Chipmunks in the willows.

This little corner of the internet turned twenty on Friday. I would have posted but I keep opening my yapping trap and losing my internet privileges. The blog might be an adult now, but I don't think I ever will be, at least not to Caleb, who controls the flow of information out of the Collective most days, or to Lochlan, who can't be bothered to die on that hill, frankly and I don't blame either one of them. It's a blog, not a big deal really. A place where I overshare and foist my tiny frustrated opinions on everyone and you just take it. You read it and then you probably shake your head and get on with your day. 

Yes, imagine me in real life. This is why the boys need naps. 

Eighteen years ago I started writing my tiny, stupid opinions on things and telling you about my tiny stupid life from a tiny, stupid brick apartment building, in a crumbling-paint lead-lined fifth-floor walkup a park away from the main thoroughfare through the city. 

I took that all down. Then it became After Jake. 

Then it really became After Jake because he died and it took me (it's taking me, I mean) the better part of sixteen years to come to terms with the weight of that and how to walk and drag it along with me without becoming out of breath. 

That was three addresses ago that I started it. I just remember people kept hitting our car in the parking lot and that's how I met my neighbours, all decent people who would pitch in and help me with the kids on fire-alarm days, anyway. Then we bought the castle, and Trey (Cole) lost his shit and then he lost me and then he lost his life and I started writing like a joyful little maniac, thinking I had all the time in the world, never once turning around to see the freight train coming at me. Of course I never heard it either. I'm functionally deaf and the biggest faker you will ever meet, pretending all the time.

But there is never enough time. Twenty years goes by in the blink of an eye and I am trying and failing to ease myself back into the every day here but it's tough going because I had the wind knocked out of my sails and I don't fight with Caleb much anymore, I just let him shoulder the guilt as I turn away, tucking my shoulders in, putting my head down and going and finding something (or someone) else to do. 

I never said I was an angel. That was Lochlan's nickname for me. One of thousands. He still looks at me with rose-coloured pupils and for that I am eternally grateful. They all do. The zookeepers with their little monkey. The wolves with their feral forest girl. I never said I gave up any bad habits I just took a break from writing about them because with the inclusion of possibly two years of the worst medication I have ever been on, you would have thought it was a major Red Flag. Like last time. I get stoned and everyone shrieks that I am being taken advantage of so it's better not to say anything at all. 

It isn't them. It never was. It's me. All the time. I take the blame. I am the blame here, every day of my life. Brick by brick, letter by letter, pill by pill. 

Happy birthday, blog.

***

I am 1/4 into Yarn Harlot and it's...well? Upsetting. I have trouble reading about people who are wilfully irresponsible. Ironic, isn't it? I guess I hate reading about people who shove their kids aside and maniacally laugh about psychological issues. I have all sorts of those and I still gave my kids my all. I always will. I'm going to stick with it and then maybe burn it in the bonfire later this week. It's a weird navel-gaze, anyway. Maybe it will get better?

***

I finished Gypsy on Netflix. Thank God I watch these things on one and half speed, sometimes two, so as not to waste my own time. Everyone says the actors sound like chipmunks when I do that, but I'm just gleefully content not to have wasted over ten hours. I LOVE LOVE Naomi Watts. I want her to play me in the movie of my life but this was a terrible thing. She was bad, it was bad. Billy Crudup was amazing. It should have been a two hour movie with a murder. Then it would have been okay. Maybe. Maybe I shouldn't have watched it after Penguin Bloom, which was a full-on masterpiece. Doing the lord's work here, as always. 

***

Jacob would have loved the way Caleb uses the internet as a reward-based system to keep me in line. He would have laughed in that hoarse, incredulous Newfie twang that rang through the halls when something was that Oh-My-Fucking-God. He and Caleb would have probably killed each other by now if Jacob had been stronger. But he wasn't and so there's that. And I'm sorry this has been eighteen years of strife and misery but like I said, at least it's going along at a rapid clip. Just read it all in a chipmunk voice. It's what I hear when I picture you reading it out loud.

Radium paint and Closed for Lunch.

I'm having fun today with the Geiger counter (long story which I WILL TELL if you really want) and measuring everything from the WWI antiques with radium accents (to glow in the dark, like me now, I bet), drunk on exhaustion from staying up past midnight because Coachella. 

Coachella was amazing. But only from 10:45 to midnight and only on the Sahara stage. Then we switched to the mainstage and Lana Del Rey was singing, looking pissed off as ever. Is it shyness? Is she a snob? Lizzie never tells. Her voice is solid like a freight train, so that's that. Of course, it's easy to be steady on your notes if you don't move when you sing. 

That's never happened at an Ateez show. They ate. They danced. They had a blast and so did the audience. So did all of us tuning in from home. Even the boys, who got all excited when Bouncy and Crazy Form were performed. It was awesome. Turning all my metalheads into kpop stans because it's HAPPY. It's FUN. 

Don't get me wrong, metal is fun as fuck but this is a weird eternal-spring/first-love sort of happy feeling and what kind of music does that these days?

So I slept until nine this morning and then we did an inventory of groceries and supplies and made the Big List (this is done weekly to make sure we don't miss anything when we go out. The grocery and hardware stores and shopping in general is way down the highway. Gas is $2.20 a litre and rising and time is money, friend) and then I set to work figuring out if the Geiger counter actually works or if it's a novelty or a false sense of security, or worse, if it works perfectly and we are being irradiated incessantly out of our minds on a daily basis. 

We tried to go antiquing but in British Columbia nothing is actually old because *gestures* reasons and so we came home and for a Saturday everyone has scattered to the wind (like nuclear fallout) and that rarely happens.

Yeah, so we're watching Fallout. How about you?

Sam's lists.

Things I am sick of: "No worries" comments, solar eclipses, gas-powered outdoor landscaping equipment noise, waiting for paint to dry and the infuriating instant-cry that happens when I think about death. 

Things I am grateful for: sunshine and dandelions, pear blossoms (even if they do smell bad), handsewn patchwork, sleepy cats, and Ben's easy hands fixing the coffee grinder which otherwise sounds as loud as one of my nemesis outdoor equipment noises. I believe a bean fell down and got stuck in the sharp parts and it sounds like some kind of electric voodoo blender these days, and so he's having a look. 

This is of  no consequence to me, since I refuse to make fancy coffee and if no one is free these days I'll make instant but a scoop of instant mixed with a scoop of hot chocolate for a de facto mocha which is equal parts awful and delicious. 

So there. 

There's a house near us for sale for four million bucks. It is smaller than most, has two bedrooms and probably will be flattened to make room for a huge mcMansion right to the edges of their property line, which is three cliffs instead of one and not a good plan at ALL. I like the house but I don't want to own it. I am working hard to uncomplicate my life in the extreme and doing really good at it, frankly, including my finances. It was sort of the last hurdle as I do a refresh of sorts. A digital cleanse and organize to follow all of the physical ones that have taken place. 

It's bright enough today to work on the dark green socks I am knitting for Lochlan so off I go to drink some tea and remember that the world is beautiful and all of this is the important parts. The thoughts, dreams, sunny breezes and hot tea. The act of mindful work for a loved one. The gratitude list, playing like a mantra over the squiggly line that makes up my own unalome. The faded patio pillows against the fresh dark green grass and the noises ebbing at last as people hang up their tools, trading them for dinner utensils and quiet pursuits at sunset. 

I'll still burst into tears randomly but maybe I'm grateful for that too.

"Now that the lilacs are in bloom, she has a bowl of lilacs in her room." -T.S. Eliot

We were poking around thrift stores out in the valley on the weekend (Dalton and PJ are always on the hunt for what I lovingly call 'musical electronics' (old amps, guitars, heads, etc.) while Lochlan looks for vintage hand tools and I just look at everything, but I have my sights set on a 'nice' vintage Cowichan sweater for cold nights by the fire when a blanket and five men don't cut it but finding one in reverse colours (dark body, light colorwork) is a unicorn) and I found a copy of a book called Yarn Harlot. 

It seemed vaguely familiar. 

Stephanie's was one of the first blogs I ever read, and probably one of the reasons I started writing about my daily life. Something about a peek into someone else's home/day/routine/mindset is comforting, instructional and entertaining all at once. Sometimes we covet what someone else has. Sometimes we feel better about our own relationships, cleaning routine or feelings after reading about someone else's. It's invasive and voyeuristic and delicious, and I've never been one to demure about any of it, while all the while retaining my privacy to a degree that surpasses any level of reason. 

Anyway, I am one page in and I love it already. It was $4 on a shelf of otherwise terrible knitting pattern books and maybe the reason it called to me was to remind me that I have this outlet and I am not using it to the fullest? Or maybe to remind me of who I used to be? Excited to sit down, tell you everything, delete the worst parts (sometimes the best parts) and then hit publish as if I had completed my magnum opus, every single day. 

Sometimes it's been the only reason I got up in the morning and sometimes I used it to punish myself, the reminder that I haven't done anything to make myself famous or noteworthy, that those who do have a whole team of people lifting them up in the background and I definitely fall squarely into that category, believe it or not. 

I recently picked up my knitting again, probably a year ago now, a way to keep my hands engaged. I'm absolutely compulsive about my hands moving. If they're moving, they may as well be writing, drawing, painting, spinning, knitting, sewing, writing or forming clay. You can't always be touching someone, though that will forever and always be my first choice. 

I am now almost a couple of months out from the very last pill and physically things are starting to calm down. Emotionally I am the Pacific National Exhibition though, all thrills, chills, delight and horror all at once. That will calm down eventually, maybe now even, since the physical issues are ebbing. 

(I am also a couple months out from the heavy-handed and punitive internet embargo that infantilized me right back to the eighties, when the internet wasn't around but the boys' rules were just as miserable.)

So all that is to say thank you for sticking around. Somehow I think it was easier when I had that full-blown psychotic break and went to stay at the hospital with the locks on every door.  It was like speed dating. They pumped you full of drugs, asked a lot of questions, then immediately withdrew the drugs, asked many more questions and then suddenly I was home again. This was a years-long drawn-out ridiculous fugue state where I couldn't be anxious no matter how hard I tired but everything else went to shit. I laughed inappropriately at sad things. I got in fights because I couldn't empathize with the things that were important to others. I gained a lot of weight. I wasn't me anymore. 

I need to be me, or else who am I? 

And spring is a time of renewal and change and reassurance. The lilacs have their tiny buds bursting to come out, the nights are cool but warmer than before and it was light out last even until past seven-thirty, which I exclaimed with great delight in the moment, knitting in hand. I will always have my hands busy. I took my sewing box (it's a Turkish cookie tin) to bed last night and sat up in the middle between Lochlan and Ben with a cat and a flashlight in my lap and pieced together a patchwork cloth that I will then cut into to make a book cover for my paperbacks to live in as I read them (it keeps them nicer in my bag) and to remind me that physical books are as important to care for as my beloved kindle, and I did that until midnight and then I finally turned off my flashlight at midnight and slept until six-thirty. 

So normal. So invasive to tell you this. So looking forward to the lilacs this year.

Stop it.

I am continuing to struggle here and no, I'm not that Princess. And no, there are no good guesses when people think I'm writing under a pseudonym. I only did that professionally. This is just me and so you're reading about a regular princess here. One soaked in brine and regret and sometimes full on sillyness. I had another death to deal with, another realization that life is slipping by. I finished a book, missed a show I would have loved to have seen (Jon Foreman opened for someone here a week ago and I had no idea-this on the eve of the release of his latest solo effort, no less and WHY didn't someone tell me??) and am playing Catch Up and (sometimes to their alarm) am playing Don't Care too. Why? Trying to withdraw from some seriously serious medications have kicked me off the cliff. Doing it while dealing with death? Harder still. Do I want to talk about it? No. Do I need to? 

Maybe. 

I got four weird emails guessing I was the Princess of Wales. HA. Because easy enough to fake and especially since Canada is a country with a King. Right? Right? 

No? I'm sorry but that's dumb and I am me and you all know that. I cringe a bit when someone discovers y little corner of the internet and skips the whole middle part. I might know a lot of musicians, but as I said constantly, I am not famous. Are there Getty images of me? Nope. Are there press photos of me? Not recently. 

Is it cold and raining today? Yes, it is. Henry is home from California. He went with Caleb on a business trip. He had a great time and we're all sick now because he caught a cold on the plane even with a mask. So I am wrapped in a sweater with the heat up and the bag of Jalapeno Cheetos on the table while I knit and Netflix. Ha. Some princess I am.

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.