, actually and I'm not much of a red girl unless it's merlot or shiraz) and my sketch book and headphones.

I don't know why. The other part of me wants to go go go and DO THINGS SEE THINGS GO TO PLACES HAVE FUN but truly I am a homebody and I don't know how to deal with the wanderlust parts that scream so loudly. I make myself more miserable than those around me at least, so there's that. Trying to force contentment when there's no contentment to be found. It's all around us, as always and as always it's just out of reach.

Next year I'll plant epinephrine, just in case.

It could have been a lot worse. 

I hate that phrase. It makes it seem as if what happened wasn't bad enough, or catastrophic enough. It's almost a gleeful sort of schadenfreude of a comment, honestly and I smacked it out of my range of hearing with the back of my hand as soon as it came out of Caleb's mouth.

 Right. I'm fine. Really, I am.

I have no stings. I walked right into a wasp nest, tucked into the middle of the huge oregano plant that I let grow crazy and bolt like fury in order to appease the bees, ironically enough. While the bees were happily buzzing around the giant four-feet wide by three feet tall shrub I had stepped to the middle of it to pull an errant weed, and at the last second I saw the nest, before stepping directly into it. Angry wasps swarmed out in a tornado of disruption and instead of screaming I closed my eyes and my mouth and hoped for the best.

I heard shouts and didn't move. I could feel them landing on my legs, my hair, brushing my eyelashes, wondering how to fight back against this giant of a human that had just levelled the house they spent all summer constructing.

Lochlan ran right into the oregano and grabbed me and I flew out of it and into his arms. He was promptly stung four times in the space between my chest and my back through his t-shirt. PJ used a blowtorch to destroy the remains of the nest and was stung twice on the arms for his efforts. Caleb stood with a curated concerned look on his face and Duncan had his phone in hand in case someone did indeed turn out to be anaphylactic (We're not. Hell, we've done this before. A few times now.) but everyone is relatively alright.

As Caleb said, I guess. It could have been worse.

Once back inside, using baking soda to treat Lochlan's stings, he undressed me slowly, untying my spare linen dress. Two wasps fall out and hit the floor, squished. A bee falls out, crushed the same way. Lochlan starts to laugh, a relief in his voice that surprises me for it's intensity.

It would never be from something like this, I tell him. He stares at me and it makes me so uncomfortable I turn the light off with my mind. He looks toward the dresser and notes the light and asks if I can not do this sort of thing so much.

The day seemed a little dull, I tell him and he laughs some more, not in amusement but in disbelief.

The thirteen year wait (exhale, expel).

Unveil now
Lift away
I see you running
Deceiver chased away
A long time coming

Almost cried in anticipation this morning as I slipped on my headphones and cued up my purchased copy of Tool's Fear Inoculum, a single I thought would download for free when I preordered the album but it didn't and I couldn't wait.

I freaking love it. It has just enough of everything I love about them with a strange new maturity overriding it all. Just mellow enough to be so easy to slip into but still with enough of that vague sexual energy and strangeness to pull off what makes Tool Tool, I guess.

If you're not into it that's okay too. A week from now the first Starset single drops for their third album and I'm sure I'll squee all over the damned floor then too. So the legend has it if you don't like what I'm talking about, listening to, watching, just wait a minute. Or two.

It's absolutely the new music summer of our lives. I have something like five preorders incoming and more to pour over, as I am introduced to things. I love every second of it. Thirteen years ago I was a harried mom caught between Cole and Jacob, trying to raise kids who still needed endless supervision and repair a house that was in pieces around me, all the while enduring the long prairie winters that were bitterly cold and wondering if it would get better. If this was it. If everything would stay this way.

It did get better. This wasn't it. And nothing will ever be the same again, except the music. Familiar voices, modern material. I'll take it, thank you, guys.

Hummingbears.

Caleb's hand lands on my head, trailing down the back of my hair.

Your hair is getting long again, Neamhchiontach. He's right. It's two inches past my chin and headed for my shoulders again. My bangs, only the barest of baby bangs two short months ago are always in my eyes.

Finally, I agree, though he won't. He likes it chin-length or shorter, even. I can't decide if I agree with him sometimes or not. I hate photographs of my pixie cut but I did love how easy it was to manage. Long hair is heavy and hot. It's a pain in the ass. But it also is warm in the winter, in the rain and it's more versatile, plus it turns more heads. That alone will make me grow it long again.

What are you up to here? 

I'm spending some after-dinner time with the hummingbirds. They come to our front walk to drink from the flowers. They buzz close to me, curiously, and then depart. They've been here every night. So I have too.

Any around? 

I point and he sees one lone grey baby. We watch it in silence for a while. I sip the good red wine he brought for me. He has a tumbler of ice and water. Or maybe it's vodka but I think it's water.  We don't say anything for a really long time and after my glass is empty I lean back against him, very sleepy and am instantly awake when I get the distinctive smell of sandalwood and campfire I know and love so well.

Peanut, Lochlan says, his own glass of red wine new and filled halfway, bottle beside him on the porch.

When did Caleb leave?

Probably after you went radio silent ten minutes into his stay. 

And you came out?

I didn't want you to be alone. 

How come? 

Bears, maybe. Dangerous birds. You know.

I see.

Tin roof.

Today PJ and I went to get groceries together alone, knowing the stores would be all but empty thanks to the long weekend, thanks to weekends being hot and crazy as of late. I waited until we ran completely out of food, too and then I woke him up early, told him I was leaving in twenty minutes, did he want to come with?

Yeah, he said, looking almost grateful for a Big Task, and after taking a few minutes to dress and brush his (very long) hair, we were off, not having been alone for weeks. PJ is now seventeen days sober and really isn't having trouble at all. Alcohol wasn't so much an addiction for him as it was an event, and he ended the event independently and before I pointed out he was being heartbreaking and so it's not a question of him not drinking but a question of him being able to navigate stress and changes without turning into a drunken jerk in the process.

He would probably say the same about me, but for it only takes me a glass and a half of wine to be ruined and subsequently send myself straight to bed. If he had only done that this wouldn't feel strange right now. It wouldn't be so hard.

He gets into my Jeep and buckles his seatbelt.

Hey.

Hiya. You sleep?

Oh yeah. You?

Enough.

How much is enough?

Enough to get through the day without falling apart, I guess. Thanks for coming with me.

Thanks for asking. I'm always game to go.

I appreciate that.

Though they can get their own food.

I know.

Same argument every trip. Last time we tried shelf assignments in the fridge and cupboard it got crazy, and Duncan almost got scuvy. They're very large children when it comes to diet. No veggies, no fruit unless someone makes it and puts it in front of them. I mean, I could let Duncan get scuvy and then maybe he would learn but it's a hassle and what's nine extra children? I was cooking anyway.

The morning sped on and every now and then I would sneak a look at PJ to see if we were really okay and he would catch me and then look away as quickly as I did and it still feels like we have a little way to go but then he takes my hand and squeezes it. He laughs and tells me he's glad he can be here for the next stage of our lives, the children's lives, to be a part of the Collective less drunkenly maybe and with his shit together again. I point out there's been a lot of that going around lately, that both Lochlan and I have suffered glorious tantrums akin to thunderstorms, clearing out the humidity from the air, making it fresh again.

He's happy with my description, throws an extra bucket of ice cream to the top of a very overloaded cart and we're off to the checkout.

Pooling resources.

(Okay. The only part left is a trip to dispose of the rotted wooden boards (I don't even have to go) and to rebuild the gates but we're swapping those out with lightweight metal ornate open panels that look very goth and foreboding. I ordered them a while back. The cost came in at almost double what I was expecting but heavy wooden waterlogged gates are a pain so it will be worth it when it's finished.  I will stop complaining but Lochlan has promised me the years of giant DIY summer projects are coming to a close. Soon, Peanut, he said and foolishly I actually believe him.)

So I think I'll be done complaining for a bit. Because yeah. I did a fair amount of it this week and I shouldn't have. I had toasted crow for breakfast and coffee and I'm apologizing to everyone within reach. And without, for that matter. I went and tracked down everyone who bore the brunt of my childish tantrum that was seemingly neverending and I did a full circle right back to Lochlan, who pretends he forgot.

Bless him. We seem to take turns being assholes and then we get hot, tired and worn out and we're back to ourselves. It's almost like a toxic buildup and once it's cleared everything is okay again. After forty years stuck together we know exactly how to push each other's buttons, how to bring the other to their knees and how to get up and move on. How to fight and forgive, so that's good at least. We use our words, we have an awful lot of them, spread around us in five separate languages but we figure it out.

Now my keyboard is melting and I need to go find some cool water. The only kind of weightlessness I can appreciate lately.

(Happy Pride! I didn't address it but since you asked. We're staying home today. The parade day is a lot of people and it's going to be forty degrees and so I think Christian and Andrew are going but we're not going to. I bet it will be a fun and incredible event though!)

Moving to the arctic. BRB.

They took me out for breakfast. Tons of coffee. Broccoli and bacon omelettes and fruit and talk and ridiculous plans made. Futuretalk. Presenttalk. All of it was a bait and switch as the next stop was the lumberyard once again and now the wood is in the back and we have to finish the next part but then hopefully it's done.

Which is great. It's supposed to be forty degrees today.

But no cement at least. This is all edging and rebar and then she's done. I want to talk them out of repairing the gate today and spend the afternoon swimming instead.

I would cry but I feel spoiled for doing that after that massive breakfast. Plus instead of tears I think cheese would come out of my eyes. The omelette was very large and I ate it all.

I fell asleep curled around a glass of OJ that I needed help to pour.

One of the best things about the boys is between them they have enough early tradesmen skills and fools egos to do all of the home projects themselves (anything that doesn't risk voiding our insurance, I mean). So when two huge panels of the fence came down around Easter due to freak winds, they got out there and ratcheted the whole thing back up and then promptly pretended it didn't exist for the next several months. It was kind of straight and out of the way and really who has time for that?

Yesterday when it hit thirty-two on the thermometer they decided it was time to fix it. Because, yes, let's do it on what must be the absolute hottest day of the year!

They proceeded to jack up the old concrete-placed posts and put in new ones, quickly discovering the old ones were completely rotten and that's why the fence came down in the wind at all.

Cue the master plan to replace every post on that side, turning five panels into ten. We didn't have a choice but who wants to find out the work has just doubled when you've already expended all of your energies just trying to get the last build out of your way?

Oh my fucking God.

But I carried bags of concrete down(fifty pounds! Against advice but I always have a need to be one of the boys and help as much as I can.) I mixed it until my eyes burned (forgot the ski goggles and WOW what a mistake that was.), sweat was running down the inside of my clothes, which I wondered if we would have to burn, briefly.

 I measured and nailed trim pieces and I cleaned up with energy in the dark because we ran out of daylight. We ran out of wood. We ran out of patience. We ran out of common sense, as I took a step backward in the wrong place to get myself out of the way of a massive 2x6 coming my way and almost went off the cliff. I met Lochlan's very wide eyes and resolved to never ever do this again.

We'll call someone. Fuck it. That was our last fence.

They'll tell you different but I really don't care. I will be more stubborn than they can be because that's a natural gift for this girl. If I can find the energy to demonstrate it. Maybe not today though.

It looks so nice out there now. And it's safe again. Finally.

Breakfast of axioms.

Rosemary rock salt (HEAVEN) bagels on the patio with fresh french press coffee and a good solid chairback named Dalton and I feel almost human again. Lochlan sits right next to us. I was pulled into Dalton's lap as I reached for a second bagel. He figured I would crawl back out as soon as he let go but instead I remained, getting my bagel crumbs all over him, trying to chew my food while his chin rests on the top of my head, content in the warmth while it's still hardly sixteen degrees. Don't worry, I'm sure Lochlan is watching carefully for any sign that I might want Dalton to come up with us and spend a little time. Lochlan forgets I am very direct about things. If I want to add a friend, I just do.

It's like Build-A-Bear. You walk around picking out an expression, an outfit, a talent. Then they stuff it, somewhat violently, I might add, you pay your hundred and eighty dollars and bring home a weird big bear that talks to you. Or in our case, sings. We once had PJ record all of the sound clips for the kids bears and he did death metal growls. The kids still grab the bears and play the sounds when they have a new friend over who hasn't heard it yet.

Will Dalton be the bear for tonight (oh, hush you. Yes I know what a 'bear' is. He isn't that. Maybe a cub though LOL) or maybe I won't invite anyone at all. I might not even BE home in my own bed as I do have invites on hand. One is from Schuyler who invited me to Thursday Night Bed Movies with he and Daniel and a standing takeout order of ninety dollars worth of Vietnamese food. The other is from Caleb who wants to talk money and plan my investments. Cash turns him on. Riding a stock market rally is hotter to him than riding a princess. Not even sure if I need to be there, as he can just check on his numbers and stroke himself to blissful oblivion at this point.

Gee, am I ever going to pay for the descriptions of him that I have let loose here over the past few days. Or maybe (of course) he will be understanding, because I am immature and impulsive and prone to letting my emotions out on the page instead of verbally and so I can make it up to him by inviting him to my room. He gets a change of scenery, a Bridget AND a Lochlan (because as I've said many times, they're all so in love with Lochlan too) and we get a good handle on his frame of mind, something I am always keenly hyper-aware of.

But right this second I don't care about any of that, because as I said: Rosemary rock salt bagel.

All or nothing, baby.

If everyone's a casualty
Then take your time there ain't no trouble
If the weather's fine and we're feeling crazy
There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble
I'm spinning and you're spinning
The world's spinning and we're laughing
And I'm charming, the devil's charming
And we're ruined but we're still building
And I'm selling and you're counting
The world's stopping but we keep going
And we're ruthless and we're cunning
And I'm heir to it all

Sometime overnight, Jacob took a big step back. Maybe to stay out of the way, as I attempt to juggle Lochlan, Ben, Sam, Caleb and whoever else I am drawn to. You don't want to get clipped by a flaming soul on his way down, do you? Especially if you're a man of God. I bet it hurts.

Before last night and for the past ten years straight without fail when I close my eyes Jacob's face is right there. Every errant lock of heavy blonde. Every wink and each tooth. Every pore. The little scar from where he fell into a crevasse climbing Denali and the part of his temple where his eyebrow refused to fill in. Every hair on his beard. Every breath he took even though he hasn't taken one in forever. I checked. I'm still holding them all. This time he was way back. Almost out of reach.

I keep my eyes closed for a long time in case he steps back in close. I'm not sure if I'll be relieved if he does or saddened.

A hand lands gently on the back of my head. Peanut. What are you doing?

Fighting a headache, I lie. I don't want to tell Lochlan this. Every day of his life is an uphill battle for my heart, swords drawn, shield up, armour weighing down his agile limbs. I feel terrible for what I have caused. I also feel like we're even now. He ruined me as a child, I've ruined him as an adult. Now we're a perfect matched pair.

God, I love him so.

If he were to go, I would go with him. And that's something I can say so easily. I've had a lot of time to think about things, hearts, people and love. I don't think my heart will ever be big enough to contain him, and I certainly will not live without him. Not even for a day.

This would make him sad. Like everything does. But he is sad in a determined way. He'll fix it. We'll get there. He isn't going to ever give up that uphill sword fight. He thinks I'm worth it. I'm not sure I agree with that.

I don't want a normie life, Peanut. He reads my thoughts like the daily paper, absorbing current events, the weather, the classified ads. What is she selling today? What's she advertising?

Need?

Confidence?

Sex appeal?

Vulnerability?

Well, it says here on the front page that she just watched the Devil take a big step backwards, hurling bills by the fistful at anyone who ventured near enough, screaming that he can handle it, that he owns it, that he wants it anyway and can afford to maintain it. Shouting his worth from the rooftop while we cover our ears and duck against the dissonance.

Fascinating story. Glad that kind of stuff doesn't happen here, he says absently, not paying close enough attention. That sort of daydreaming will get you killed, he said to me after I almost walked in front of a turning truck once when I was picking my thoughts off the clouds where they grew, so prolifically he would have to venture in periodically to thin them out, pluck ones that were weaker, trimming back the overgrown ones, encouraging others to bloom. He doesn't care about the money. He never cared if we had any money at all, swinging widely to the other end of the rainbow, the part where it begins. No pot of gold, no treasure on this end, just a girl cranking out colors and pulling down dreams, trying to paint them up pretty to someday please her ghosts and men, failing miserably at just all of it.

Now you can have them professionally painted, the Devil says from right beside my ear and I shriek and wake up.