Today was one of those fall days when the sky is dark and heavy; there was such a strong wind that I was overcome with that feeling that the whole world was wild, and no amount of will or wishing on my part would impose any other order on it. I love days like this. I haven’t been out of the house much in the past two days, looking after my flu stricken family – a four year old with a fever has a stronger grip on you than you could ever imagine.

We’re not entirely out of the woods – her flu started sometime in the middle of Tuesday night, but 2 and half days later she suddenly got up from the couch and started bossing me around again, demanding I read her books and putting her feet in my face as I was doing so. Her return to herself seemed almost overly dramatic. Of course I’m going to keep an eye on her, or rather, an ear out for any rattling breaths or difficulty breathing, but part of me can’t help feeling a little pissed off at all the hoopla that had me awake at 4 a.m. terrified that my daughter was going to die. She was inseparable from a friend at Halloween who was just diagnosed with H1N1, and if that was it, well, it certainly wasn’t pleasant for her, but it wasn’t the worst flu she’s had.

I did manage to get out of the house long enough to play another game where our forwards were heavily under attack, this time from the first place team who had not lost a game yet – I guess they didn’t take too kindly to the idea of losing. Our “A line” in particular (a trio hot both on and off the ice – there, Jacinthe, you can’t complain that I never mention you in my blog) was subjected to all kinds of hits and slashes and crosschecks, and I can’t help but wonder why we’re leading in penalty minutes (40 minutes’ worth in 9 games, 12 of them mine) when it feels like we’re getting bullied every game, seriously. Pretty much all of my penalties have been in retaliation for dirty plays like punches or crosschecks from behind the second the puck goes in and the whistle has gone. But probably the real reason is this (because I’ve noticed it too) – we are averaging about four goals a game, we’re outshooting them nearly three to one, they can’t get past our forwards in the neutral zone, (knock on wood!), and yes, it sounds like I’m bragging a bit, but the truth is I am in awe of how good our team has suddenly become, and its more fun than you can imagine to be a part of it.

My kids have been pretty obsessed with this t.v. show lately, and I have to limit the amount of time they spend watching it, because they pretty much want to watch it all the time. The hardest thing about that is that I love it too. But when your 3 year old (ok, almost 4) twirls around in the middle of a crowded restaurant, singing at the top of her lungs “Too Many Dicks on the Dance Floor”, you do have to pause for a second and wonder whether its really all that appropriate. But how can I stop her when I can’t stop myself?

To be honest though, I have to say that I prefer her liking Flight of the Conchords to the Little Mermaid – I had a discussion with her Swedish Grandma about how disturbing I found that movie, how much she changes herself to find her prince (although my husband counters that what the prince really loves about her is what is essentially unchangeable, her voice), and every time I read the book to her I can barely contain my disgust. What really appeals to my daughter about FOTC is the songs (her current favorite: If You’re Into It), and probably the fact that the rest of her family almost passes out laughing watching it. It’s pretty damn funny that she likes to pretend we’re the great romantic figures in her world – she’s Sleeping Beauty, I’m Prince Derek, she’s Ariel, I’m Prince Eric, she’s Coco, I’m Bret. Sally doesn’t figure in because she broke their hearts but Brahbrah, well, there’s no such name as Brahbrah.

She doesn’t get that there’s only what may be the very last 3 episodes in the world or that the only tickets left to their Vancouver show are 4 times the price because Ticketmaster is scalping their own tickets and therefore we can’t afford to go, and for this, at least, I’m happy.

And I just had to share with you my favorite song thus far (I don’t think I will ever find it not funny how they twirl around at the end!):

One of the big campaign promises from Vancouver’s mayor (whom I voted for) was ending homelessness, and contrary to all promises, the city has just kicked us out of our home. The owner of our rental passed away recently with no will and I mistakenly imagined that there would have to be an amount of time that passed before the city, the trustee, could sell. What if an heir turned up? I guess I was wrong.

What’s a little more insulting is that we haven’t actually had official word from the city, we just had realtor Barbara (BrahBrah) Graham call up to ask if it was ok to show it this Sunday. During dinner, yet – I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone.

Brahbrah seemed to be slightly affronted that this Sunday was not convenient, like I was just saying it to get back at her because I was pissed and NOT because I’m having my in-laws over for a brunch like we do every year when they visit us from Montreal, so we can also invite over those friends that we’re closest to and share what our lives are like when they’re not visiting us.

Why does the city have to kick us out of the place where my daughter was born? There’s a property manager, its not like they even have to look after it. No, they’d rather move us all out into the street. It’s looking pretty likely that the best possible outcome will be finding a basement suite for double the amount we’re paying now somewhere way the hell out so that my son will have to change schools and we’ll have to buy a car just so we can get anywhere.

I shake my fist at you, Gregor Robertson.