Blue box here I come…

Dear Alex Burrows,

As you should very well know (given the hundreds of love  fan letters I’ve written to your bud Ryan Kesler, and before him Jovo and Linden) I have long been a Vancouver Canucks fan. Not once have I jumped off the bandwagon like most Vancouverites are akin to do – not once. Not when Bure left town. Not during the West Coast Express letdown. Not during the many failed attempts against the likes of Jonathon Toews, Brent Seabrook and that oh-so-cocky Patrick Kane. I stood by you guys, thick and thin, I didn’t throw Luongo to the wolves when pucks were getting by him like water through a sieve, I stood up for him. I stood up for all you. But last night, Mr. Burrows, I almost gave up. For the first time in my Canucks loving history, I had almost had enough, was like a nose away from setting my love for you all a sail. Do you blame me? When I heard Shorty’s voice scream, with less than two minutes to go in the third period of the final game of the first series against those no-good Blackhawks, that that  filthy Marion Hossa had gotten away with yet another breakaway, leading to Toews tying the game, that was it. I was done. I’ll admit. I screamed. I cursed. I may have even had a tear or two. I pounded my steering wheel, slammed my radio off and drove in sniffled silence. I did not turn the radio back on, I feared the bing of my phone notifying me of game over, but after just a few minutes, my anger turned back into hope. Quietly I started chanting: “Go Canucks Go… come on Canucks… let’s finish this already… let’s kick some Chicago ass!” The chants got louder, the excitement and fear in my belly was twisting, I believed. And you, my friend, came through. So, my dear Alex Burrows, I thank you for keeping me the most stalkerish devoted fan … please don’t call the cops like Cloutier did when I park outside your house with binoculars. I’m just looking at the stars 😉

Sincerely, Princess.

The Vancouver Canucks didn’t make it easy for us fans, going up 3-0 in the series, and plummeting so far down with Chicago forcing a Game 7 and overtime. After losing Game 6, my heart was so wrenched and I didn’t know if I could go through another game that felt more like a  B-rated horror flick than a hockey game. But when I found out I had a school board meeting to cover last night, I was appalled that I wouldn’t be seeing the game, how could they possibly schedule a meeting on game night? Seriously? But, thanks to laptops and the Internet, I may have been watching the game, but making it look as though I was writing breaking news! Up next: Nashville. Carrie Underwood, your husband is going down!

TONIGHT’S AQUA JOG:

• 5:30 p.m. BG before: 6.4
• Temp. basal: -100 per cent (1 hour)
• Time: 30 minutes
• 6:30 BG after: 6.1
• Temp. basal: +50 per cent (1 hour)

So last night’s win had me over the moon, but a text I got at 7 a.m. this morning from one of the Triplets of Runnersville had me dancing on Pluto. I GOT IN!!! it read. I gasped, literally gasped, and quickly opened my email to discover that I GOT IN TOO!!!

I’m in baby! The Nike Women’s Marathon (also known as the Tiffany’s Race) is one of the hardest races to get into, it’s so popular they have a lottery system in place, and this year, it had the most registrants for the lottery. I formed a team with my favourite chicks, but I wasn’t holding out too much hope, and I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t be overly heartbroken if we didn’t get in given that I’m going to be in San Francisco two weeks prior to this race for Mario’s gran fondo, and my wallet would probably love me more if I didn’t get accepted. But really, who was I kidding. This race is the race for me. Any race that ends with a Tiffany’s necklace  – that’s right, a TIFFANY’S NECKLACE!!! – is worth being heartbroken over. Good thing I don’t have to be. Oh happy day!

If you could do any race anywhere, which one would you choose and why?