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Apparently I haven’t had a whole lot to say about my favourite sport since the NHL playoffs began, which is funny… usually I end up trash-talking our opponents or posting endlessly about team stats or wanting to share every detail of every matchup. But something tells me if you wanted to know, you’d be watching. Yeah?

All that really needs to be said is this: I love hockey. I love playoff hockey. I love the Canucks. And we’re going all the way. Anyone who says otherwise or sits around bemoaning the inconsistencies in our game and spreading doom just needs to remember that IT’S A GAME. This is supposed to be FUN. Save your angst for your relationships or the price of gas.

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Catherine and I were guests of our lovely neighbour, Dean (dad of the very cute Presley, who has made an appearance here, and husband of Karen, who is one of those women who looks great in yoga pants and a ponytail. Dean, don’t worry, you’re still getting your very own entry!) at a great restaurant in Vancouver last night. He is one of the managers there, which means YAY! for us.

I think we sat there for almost two and a half hours, just enjoying watching the sun go down out huge windows, watching a cruise ship head out to sea, and eating THE BEST STEAK EVER WHOA. I have no idea how I’d function as a herbivore. If there was a plant that tasted like rack of lamb, I’d be all up in it. But sadly? It’s just the lambs that taste good with mint jelly, not bulbs or shoots or roots.

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My allergies have been wildly inconsistent this year. Some days, I feel like a normal human being, while other days bring giant golf ball puff-eyes and a water-torture nose. I’m on a peculiar cocktail of sinus medication, nasal sprays and two kinds of antihistamines, and sometimes I wonder if my body is trying to find extra allergens just to compensate for the giant wave of cure and prevention I’ve set in motion. But without it, I’m barely able to function through the pain and swelling in my face.

I do know that I’m tired of having a gravelly, congested voice for five, six months of the year. I also know that I’m tired of health crap in general. I don’t want to listen to my sinuses creak like an old house first thing in the morning, or wonder if someday my husband will smother me in the night because I can’t help snoring. I don’t want to have odd skin conditions. I don’t want to deal with asthma attacks. I don’t want a body shaped like mine.

I’m also really tired of reading scare tactic articles about the dangers of hormone replacement, especially when it’s my only hope of being a normal 33 year-old woman. I don’t want to think about infertility anymore, not when everyone around me is glorying in theirs. And I know that I need to get into better condition in general, but sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible to be anything other than this. Then I smack myself in the head.

And I think, “You could have cancer. You could be unable to walk. You could have a disease with a far greater impact on your existence.” That’s what forces me to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Unfortunately, it does not eliminate snot.

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I have to learn not to take the bait from rude people quite as much as I do. Must. Not. React. I always wanted to be one of those cheerful and sage people that don’t seem to have any major buttons to push. How do they do that? Is it medication?

I just don’t get willful rudeness or meanness or ignorance. If you can’t show people grace and kindness, please just… shhh.

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There. Brain clear.