I have a really childish love for that urban legend that starts with a burgled house and ends with a horrified family looking at pictures of masked burglars with the family toothbrushes up their butts. There's just something about that story that makes me giggle uncontrollably, and try to fit it into my life. When my grandfather's car was stolen, and they found it 2 weeks later with the Zamfir tapes intact, all I could think about were teenagers joyriding around the Jane-Finch corridor with panflute tapes up their asses. Little Spider left her digital camera in a bar last week, and my only consolation to her was at least she wasn't going to find it later, bundled up with her toothbrush.

Yeah, I know. Idiotic. I try so hard to be a sophisticated girl. Sometimes it's hard to tell anyone why I'm giggling so much.

This week came in like Ike Turner and, well, left like Ike as well. After I finished my little "life is crummy & hard" vignette in 4th period, the day put in another double punch to the gut and then gave me a mixed bouquet to apologize.

As 4th period ended, I realized that I had to go to the bathroom. The great thing about being with Sprout is that I always vaguely have to go to the bathroom - and when I really have to go, it takes over every decision-making synapse in my head. So I ran down the hall to the gym office, where there's a bathroom (and shower!). The halls were teeming with little delinquents, and one girl accidentally smacked my wrist with her oversized bag. I was still in motion when I discovered that my watch was gone. Former students gathered up the little pieces littering the hallway. My beloved Winnie the Pooh watch, with bees instead of numbers, has been stopped at 2 pm. Craptastic.

When I finally returned to the class, I yelled at my kids for starting the movie without me, then took attendance and settled in for the last half of "Bowling for Columbine." One student departed for the in-school Terry Fox Run. The rest of us watched with varying degrees of attention. And here's where the good part starts, the "I'm sorry baby" part of the day.

With 20 minutes to go before the end of the period, my Terry Fox participant knocks on the door. "We're done. Can I come in?"

"Of course," I said.

"...And can my friends come?" He added smoothly, indicating the half-dozen skatepunks in the hallway. I froze. This was against school rules, and more importantly, my personal standards. If you're not officially condemned to spend time with me, I don't want to see you. But it was late and it was Michael Moore and it was skatepunks (even if suburban) and I realized that I just didn't care.

"Come on in."

And that's how I gained a mixed bag of skatepunks into my class, the last period on a Friday.

Had a quick Coke at the local bar with my colleagues, then took the backroads to my parents' house to pick up the West Wing episode they had taped for us on Wednesday (when I was hanging out there to avoid being alone in the house with FCN). They had lent out the tape, so I drove to the Summers' house & heard all about the surprise party Mrs. Summers will be pitching for my mom's 50th birthday. (Fun.) By the time I got home, it was pushing 7 pm. I was famished, tired & more than a little cranky from the 2 hours of driving I'd just put in. Then I saw Peter's car in the driveway.

Oh shit, I thought. He's got eviction papers. We're going to have to take him to court.

The Boy met me at the door, but took off quickly to finish his conversation with Peter. I lay down in the bedroom and thought about moving. I bought the Endless Nights collection earlier in the week, but I haven't had a chance to read it. I was half-way through the Desire story when the Boy returned.

"We've had a breakthrough," he said quietly. "Peter is going to talk to her doctor about medication." Peter and FCN had had a big fight when he took our side, and she'd thrown him out of her apartment. He's sure that we're not smoking, and that the other complaints are probably groundless as well. The Boy took the diplomatic route, and pointed out that if she got help, she wouldn't be so very scared all of the time. And it's true. She's absolutely terrified. That doesn't excuse her behaviour one whit, but it's true nonetheless. I'd like to think that it's our conviction that she's sick and not evil that's kept us in the apartment, but I'm sure that inertia has something to do with it. Anyway, this development means that we're not fighting Peter & FCN anymore, and that there's a good chance she will get the help she needs.

Peter even complained that we're leaving. Can you imagine? In one week his daughter screams at me to "get the fuck out of [their] lives!" and a few days later, her father complains that we're going at the end of December. The Boy thinks that he's finally realized how valuable we are as tenants; not as cash sources, but as reasonable, trustworthy people who are extremely accommodating to his daughter.

I feel like a big weight's been taken off my chest.