A red inhaler, to match my favorite lipstick, and a lot of reassurance that even though I wondered if I would die from this, I won't. I'll die from something else.

Ben absconded with me yesterday, setting us up in the library under cover of the rainy hemlocks, with his laptop on the table and hot chocolates and a big fuzzy blanket and we watched cooking documentaries all morning, afternoon and evening and I didn't talk, I just dozed a lot and then this morning we were still there but the laptop was dead because we didn't plug it in and so we jumped up and went up to get ready for the day, saw Henry off to school and then Ben took me to the specialist. 

Whew!

Actually it was nice. Ben will sometimes insert himself as a physical, flannel wall between me and everyone else who is trying to be helpful, including Lochlan, who is too pragmatic to be comforting sometimes and too fretful to be calming besides. If Ben is worried he does it in a weirdly mature and quiet way. And Caleb is even worse, pacing and throwing cuffs and checking the time and proclaiming he or his money could fix it and blahblahblah that sends me into a tailspin without even preamble. 

I almost forgot I even had an appointment today, snuggled in behind Ben's arm. 

But we're back, armed with prescriptions for steroid inhalers and more rest and lozenges (! Since they clearly understand I. DON'T. REST. Or can't, I guess, as the only reason I did yesterday honestly is because Ben sat on me and then swore at me when I struggled to try and leave.) and a new timeline of two or so weeks to get truly better. 

And I feel better already. My lungs are almost cleared up, my ears are barely inflamed and my throat looks good (which is weird since I cough all the damn time lately) but there's hope and maybe I can move on to talking about something besides my wonderful, terrible immune system. Things like pizza! Because it's Friday and I don't have to cook tonight. Yay!

The HASSELVIKA challenge.

I went next door this afternoon to check with Christian to make sure he's looking at the Pinterest things I've been saving for him and he and Andrew were busy putting together furniture! Because the wedding is on New Year's Eve one of their gifts to each other is a fresh start, such as new bedroom and den furniture and sheets and robes and bookcases and much much more.

Because I don't know about you but stuff has baggage, and after you've had a couple or maybe hardly any relationships you wind up realizing all of your stuff hasn't changed but you have.

You've changed a lot.

So I barge in only to see Andrew holding a drill and Christian holding the instructions upside down and they both seem to be biting their tongues because I'm there.

Did I interrupt something? We have an only-knock-outside-of-normal-waking-hours policy point-wide so I don't think I did.

Oh, Christian was just telling me no one needs instructions and that's why we're four hours into this and don't even have a completed drawer for a nighttable. 

That's not what I said, Andrew, I said most people-

I heard what you said. 

I backed out of the room slowly and shut the door. Apparently I interrupted the final compatibility test of every good relationship: IKEA. 

Ignore this. I've reached a level even I didn't think I could get to.

Tuesday is another day of endless rain, another day of uncontrollable coughing wracking my poor body limp and aching as I tense up so hard now because it hurts when I cough. It's not a nice, polite cough, it's an abrupt bark, a seal-call, a mostly-not-productive but occasionally thankfully productive and today Caleb set a firm timeline by which I must be better or he will call in a specialist.

Lochlan pulled me in close underneath his chin only to kiss the top of my head and find a rather disturbing cut and a fair amount of dried blood, most likely from when I whacked my head on the concrete under the stairs on Friday, which is really great, since I wash my hair every day and shower every day too and basically didn't notice I had bled and wasn't doing all that great a job of brushing my own damn hair, apparently. Which, of course I'm not. It's barely to my chin and looks a little insane these days anyway, all pointy and flippy, the sparest of bobs now at last.

To that end Lochlan took Caleb's firm date and moved it forward by three days, to Friday. So Friday I get to see someone who maybe can make a difference in my health, that's been deplorable to the point where even I'm wondering if I can have a break now.

I did go to work though. Thankfully the diner was empty.

Dueling iPads.

Euphoria’s gone, it’s time to move on
I have to believe we can change
When the notes come out wrong
Stop singing along
We can’t be the same old thing
It’s New Year’s Day

Well, here comes the Christmas music, though the princess isn't going anywhere today, as I am still sick, if you can even believe it and even after topping myself up with daytime cold medicine, my inhaler and a big old cup of coffee I still knocked fervently at Death's door, hoping to be let in if only to let go of this misery.

So here I am. Back in pajamas and listening to my favorite playlist of the year. Too sick to decorate or do anything exciting, like make cartwheels through the rain puddles in the yard or walk on the beach but Caleb is keeping me company, reading the stock reports online, making small noises of approval or sadness depending on the numbers and every now and then throwing out a suggestion for something for us to do, as if it's a Sunday or something and we just woke up and never go to church and don't have an entire Collective to match social calendars with.

You can do things but I'm going to stay in and drink tea and add things to Andrew's Pinterest account for the wedding.

And Caleb laughs, which startles Lochlan who is snoozing beside me. He is getting a cold and isn't sleeping well and oh my God, we're going to go round robin with this stupid thing this year but he also weirdly can sleep while people are having conversations all around him. He attributes the thin aluminum walls of the campers to that, being parked in less than ideal places on the midway.

I never slept if someone was talking right outside our camper but at least the accommodations on the midway were better than the circus, a rotation of shitty motels in shitty cities that I wouldn't set foot in as a tourist, but as a performer I had no choice, really.

He also can sleep right through Christmas music. I can't even keep from singing along out loud though I cough all the time and I feel like I've been doing hard-core crunches for a month at this point. Everything hurts. Everything's wrong and this isn't depression, I'm just physically worn out and I'd like to sleep for a week and I knew if I went to work today and a customer said something shitty I might have said something shitty in return and so even though I probably risked my job by being sick again (twice in two weeks) it's better to risk it then give it up completely because of my skin being far too thin.

In any case it's nice to be wedged in here between these two just hanging out on a stormy Monday morning.

Especially if it involves planning weddings for other people. I feel like I may have missed my true calling here.

Habit.

Every day spent away with Caleb is usually followed by a day of deprogramming on the part of Batman, who will never accept Caleb's efforts to change or even try harder. Every gentle smile, every healthy suggestion from Caleb is met with suspicion by Batman as an attempt to fool all of us or suck us in only to bring us close enough to poison eventually. To Batman Caleb is a deadly flower with a beautiful bloom. To the unaware (or unprepared), it's when you lean in to smell the fragrant blossom that you realize you've just been poisoned from the fumes.

Oh. I see we're going to have a dramatic reading this Sunday. I wish you had let me prepare something in return. 

Don't be disdainful, Bridget. I just see how easy it is for him to catechiz you into making him the hero of your story when he's nothing of the kind. 

What is it going to take to make you see that people can change? You did. I try and give him credit, soften him a little, make them as alike as they always were. It's kind but cutting.

Did I? I don't know if I have. Authoritarian has shifted to honest at last and I reach him.

You have. At least, I think you have. 

Then listen to me and listen to Lochlan when we tell you to keep your guard up, or we'll have to. 

Noted-

It isn't noted, Bridget. I know you well-

Then you'll know that at any given moment I have an army at my fingertips. 

It's the taken moments I'm concerned with, not the given ones. 

Don't use my words against me. 

I'm trying to protect you. That's all. We'll change the subject. 

He starts talking about holiday parties but his efforts to keep me safe from thoughts of Caleb only serve to keep my attentions on precisely that.

The rest of the drive to church is silent, the only sound the wipers against the glass, grating smoothly across the windshield as we drive under bridges and trees, then sliding easily on the drops that come the moment we leave those temporary shelters.

Maybe if you're free later we could have a walk on the beach? Ah. He does know me after all.

I'd like that. 

Actually I watched and technically they made us long blacks, which I love them for.

Christmas shopping with Caleb is a bit hilarious. He stopped somewhere and ordered Americanos for us to drink while we shopped, which meant I spilled a little, burned my tongue right off the bat and was struggling to finish it even as I realized an hour later it was cold and somewhat not a great idea to have right after lunch.

Lunch was a leftover cinnamon bun that I had for breakfast earlier in the day, also as we had a long list and only a little time, further constricted by the fact that at every turn, if I stopped to look at something too long or said I liked something, Caleb would insist that he buy it for me and I had to talk him down from it every single time. It took ages and we weren't even finished when we were done and we ran out of daylight besides, pulling into the driveway just as the automatic dusk lights flickered warmly on, him profoundly frustrated by that time, and me worn to smithereens because I still have. this. fucking. cold.

But we did accomplish a little bit and anything else I can finish off overnight, as I'll probably still be awake.

Did you enjoy yourself? He texts me later.

You need to learn how to budget, I reply. You would spend a fortune if you buy everything you see that you like.

I don't. I only buy what YOU see that you like, he texts back.

I don't reply.

So it's a Bridget-budget, he texts. A Budget. A Bridget. A Bridgbut.

Give it up. You can't make a portmanteau out of that.

No I can't, he concedes and we're good.

I ducked underneath the basement stairs (fully finished, but it's a storage space) to pull out the big rubbermaid bins of Christmas lights and decorations. Ben resisted, saying they would look after it but none of them fit. Hell, it's a squeeze for me even. I pushed out four huge bins and then realized I was missing one and ducked back in for the last one, and whacked the top of my head squarely and with force against the concrete header. I thought it was painted drywall but nope. It's painted concrete. Christmas decor will now feature tiny birdies and stars circling Bridget's head because ow.

"Stardom can be a guilded (sic) slavery" -Helen Hayes.

I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off her love, drunk from her hate,
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love her the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me
She fucking hates me and I love it.
"Wait! Where you going?"
"I'm leaving you!"
"No you ain't. Come back."
We're running right back.
Here we go again
It's so insane 'cause when it's going good, it's going great
I'm Superman with the wind at his back, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful, I feel so ashamed I snap,
"Who's that dude?"
"I don't even know his name."

I'm just going to stand here and mark the time before I leap off the standard rotation of ballads and death metal into the vapid void of Christmas music, because this is how I roll. I know the moment I click the playlist I won't be able to shield my ears any longer. I've held out a little longer than normal because it's easy to let Lochlan pick the music or I fall into a void of a whole different genre.

(Shotgun shuts his cakehole)

In other news I've grown to be someone so anti-union only because it inconveniences me personally and risks the easy holiday of those I love and can't be with, which seems selfish, like everything else. Way back when I was little and they tried to unionize the show workers, Lochlan told me it was so everyone got paid enough, that we had the benefits we were supposed to have and deserved and so that we would be protected from the awful evil big bosses, the management, the underworld trying to peel a dollar off our backs even as we stood there and shivered and starved, stomachs growling like a thunder rumbling underneath the swelling music like a bass line.

I nodded. That's a really good idea. 

It is, Peanut. It means more for us. He smiled with his hollow cheekbones, starving in a way only teenage boys who never get enough to eat do.

(Oh, my heart.)

Now he still struggles to hold on to his weight but he also still believes in fighting for the little people, the workers, the bottom row front line of any war, corporate or otherwise and I have softened in crying that the world is against me in case my presents don't arrive at their intended targets in time.

It's a step back against the day and I remember who I am and what I came from and I call my loved ones to remind them that if the presents don't come, they will eventually.

Of course they will.

He was pleased with my nostalgia, and how I recalled being there, how I was able to pull myself back out of Caleb's mold, reshaping myself into the gritty little girl Lochlan remembers, the one he poured from that original mold that he made with his own hands, working nights, carving out small divots, forgetting other parts completely (I can't hear, I can't read maps, I can't make a poker face to save my soul, I couldn't save my soul, I can't breathe without affection, I can't pass up a piece of chocolate cake no matter how full I am.) and popping me out, proclaiming me perfect, even though I am far, far from it.

Noodles.

Dragged myself home last night, after asking to leave early and being refused (ha, we were short-handed so please please stay) and Caleb was making dinner. He made spaghetti with roast peppers and garlic bread and a really good wine that mixed well with my cold medicine, which kept wearing off so I would take more and I think I lost track of it completely and had to bail on cleanup help (with approval) so I staggered down to Ben's studio, where he had escaped to after dinner and came up behind him where he sat at the board and I threw my arms around him.

He reached up and pulled me right over his shoulder and into his lap.

See? It's the flannel! It's mag...nétique. 

Is that french, Bee?

Yes, I'm being fancy tonight. 

Ah, I see. It is magnetic. It attracted you. 

Like lint. 

Right. Warm and fuzzy. Little bit. 

Wow. Déjà vu.

Hmm? 

Lil' bit. I think it was the nickname Pa used for Laura in Little House on the Prairie. I could be wrong though. 

What on earth are you talking about?

Best books ever. You should read them. 

Okay. I'm going to escort you upstairs so you can go to bed. This cold has made you delirious. 

Right. But just a little bit. C'est magnifique. 

Christ on a pancake. 

We had those LAST night, remember? Speaking of food, do you want turkey for Thanksgiving? 

No, we've assimilated, remember? 

Oh, thank God. I'm too sick to plan a big fussy dinner this week.

(Update: It wasn't Little House. That nickname was Half Pint. Lil Bit was from Fried Green Tomatoes. Thank you Daniel.)

Hey I've gone viral.

Don't worry. I didn't stay with PJ very long. He was half asleep, but only the top half and didn't want to let me stay in my pajamas. I wanted to stay in my pajamas, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek, ignored his sleepy dismay and went back to my own room where I elbowed my way back to the centre of my bed where I belong and Lochlan pulled me in tight against him and told me somewhat thickly to stop wandering. But he was also hardly awake and so I don't know if he knew I left until later on when he repeated himself. That imprinting? It goes both ways. Even in his sleep he knows of my proximity. Even in his sleep he disapproves if it's too great.

But it's fine because I'm not in any trouble. I put on my big girl shoes and went to work today still sick and came home afterward to find the doctor already here.

Must be viral, he says after looking at my throat, listening to my lungs and generally absorbing all of the hand-wringing and concern of the boys who are all but despondent when I'm sick but somehow loathe to fix it. Sleep? Naw, wake her up. Stay home and rest? No way, there are things to do. Split up her chores? Why? We all have to pitch in around here.

Hide her fucking car keys?

(Yes, you should do that. Seriously.)

But no. So I went and withstood nine hours of complaints and rudeness while holding a hot pot of boiling liquid (and boy, are people brave to bitch when I'm doing that, don't you think?) and a little sweetness here and there and figured out some stuff as I do every day and now I'm home and I made at least three hundred pancakes (that's what it felt like) and cleaned the mirrors and ran the dishwasher and now my chores are done and I can finally, blissfully sleep.

With Lochlan, who reminded me not ten minutes ago that I wasn't to be wandering tonight. He said he'll light a fire and bring up a nightcap for us and it won't be so late or so long and we'll asleep.

I'm so looking forward to that I could cry.