They brought you up (by holding you down).

 Littlest wild wolf loves the big snowflakes. 

PJ snorts. I am back downstairs for the first time in days. Silk cami, wool sweater falling off my shoulders, worn jeans and thick socks, necklaces twisted at my throat, my hair tucked behind my ears. Guitar pick that I found on the stairs now safely stowed in my back pocket with my phone, seven rings on my fingers, four on one finger. One for each husband with no ire whatsoever on the part of the first/current/final soulmate to this busted heart.

PJ sent me a text that pulled me out of my post-Christmas pre-spring long grief at the hands of the devil and suggested I make an appearance, that the wolves were restless. That a pack is more fearsome than a loner, that elder wolves have no patience and will eat their young without hesitation. That fur is cold and ruffled, unsettled and fierce. That no amount of charm is going to be able to pave over the holes in the road I have travelled as of late. 

And also to not ignore his message or he'd come up and haul me out by my hair. 

(It takes a lot to get PJ to advance to the second level of the house, as his suite is on the main floor and he goes out of his way to avoid surprise interactions with Caleb.)

Give me fifteen minutes. I send the text and turn my phone back face down. Caleb never needs the ego bite of confirmation that he is under their skin, instead better left to his darkness.

I am here now. Watching the huge flakes fall like feathers from the heavy clouds, keeping a cool grey hue over our lives, quieter now than ever. 

Lochlan is outside, shoulders rounded, head down. I can burn holes in his back with my eyes but he doesn't sense my presence. 

How long? I ask PJ. 

Sunrise, PJ says. I'm not shitting you, Bridget.You are our very own Helen of Troy. 

I ignore him and grab Duncan's sweater off the closet chair, heading outside.

Dotaine. 

He ignores me as I hurry to the edge of the world. 

Do-TAINE (Doe-chain. It comes out breathless, strangled). 

He turns, head ducked, now rising to meet my eyes. 

She returns. The prodigal daughter. 

Jesus. Can we stop with the new nicknames? I called you. 

What was I going to do, Neamhchiontach? Answer you?

YES. 

Fuck that. I'm not giving him any grace. 

You mean me. 

That too. 

I stare at him. Huge snowflakes cover our heads. Ice crowns, freeze each other out. Whiteout, snowblind. Ultimatums carved in ice. Love on ice. Regrets after he told me I was exhausting and Caleb could take a shift and finally do some of the heavy lifting. Always the same song with Lochlan. 

Did you say your goodbyes, Bridget?

I did. 

Did he weep for the loss?

Don't, Locket. 

At least tell me he was crushed with the sudden recall of his favourite plaything. 

I say nothing, setting my jaw, turning to look out at the blackened waves. After a beat: He can tell you himself. 

I'm speaking with you. 

I left, so I don't know. 

He must have said something-

Let's go inside.You must be so cold. 

I am fire, Bridget. And I can burn him to the ground. 

You told him to do some of the work. 

It was a bluff. A commentary on his lack of participation. And in return I got a week of threats. 

Saying what?

That you weren't coming back to me. 

And you believed him. 

Always. 

I'm not leaving you, Locket. Stop testing me. 

It's the only thing I know how to do. 

I thought you wanted a break from me. You said-

Stop listening to me, goddamit, Peanut-

I pull his face down to mine for a kiss. I don't want to hear it. I don't want him to feel like this. I don't want to be away from him. 

I'm sorry, Bridget. I let you down. I let the wolves in. I-

I am the wolf and I ate your heart and I should be the one saying I'm sorry. 

Why would you ever think any of this is your fault?

Delusional older men and the women who tolerate them.

The snow has started, Neamhchiontach. Come to bed. 

I shake my head. I'm sitting wrapped in a blanket in the big wing chair by the fireplace. It's warm here. It got a lot colder at night in the past few nights and I wasn't ready for it. I practically tried to crawl underneath Lochlan and put my face in Ben's hair to keep my nose warm the other night and both kind of pushed me off so I thought I would give them both a break last night and stay with Caleb. Caleb who had the candles light, the fire burning bright and the whiskey in two tumblers before I got the request completely out. 

Anytime you need me, I am here. 

I'm just cold. You're burning so I figured you would be warm. Don't be flattered. 

Hard not to be. You're here and I don't have to wait for my dreams to visit me in my sleep when they're right in front of me. 

He's so good at this. I feel my icy heart melting just enough to create a sizzle around the edges and then I slept like the dead for hours. Until I couldn't anymore which is always in the early darkened hours of the day, the inky black silent morning before sunrise. 

Give me another night. You need a full night of rest before I send you back. 

I don't get any rest here.

It's a polite euphemism, he snaps, frustrated by my casual rejection. As always we both benefit from your late night wandering. 

I like to watch the snow. I'll come back when I'm tired. 

You always come back to me. 

I always want to catch you up before I restart and then I fall behind once more.

My ears are ringing today. I think I'm getting a cold. They've been randomly shooting sharp pains through my head. It feels like post-Halloween instead of pre-spring today. Wind and snow/rain on the way. The leaves are grey/tan and glued to the concrete. The trees bend and snap in the chill breeze. The water is that dull ominous grey punctuated with the odd cap of white foam. 

The Bridget? 

She is spring-cleaning. The usual stupid shit I get up to just as tax season rolls around and I am so busy but decide to do things like steam clean all the area rugs and curtains, scrub out drawers and cubbies and closets. Declutter and reorganize. I just delivered eight perfect tent pegs down to the garage to the camping supplies from their inexplicable year-long holding place in the drawer with the frying pans. 

Right. I don't know either but I am hellbent on finding a place for everything and keeping everything in its place. I am procrastinating, but doing it on an HGTV level here, as per usual.

I'm watching Alone this week. The Arctic one. It's so delicious. It's graphic and also somewhat staged. Like one minute the contestants are starving and blacking out and the next? Surprise, a fat perfect bunny in the snare that looks like every other snare in the show. Does everyone do the same type? I saw so many over the years. I would stick a ski pole or a walking stick through all of them because snares had no place in countryside light, and that was killing for sport instead of food, so fuck you. On the show they need to eat and they're doing a mostly poor job of it, though the suspense is good and the surprise is decent, as is the conveyance about how far away from each other they are and how cold and solitary it actually is. 

I'm reading Meghan Quinn's A Not So Meet Cute. Okay, sue me, it's adorable. I love a good long depressing story about grief and ghosts and vague unsettling occurrences the same way I love horror movies but then switch to Hallmark Christmas movies once a year. This is my Fucking Spring Literary Fling then and I love it. Lottie is a fun character. There's little depth and everything will work out. I believe. 

I'm rolling my eyes at the newspaper that has the nerve to try and snark on Lululemon's potential handslap for greenwashing while in the next breath putting up a news article breathlessly marketing their newest sneaker for them. I can't believe Lululemon still hasn't been cancelled as a nod to the shitty racism from its founder and then moreover for the fact that it makes stretchy nylon-polyester...gym wear?

I'm eating granola bars and poutine, the former of which is a daily thing, the latter of which was a first or second and soon-to-be-regret, as there was SO MUCH CHEESE and I don't get along with lactose. At all. 

Ha. 

I knit another inch on a sock for myself between lunch and post lunch. It's so zen, so productive and satisfying. I have an Etsy cart full of knitty things to help me make more things but I'm trying to be a responsible consumer too and only buy what I need currently, and that includes yarn, even as I found a beautiful seed-stitch cowl pattern that looks woven so I want to make it too. On a consumerism level though it will have to wait. Over the winter I even pared down the pantries from twenty years of weird overshop/prepping in order to be more mindful in cooking and eating and am trying to buy a wonderful meal or two at a time to savour. 

Speaking of savour. After Christmas we stopped for dinner at a favourite little spot and I ordered my usual Monte Cristo with ham and fries. There was no ham this time, and then the sandwich itself was on this bizarre commercially-produced french toast-type thick cake bread with no crusts, instead of my old favourite fried scrunched-up crackly sourdough. So yeah, I have to make french toast and then do Monte Cristos at home now. End of an era, but at least it's not like donairs from the east coast where you just simply can't recreate them sufficiently at home. I can do this. Going to make them every week. 

I feel like the sun is trying to peek through the heavy cloud-cover on its way over the horizon while the moon struggles to rise tonight. I feel like it's a weird long weekend but at last it's a completed week, almost and I feel like I might sleep tonight too. If only my ears will stop ringing, that is.

Earl grey donuts and cold blue skies.

I fixed all of my typos from the previous post, including the one where I miswrote Bucharest as Budapest. I've never lived in Budapest but sometimes my brain picks the first syllable and just runs with it and I had no time to edit. Caleb is demanding, cutting and in control when it comes to what I have come to call my 'outside time', that is the time in which I can see what is happening in the world or write here a little bit so that people understand that I am still alive, still happily ensconced in my Collective, frayed and worn as it may be. And Lochlan is world-weary and not interested in butting heads with the devil over something as inconsequential as the internet. 

An essential service, I venture and from his chair at the table PJ snorts a laugh. 

A mindless distraction, Caleb reiterates. 

Okay, Boomer, I mutter to myself. I have things to do online. I want to add to my Netflix queue. I want to start looking at my taxes. I want go back to doing online banking because I like charts on paper and being able to do all of my transactions on a screen without having to talk to someone. The OCD doesn't want to be explained and neither does anything else. 

The doctor is soon, for my checkup for the all of the not-easily-dismissable side effects of all these medications, including my poor busted heart which is going through the wringer with skipped beats and double beats and no beats where there should be beats. It's like a bad song, but as Lochlan whispered to me more than once as of late,

Any song is better than the quiet. 

And I believed him. 

He is human. We screwed up, or rather, he did and I took the brunt of the mistake. 

Once again. 

In any case, I think the doctor will send me back to soberland, back to anxious nail-biter hand-flapper, lip-biter Bridget. My drive to create will come back. My energy and sleep will come back. My vision and semi-regular heartbeat will come back. My stoic, pragmatic and silly husband will be back instead of the spooked rigid boat-steadier/passive guy who seemingly took his place. A stranger. In a strange land.

I told them I was an occasional benzo girl and this wouldn't work. It's been two years and I'm FINALLY vindicated. I can finally fight for my rights. For control. For access.

I understand why he did it. I hope he understands why I can't anymore.

But then again, no.

Daniel and I spent the morning laying in his bed singing our lungs out to the Forbidden Playlist (plot twist: it's Elton John's Greatest Hits) as a litmus test.

Which one? The one where he confirms he's still gay or was it the one where we see how many songs it takes now for Bridget to begin to sing less and cry the words more? Does it matter? I mean, DOES IT?

It doesn't, if you don't mind spoilers. 

He sings a mean Madman Across The Water, though and I sort of always want to throw away everything and everyone else when I am here. Always the safest space, as dangerous as it has been over the years. Over a lifetime. There isn't anyone who can escape those thoughts when it comes to Daniel, though so no one minds, and we all fight for the space beside him. Few are permitted here, however, in Schuyler's inner sanctum, as it were. Three of us, mostly, but mostly me. 

Daniel still has the longer hipster hair. Still the mile-wide grin. A few more greys on his head but all his hair. A few more lines on his face, mostly around his eyes and mouth. His hands are still softer than air, his words chosen carefully so as not to leave dents or scrapes on my fragile heart.

He wouldn't though, so I'm safe. 

He needs to shave. My skin is so sensitive to stubble and his chin has been resting against the top of my head for so long I feel as if I am wearing a cactus hat, and one that's so warm. He loves that my hair is growing again. I've got a chin length bob and my bangs are just below my bottom eyelashes. He said the colour is like a clear icy lake on a winter's day. He marvels at it. There's only a tiny bit of actual-blonde left, a few strawberry pale strands that clash with the colder white. I told him I'm growing it back out to my knees, as I miss my braid. I miss the extra pair of hands that a braid can be when you put things in it, hang things from it, use it as a comfort object, a scarf, a hat, a belt. Plus I really want to see this crazy colour on longer hair, in all its glory. 

They are cheering me on, horrifying as it's going to be. 

I can't wait. 

***

Daniel is tasked with withdrawal from winter into spring. Once Groundhog Day hits I will become super impatient with winter and cold damp and darkness and wet leaves and bullshit and wish ahead, the one thing I'm not supposed to do, which is rush through the seasons with my grass-is-greener approach, slowing only into a languid autumn as it is my absolute favourite, but right now I can feel myself getting so antsy and I don't know if it's the drugs or simply the time of year. I think there's an Olympics this year? No, dammit, it's two years away. Sometimes I miss cable TV but then I poke around and find something to see. We watched Cocaine Bear and HOWLED last night and then I started The Watcher alone and I want to move back to Bucharest if only for the beautiful culture shock that it is. 

Don't worry, if that happens in the latest round of upends I will let you know. Also they might reinstate my internet permanently this week. I will keep you posted. Or rather, I will keep posting if they do. It's been rough.

Snowstorm!

 So we've gotten more snow in the past fifteen hours than we have ever had before. The good news is we're basically shovelled out if you count the number of 4x4s that live in the driveway. And the few who don't have one can certainly take one but why? Nothing is open, the tiny universe here is shut down it seems and that's fine. The house is so bright. The WORLD is so bright outside. It's crazy. The snow stopped an hour ago. Thank God. Hahaha. 

I hurt my shoulder/neck/back whatever that stupid muscle is that runs down the right side of my neck that fucks up every time I try to reach too far or lift too much. I was trying to keep up with PJ and Duncan, who were shovelling the backyard with me. We do the steps, the patio (covered but snow got around the perimeter underneath) and a huge figure eight for the dog to walk and also a path to next door, swinging by the sauna and pool area. The front had Dalton, Ben and Lochan along with Sam and Matt to do the driveway and front walk area. Caleb doesn't participate (heart) and August didn't either (sick) and Henry was working from home so I volunteered because more hands make light work and now my ear has a stabbing pain and if I move the wrong way my whole upper right side seizes with an unholy agony the likes of which I would rather not suffer so I cannot move now. 

Ben will make dinner. Chili and biscuits. 

Lochlan will finish my chores. 

I will sit here hugged by a magic bag until I feel as if I can have sufficient mobility again. I have to remember I'm not twenty anymore. I have to remember it's cold. I have to remember to pace myself. What's the rush? We went and got our groceries yesterday and did everything we needed to do, not to mention it's supposed to be warm and rainy for the remainder of the week so the snow, all this fucking snow isn't even going to stick around long enough for us to sled down the wall into the sea. Well, that sucks. 

No mail delivery. No dog walk up through the hood. No swimming and probably no sauna today either because I can't handle the thought of putting my icy wet boots back on to go outside. 

Plus ice is better than heat for this sort of injury, says everyone. 

But ice is how I got it, so no, thank you.

 

Myrrhhhhhhhhhhh Rum Pum Pum Pum..On my drum..

It's Epiphany and I celebrated (because I'm not Catholic) by dismantling one of the dryers and cleaning it out. Then I did the second one. And the vent going all the way to the outside. Glutton for punishment? No. Frustrated by procrastinators? You bet. It was taking an extra half hour to dry a regular load and who has time for that? I grabbed Youtube, a flashlight and a screwdriver. Then I went back up for batteries for the flashlight, an extension cord for the shop vac, and a cursed whine to someone to find me the box of the nutty-things for doing screws with 3D hexagon heads. Found the case, found the 1/4 inch thingie that I needed, discovered the lantern was out of batteries too so held the flashlight between my teeth, and yelled at the boys to get out of the room so I could do what I wanted to do. 

Glad I did. The blower motor and the hose leading to the wall were CAKED in lint. CAKED. 

So it should be faster by a lot tomorrow. I also even tested it to make sure it still worked. Go me! 

If you don't know, Epiphany isn't also just a Catholic thing. It's the twelfth day of Christmas, and your true love is supposed to bring a dozen drummers drumming to round out the absolute batshit madness of all the other stuff they've brought you on the previous eleven days of Christmas. Some people say it's the day Jesus was baptized. It's also the day Melancholy, Bathmat and Casper the Friendly Ghost bring a bunch of useless items to gift to the baby messiah when a breast pump, Roomba and a wipe-warmer would have been far more practical. Even as a luddite, I can tell you a new broom and hemp fleece wipes, even if room-temperature would have been preferable. The pump stays. It's a necessity. 

(Those are not their names but it's the only way I can remember their actual names which are Melchior, Bathalzar and Caspar. Par Rum Pum Pum Pum!)

Am I drunk? No, Not when fixing heavy machinery. Drunk on capability, perhaps. It's a high I don't often get to indulge.

I lost my internet for Christmas because I refused to join Caleb for a night. I got a whole smooth sympathy plea over way too much champagne over how quiet things have been lately and how lonely and disconnected he feels and how he's missing affection and missing being part of my days (? He's right here) and how it's the only thing he wants in the way of a gift, that he has everything a man could ask for except the only thing he actually wants. I took my glass, picked up the bottle and sloshed my way down the hall away from his wing, with as much false liquid courage I could find but my knees were shaking, my hands were flapping and my eyes were watering to go with my spinning head. I didn't trust myself not to cave, didn't trust him not to hurt me in his lust for control and didn't want to make Lochlan (or Benjamin for that matter) sad that I was missing. 

I locked the bedroom door, poured the rest of the bottle down the bathtub sink and fell asleep face-down, fully-clothed on the bed, waking up with the worst hangover but the doors were open to the balcony for fresh cold air, there was a tray on the table with juice, tea and toast and some banana slices and Lochlan was sitting in the big wing chair in the corner, where Ben usually puts his jeans overnight. 

Morning, Neamhchiontach. 

I rolled over and gave him my most-wistful noncommittal expression. Until I know how he feels I'll stand my ground. 

I see you followed directions and stayed out of trouble for the first time in your life. 

Maybe. He took away my internet though. 

Why trade your soul for connectivity when I've got what you need? 

He smiled his wicked ringmaster-grin, the one that always sent a little chill of a thrill down the back of my neck and I nodded. 

Acoustic, I told him in a whisper. Old-school. Hands-on.

Yeah, whatever. He laughed uproariously. It's a good day to be me.

More tomorrow, I promise.

Lost my internet over Christmas. Whoops. Thank you for all of the emails. I wish each and every one of you a wonderful season of Epiphany and beyond and hope that 2024 treats us all better because 2023 was a slog. 

Today my shirt has a down and out Alien on it. He's holding a coffee cup out and a sign that says I NEED TO GET HOME. Not sure who's shirt this is but if it winds up in my laundry pile I wear it until someone points out the error and asks for it back. We can't be expected to know who owns what funny t-shirt and I have far too many mens XL band shirts that you would think it would be obvious to just go by size. 

Fashion? What's that? Alien shirts and jeans for the win. And socks. Smart wool, homemade wool, I'm not picky as long as they aren't synthetic. 

Christmas was quiet and lovely and completely devoid of spirit. We did our best. We made new traditions. We broke old traditions. We were common sense about it and tomorrow it's over. Then Candlemas comes. But first snow and cold, forecast for next week, which is perfect. Seriously. I hate snow now. I want to live in perpetual autumn, after the heat, after the leaves just begin to turn but before it gets dark so fucking early. I don't want hot or cold, just tepid, medium life. Bring me the fringe, margin seasons or bring me death. 

I wonder if they can find a shirt that says that. 

The internet thing is a long story but Caleb took it away and Lochlan doesn't care all that much and I could ask Google to look things up if I needed answers but otherwise huh, maybe he gave me the luddite Christmas of my dreams or maybe he's still the Diabhalest ever.

Santa's real but his beard is red.

Christmas starts at lunch time today! 

UNGHHHHHHH YES! 

Also happy Solstice or warm tidings on the longest night and shortest day. We got through it. We survived. Now Santa is coming, just in time to celebrate the days getting longer and we're not even going to talk about the decided lack of spirit this year or the fact that my primroses and strawberries are still blooming. I tossed them in the vegetable garden pile and covered them with maple leaves in case we got snow but instead we got warmth and tons of rain. I should have left them all out. I did make an executive decision and take the olive and pepper trees back outside. I don't care if they don't make it, truth be told. We all have to fend for ourselves and I have tiny gnats in the window by the doors. Every day I kill four of them and they just keep coming. 

Like an army. 

Kind of wonder where they're holed up but also I don't want to know. I'm a very fussy cleaner but are the boys? Some of them. None of them will be there at six-fifteen in the morning with a butter knife wrapped around a cloth scraping dust out of the grooves on my big American southwest desk though. You'd think I use no dishes for all the crap that winds up in this groove. 

The last load of laundry is in. We might try and hit the Christmas market downtown before it's gone but that's a maybe. I have three different knitting projects on the go and a bottomless list on Netflix so I've cured my shack-whackiness. I bought no good snacks this year and am subsisting on prescriptions, multivitamins, pistachios and homemade wine. 

Caleb says I'm an abomination. 

Ben says I'm a saint. 

Lochlan says I'm a fever dream. 

Duncan said I was a bitch. 

I was so thrilled at that one I laughed. Better a bitch than a doormat, I told him. We've been spatting all December because he can't cure his shack-whackiness. It's a more primal version. I told him he needs a trip somewhere, maybe but he said he'd rather be home. 

Gosh, we're all getting old. 

There's a bottle of tylenol by the kitchen sink. No point putting it away because someone always needs it and takes it out. I used to replace it a couple times a year. Now I buy a new one every two weeks. I wake up stiff and sore, limbs aching and never in a good way. I have resumed doing yoga with Ben because if I don't I just hurt all day. I spend all my downtime in the hot tub, sauna or pool. Same with most of the others. 

I am back to saying less and meaning more. 

I am trying so desperately to find some spirit. 

What would help? Lochlan asks and I want to give him my list of complaints but he's always been one to say Now tell me what might help make that better? A variation on the question between us right now. 

A smoky jazz club, decorated for Christmas, and an old-fashioned, followed by an Irish coffee. Maybe a pastry or some tapas for lunch.

Go change.

Extra pills, fewer words.

Today's t-shirt makes me laugh. PJ brought it back from LA for me. It's got a cartoon drawing of a UFO on the front and a speech bubble that says GET IN, LOSER. 

I feel like it's meant for me. 

Today's breakfast was a handful of pills and oatmeal, black coffee, a badly bruised banana (fuck you, Superstore for your shitty produce) and a multivitamin. Today's lunch was uh, crackers and dinner was a fried egg sandwich with farm bacon from a place in the valley that cuts their bacon so thick I stopped calling it bacon and started calling it steakon. They know what I mean! 

(GET IN, LOSER.)

It's cheap considering it's practically the whole hind leg of a pig in one package. Like fourteen dollars and it feeds eight people, easily. We also bought pepperoni and some aged cheddar but that won't last long. 

I am sober, if you're wondering. 

People say I sound gagged. Like legally or threatened-of-bodily-harm but honestly since Caleb behaves and I am now boring there isn't much to write about save for Lochlan's blissful contentment. His dreams are coming true. Caleb's not evil, I'm not stubborn. Ben isn't scary anymore and Cole and Jake are dead, 

It's perfect. 

I mean it is. We took the money and ran as far away as we could from the circus and the side show too, the midway is a distant sticky, sweaty memory and the music still winds around and between us but we're still here. I'm still here. He still puts up with me. The ghosts haven't gotten me yet but neither have the aliens. 

I'd rather be a loser than a memory. I said that to Loch from my side of the hot tub earlier and he laughed out loud and said Same.