Trust a Sweet Tooth to Satisfy Your Needs

Who knew I would become such a domestic goddess (minus acquiescing to constant requests that I learn to make and enjoy my own coffee -- not going to happen -- maybe when I live in a sprawling bungalow overlooking the ocean somewhere the temperature never drops below 25 and I have bittersweet, Belgian chocolate and a fancy schmancy espresso machine with which to whip up my morning mocha -- maybe then)? Amidst tending to my feverish Maya's less-than stellar weekend of sickness, I made it to the weekly downtown farmer's market and gathered a stroller full of organic goodies so I could try and turn my little monster back into a sweet princess with a little home-baking. Few things make home more enticing than sugar and spices wafting through the air (a housekeeper, a nanny and a replica of the closet Big had made for Carrie would be up there, but I'm not delusional, just optimistic).

I made a chocolate-pumpkin-walnut cake with the aesthetic appeal of a magazine dessert that tasted like heaven; anything that starts with the word "chocolate" is usually a safe bet. Maya spread some in her hair and kept trying to lick crumbs off her fingers even after I washed her hands, so I know my culinary efforts met with her approval. I took some with me to Starbucks to accompany my morning mocha and the guy next to me (yes, I noticed you watching me) was visibly jealous.

Over years of carefully acquired knowledge (none of which came from my own less-than- domestic parents), I've come to trust only in the kitchen capabilities of people who love to eat. Just as the strongest teachers are the ones who really love the yoga and take class often, one is generally not able to concoct something palate-pleasing unless she appreciates a broad spectrum of flavours and spices and how they can complement each other. No offense to generations past, but lard need not ever be in a baker's arsenal; there are a number of other, more physique-friendly, oils and fats with which to make divine delights.

So, a very enthusiastic thumbs-up for my latest domestic effort; I can add this success to my vegan chocolate peanut butter cups and far-from-vegan dark devil brownies -- all of which are perfect indulgences to work off in the hot room. Stuff yourself too full of goodies and just work a little harder in forward-bending compression postures. "Pain kills the pain; poison kills the poison." However true our guru's words are, now having been coerced into finding my latent domesticity, I still haven't put to rest that part of me that would really rather let that sentiment live only in the sweat box and hire someone else to be domestic for me....maybe one day.

Take It Easy Honey

Regaling inquiring minds with stories of Teacher Training is always an interesting experience. A particular challenge is trying to justify why we put our minds, bodies and souls through such extreme conditioning. After the important assurance that, no, we did not spend nine weeks being brainwashed in a cult-like fashion, the imperative message to our students should be one of compassion.

We took class twice a day with very little sleep, packed into a room like sardines in a can, in scorching temperatures and humidity so thick you could see it hanging wet and stagnant for more than our own mental, physical and emotional growth; we raked ourselves over the coals of hell and back so we could understand, as much as possible, the spectrum of what students experience in their practice. Some of us became severely dehydrated and were carried out of the room to be given an IV; a few of us seized up in a paralytic state as a result of electrolyte imbalance; more than a couple of trainees tossed their cookies in and directly outside of the room; most of us (at some point) had to sit or lie down in the middle of a class; almost all of us got called out by Bikram for giving less than we were capable of or even giving too much. In the end, no matter the age, size, shape, background, level of fitness or years of practice, 90 percent of us made it through 11 classes a week for nine weeks.

The worst teachers are the ones who forget what they went through to be given the privilege of teaching this yoga; the ones who take their own practice for granted. To be good at anything requires practice -- and commitment. How am I supposed to take care of students if I'm not intimately acquainted with both their triumphs and challenges?

A couple of days ago (I believe in balance and have come to see the weekend as a time in which rich food and martinis replace sweating it out in the hot box) I decided to practice sick; normally this would not be a big deal at all, apart from the fact that this particular illness was a pretty intense, feverish, snot waterfall, can't-breath- through-my-nose situation. I'd been feeling like death warmed up all week and having only practiced once, I thought I'd better get my butt on the mat; not such a hot idea after all.

I stood in the centre of my towel, with my toes and heels together, interlaced my ten fingers, tried to inhale through my nose and drowned halfway through the first breath. I got stuck halfway. I was stricken with panic, as I sputtered my way through the last three seconds. After calming down, I swallowed a couple of times and made another attempt at inhaling through my nose -- nothing. Visions of looking up at the instructor apologetically and sheepishly making my way out of the room crept into my mind. Eventually, I slowed my breathing down (the tortoise always wins the race right?), pushed past the panic, the room cooled a bit and my breath began to move a little smoother.

What seemed like moments later, lying in final savasana, overcome with relief that I hadn't needed to leave the room (or suffocated, requiring Aimee to hop off the podium and give me CPR), I thought, there's a time to "push, push, push" and a time to "take it easy honey." For the first time, I really understood what it's like for people who say they simply can't breathe in the room (like my husband whom I thought was being lazy when he told me his deviated septum made it impossible for him to enjoy Bikram). I had never experienced panic in the room before, and, unable to nose-breathe, been powerless to dampen it.

Being of the disposition to generally only partake in things that are more pleasure than pain, this particular experience in the "torture chamber" that, for the first time, actually felt like torture was one of learning. If you need a little tlc and you know you have a better chance finding it on the couch watching Pride and Prejudice with a box of kleenex and a cup of tea, no problem; take it easy honey.

True Love Should Last a Lifetime

Sitting over a mocha in one of the best (and only) independent coffee shops in Edmonton, admiring the lovely (however standard) leaf design carved into my foam by the artfully inclined Transcend Barista, I start to reminisce about the days in which my own artistic inclinations were satiated.

Five years old in the suburban ghetto of Delta, BC, it was common for me to steal Mommy's lipstick, paint it on myself, and adorn the pursed plastic lips of my unfortunate Barbie collection. Getting dressed in the morning was a battle between Mommy and me, as I was always disappointed with my lack of options and would go through at least five or six costume changes a day.

I regularly paraded my pint-sized posse around, commanding the attention of unsuspecting neighbours with intricately choreographed performances of Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now". Spoons really can make excellent microphones (even in recent years when Nicki and I have had impromptu Mariah Carey concerts in her kitchen).

Catering to my theatrical tendencies, my parents enrolled me in an intensive dance program and a touring choir that fostered my desire to be seen and heard up until the end of high school, at which point they struck me with the hard reality that I would have to suspend my passions and work the drive-thru at MacDonald's so I could put myself through university.

Why did I go to university in the first place? I don't know, peer pressure? It's not like UBC has a great performing arts program. I went because my parents wanted me to amount to something; my boyfriend wanted me to go with him -- there's always a guy involved. My husband snagged me at university; other than meeting him, expanding my circle of friends and learning how to party like a rock star, university didn't prove all that useful.

If only my parents had dreamed a little bigger for me. In all fairness, I can see how a cop and an elementary school teacher might not have understood the innate desire their daughter had to shine brighter than she could in the burbs of Hollywood North. If only I'd dreamed a little bigger for myself.

Now, with the choices I've made, I'm not exactly in the ideal situation to run around the world trying to make it as a professional singer or dancer. I'm Maya's Mommy, and right now, that is my most important role. But every now and then, in the audience at the ballet or watching So You Think You Can Dance, I feel a spark ignite within.

Last night, during this season's first audition round on SYTYCD, I was transfixed. I actually cried during a contemporary piece danced by someone whose love for her craft was tangible in her every movement. Maya, nestled in my arms with her digestif of vanilla soy milk, looked up at me to make sure I wasn't losing it. I reassured her with an animal cracker and thought, "everyone occasionally wonders what might have been; but is it really enough for me just to wonder?"

Bikram would smile slyly at me and impart one of his favourites -- "It's never too late; you're never too old to start from scratch and try again."

At least three years having passed since I was even dropping into a studio for a couple of classes a week, picking up one of my true loves again will be starting from scratch. Any artistic discipline demands tremendous commitment, but so does anything worth having.

My passion is hungry and I think I'm ready to feed it again. It'd be pretty satisfying to dust off the point shoes I have sitting pretty on my nightstand and actually put them back on -- even if it takes a while. If I train hard enough, I could teach, maybe even perform with a group of retirees.

Even when I'm out at a bar, on one of my always fantastic, too few and far between nights, dancing with my nearest and dearest, I start to taste the fulfillment again. Isn't our whole existence about genuine satisfaction? Finding what makes us truly happy and making it as much a part of our lives as possible? That's why I try and infuse even the mundane with as much pleasure as possible. A mocha a day helps; I swear it makes life in Edmonton better; If I can accomplish that with a coffee, I can only imagine the affects of bringing dance back into my life.

But enough about me. I wasn't always this self-involved...no, wait; yes I was. But aren't you the most important person in your life? I hope so.

I Decry Your Self-Deprecation -- So Stop It!

Women play into the stereotypes men have created for them so well sometimes, their banality is just plain irritating.

Lingering over my mocha (which the barista drizzled extra chocolate over for an added touch of love) this morning, I was sitting across from a table of moms whose chatter was so maddening, listening to them was like watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians -- mind-numbing, but impossible to ignore. It was as if a script had been written for their interaction. Filtering into Starbucks, they complimented each other's appearance (which came across as completely in-genuine), then proceeded to gossip about whomever had gone to order their coffee. When all were seated and settled, each began to tear themselves apart; spouting self-deprecating gems like, "how did you get so skinny" and "I'm just fat; I'll always be fat cause I can't stop eating bread and pasta." Ladies, did you ever stop to consider it may not be the carb-loading that's responsible for your body's tendency to resemble a baby rhinoceros? Maybe it's the bullshit bashing of yourselves that encourages you to wallow in your destructive habits. Interesting that you spent the remainder of your time together idolizing another poor example of healthy habits, Oprah.

To hear these ladies mourn (tears and all) the passing of Oprah's final talk-show season, shed some serious light into exactly why they are a bitter, nattering group of bitches whose husbands rule the roost and children seem to provide the only meaning in their lives.

Sure, Oprah is responsible for a tremendous amount of positive change in the world, but she's certainly not a picture of mental or physical health; if she were, the most talked-about aspect of her entire career would not have been her constant battle with weight.

With whom we choose to surround ourselves will always have some impact on our lifestyle choices. Emulating and idolizing another daytime diva, Ellen, who spends the opening of her show shaking her vegan booty around the studio and encouraging her audience to do the same, seems like a better option for a group of women who spent the better part of an hour call themselves "fat."

Men might be conscious of their dietary choices and their resulting figures, but certainly not to the same degree as women, and if they are, they certainly don't make it apparent; the yoga room is such an interesting forum for such observation. Men will come in, balls to the wall, and let it all hang out, six-pack, beer gut, or cream puff physique, set themselves up anywhere in the room (sometimes to the right of a cute woman, whose bum they can get a good face full of in standing-separate-leg-stretching pose) and serve themselves a healthy dose of acceptance that seems to stick with them throughout the sweat fest and beyond.

I bet men don't finish class and head straight for the scale in the change room (which is totally pointless because the body loses at least a couple pounds of water during practice). We're not at the gym lifting weights, which is the only fitness situation in which I understand the interest in hopping on the scale. I could take that scale and smash it; but, it's not my studio and I don't really feel like pissing off the owner. For now, I'll just periodically comment on how random it is to have a scale in a yoga studio; maybe one day it will mysteriously disappear.

I wish the group of women who came into Starbucks on the train of self-hatred this morning had disappeared. Listening to the stockbrokers behind me try to outdo one another, comparing who made more money, went on more luxurious vacations and drove the sweetest car was (however predictable) far more palatable.

I like to think if my girlfriends and I ever have nothing better to discuss than how unfortunate looking we are and how badly we feel about ourselves, it might be time to get new girlfriends.

Overexposure

Class this morning was full of rosy cheeks, flushed scarlet from both exertion and embarrassment; the latter may have been because, in an effort to decrease the amount of body-concealing apparel my students practice in, I mentioned the recent resurgence of naked yoga -- that's right, naked.

Practicing in the buff is not something I talk about to make my students feel uncomfortable; in fact, I plant the idea in their heads to encourage comfort through discomfort; it's like going through hell to get to heaven. You've got to put yourself out there if you're really going to see yourself. You've got to practice in the front row from time to time, stare at yourself in the mirror for 90 minutes and sport a teeny tiny costume, no matter what shape and size you are, because guess what, if you aren't happy with your shape and size, good luck trying to change it if you can't even see it.

Trust me, by covering that Buddha belly, you are doing yourself a disservice. Even if you think you are (as instructed) compressing your abdominal wall & contracting your abdominal muscles, unless you can see them, don't be so sure. Do you ever look around the room (even though you know you shouldn't) and see someone practicing in long shorts or pants, smiling away as they balance in tree pose, hands in namaskar, without their foot slipping? Don't be jealous, she's cheating; she's using fabric to hold her foot up there instead of inner thing strength and missing out on lean muscle building. Maybe she doesn't care bikini season is upon us, but I do.

This is where the idea of naked yoga comes in; what a great way to remove yet another distraction from the practice. Without a costume (as Bikram likes to call yoga outfits), there is nothing to hide behind, readjust, or use as a crutch. All this time, I thought naked yoga was merely an idea, until my Grandpa called to tell me about the new Skyclad Yoga studios opening in Victoria he'd happened upon in the local paper. Initially I thought, this is surely some instructor's idea of satirical journalism; nope, it's the real deal.

Apparently, Skyclad Yoga has been operational in Vancouver since 2006. Not only that, but people actually partake in this experience. I suppose it must be only for the truly free spirited. It's one thing to use the idea of yoga au natural as a way to hone student discipline and concentration; it's a whole other unfathomable reality to imagine oneself rocking out standing bow-pulling pose with a big set of balls in the face. No thanks.

For now, let's keep our bits and pieces contained. As long as we wear barely-there costumes and practice up front, we can get what we need from our practice. The need to go totally nude seems a bit like an exhibitionist cry for attention.

Judging Those Who Refuse to Judge Themselves

Sometimes I simply cannot help it; I look at bodies for a living -- correct, adjust and push them. Really, I'm one judgmental bitch; but only in a good way. People pay me to judge them and the ones who, on occasion, choose to avoid my critical eye - -they hide in the back. I don't care either way; I only want to take care of whatever ails you. Maybe you want to lose weight, gain weight, lose yourself for a couple of hours, gain focus, build strength, determination and patience; maybe you just want to hang out with people who are of the same mind -- people who are willing to help themselves become the best version of who they are. Whatever you want to work on, if you come to me or any of our sweaty family, you already know pain kills the pain and poison kills the poison, so we'll take care of you...no problem.

Anyone who has partaken in any kind of practice, art, or conditioning of any kind that involves looking in the mirror understands it is of the utmost importance, but only if you can truly see yourself. Bikram loves to alight the mind when he reminds us, "The darkest place can be under the light."

As I sat enjoying my mocha this morning, choosing to accompany it with oatmeal (because life is all about balance), the woman who squeezed in next to me struck me as someone who could really use a little judgement. I thought, "What does she see when she looks in the mirror every day?" I hope it's something along the lines of, "I've got lovely curves but am dangerously at risk of developing heart disease, dropping dead, or squishing my next sexual partner unless I drop a few of the spare tires I'm carrying around my middle." Judging based solely on her "large, whole milk hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant" order, I'm assuming her mind-body connection is a little in need of an adjustment. The visual of watching this woman down the indulgent pairing of fat on fat, without a hint of hesitation, actually made me physically ill. I thought, you my dear, are slowly killing yourself. I wish I could tell you, but as you have not solicited my abrupt, but honest advice, for now I'll have to share my frustrations in a different forum.

How did the weakness of the mind become such a neglected health concern that people are battling addictions to food or starving themselves, getting their stomachs stapled because they can't overcome the greediness governing what they put in their mouths? It's a little sick, isn't it?

Awareness is everything. We're having a nutritionist give a talk in a few days to anyone interested. To those we feel might benefit hearing her advice more than others, we offer gentle encouragement to make an appearance.

Everyone requires a little judgement from time to time, internally or from an outside source. Maybe at coffee this morning, I should have leaned over and gently mentioned to the morbidly obese woman stuffing her face with baked butter, "Have you ever tried this lovely organic oatmeal I buy? It complements heavier drinks like hot chocolate really well without making me feel too full." And maybe this suggestion would have been met with a swift slap across the face or a delightful obscenity hurled my way, but maybe I would have, if not changed her life, given her something upon which to reflect the next time she looks in the mirror.

Cover-up is a Girl's Best Friend

Life is short, so eat your chocolate, do your yoga and let the benefits abound.

Because humankind can not live on chocolate alone for complete nutrition, I have devised an infallible system by which to consume veggies at every meal (expect for breakfast, which is of course a time for mochas and pastries); The only way for me to eat my greens is to cover them in something divine; camouflage their banality, kind of like making oneself palatable in public by wearing makeup.

I dress my spinach, kale, bok choy, broccoli, celery and asparagus in salty, crunchy peanut butter. Believe it or not, peanut butter goes with everything. It's an incredible super-food; nutritious, delicious, easily spreadable and the perfect complement to my daily chocolate fix. Even when Maya is sick enough to completely lose interest in eating, I can give her a spoonful of peanut butter and she'll lick it clean.

If you're allergic to peanuts, try tahini, coconut, or honey. I come from a family whose idea of home-cooking is bringing home MacDonald's or sticking a TV dinner in the microwave, so these tricks enable me to eat healthy and actually enjoy it, because otherwise what's the point? And hey, I'm turning 30 next year, I'm in the best shape of my life and I haven't gotten scurvy yet, so I must be on the right track.

Even when I overdo it on the chocolate and fail to keep my intake of foliage a top priority, I can always step in the hot box and sweat it out. The lean muscle building powers and increased blood circulation from practicing regularly also leave room for a few glasses of wine or margaritas -- or the wedding parties I've got coming up that may require a little extra detox. Pleasure is always worth a little pain.

Focus...of Sorts

Sending out an SOS for halva cups! Last night's down-time tragically culminated in devouring the last of my favourite Vancouver dessert. Not only was it my last halva-filled, cashew-topped cup of divine dark chocolate from my go-to bakery, but Maya made me share it with her; and because every mother knows, what's mine is always theirs, I knew trying to deny her would be futile.

So this morning, as I stood in line at Starbucks, ready to order my mocha, I was a little disheartened this would be my only decent chocolate consumption all day. At least I'd have the endorphine rush from Bikram to compensate. I needed whatever I could get; I was in full-on MOH planning mode.

During "Adonis" Dave's class today (most of the male Bikram Instructors in particular are chiseled perfection -- excellent visual focal points when holding difficult balancing postures), as my brain buzzed with ideas for the two bachelorette parties I am currently orchestrating and visions of penis cakes and pole-dancing classes cluttered my head, Dave reminded us to "Always practice with breath, focus and strength;" this advice applied perfectly to my VIP status in the weddings of two of the most important ladies in my life.

As I lay there in savasana, momentarily giving up on quieting my mind, I thought, "I've known these girls more than half my life, so the parties I throw for them had better reflect such epic friendships. If I can't be in this moment, during dead body pose, in total mind-body stillness, at least I can plan killer events with breath, focus and strength; and maybe that means putting together something that is more of what they like and who they are than what I would put together for myself -- so perhaps a pole-dancing class is best attended another time. Doesn't mean we all won't enjoy as many shots of Patron as we can tolerate while strutting around town in our most sensible, six-inch stilettos.

Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing

One of the principles by which Bikram encourages all of his students to govern themselves has lately been dancing in my head. The last time I heard him lecture, albeit half-asleep from practicing a killer class in the dry heat of Palm Desert with 350 of my closest yogi friends, a few pearls of his limitless wisdom stuck with me: "Knowledge is nothing unless you know how to use it.' This is why we're peeps, Bikram; we get each other, on a cellular level; deeper than the level of grey matter most people use way too much of to function, failing to remember the importance of the fist-size red matter a foot below it. Inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes, I understand the necessity of mushing the grey and the red stuff together and coming out with a pink matter; a perfect marriage between what we know and what we think we know.

It's always fascinating observing the ways in which instructors and practitioners take the knowledge they are given and choose to use it. Some of the newer students of Bikram try it, love it and immediately seek out a faster, cheaper alternative. They'll head to Moksha (who, FYI, was a student of Bikram, from whom he ripped off the eerily similar but less challenging brand of yoga upon which he built his own empire) and once they are practicing hour-long classes with varied sequences of postures in balmy temperatures, they shy away from the smokin' hot, 90-minute, set-posture sequence of Bikram's torture chamber; thus, they shy away from total transformation, the kind that occurs on a cellular level and lasts a lifetime. These newbies think they know better; they have taken the knowledge we gave them, found it overwhelming and forgotten one of Bikram's most infamous teachings, "You have to go through Hell to get to Heaven."

Lately, it seems as though a number of teachers have also forgotten why Bikram calls his class the "torture chamber." In some of the classes I've taken, I've heard no more than a few words of Bikram's dialogue, let alone the precise script instructors are trained to follow. I've experienced rooms below the standard temperature, silent classes, candlelit classes, no carpet, students coming and going as they please. The dialogue is a script, intended to be read exactly as it is written; the room is hot, humid, bright and carpeted; the ambiance is one of disciplined focus. Every aspect of the class is designed to decrease distraction and increase meditation; if the continuity is broken, the mediation is lost. As Bikram would say, "Think of it."

Underneath the Tarnish -- It's Perfect

Why are we constantly trying to fix things that aren't broken? I don't mean chipped, sullied or flawed in some way; I mean really broken. It all comes down to drama, drama, drama. We live for it; We, being every human being I have ever encountered, but more often those who are searching for some sort of betterment outside themselves because they cannot find it within.

We are always enhancing ourselves and our surroundings. Nothing is ever good enough in its natural state (don't get me wrong, I wouldn't step foot in Starbucks without at the very least having applied mascara, and coffee is meant to have chocolate in it); the very things that keep us waking up every morning and finding purpose to continue doing so, like our relationships, are up for relentless scrutiny. You'd think we'd learn to appreciate some of the things we have in our lives (as Mark Darcy would say) just as they are; but of course, we don't.

My relationship with my husband has recently been on the chopping block for reasons that are purely circumstantial; meaning reasons that are actually unimportant. Circumstances change, people not so much -- not really anyways. I've come to realize I don't want to change my husband, or even the way he has chosen to interact with me since the beginning of his inhumanly taxing foray into becoming a surgeon. I don't want him to change his professional aspirations either; I want to change the circumstances in which we have been forced to achieve them. I want to have him home, awake and communicative more than an hour or two at a time. I want him to make more than five dollars an hour for laboring until he is undernourished and suffering exhaustion. I want him to find the time and energy to exercise again so he might resemble someone closer to Thor than Scott Pilgrim.

I know some of the things I want for him and us will come to fruition when the insanity of residency is over. I just have to remember -- these things I feel need fixing are results of circumstance, not of who he is and what we have or don't have in our relationship. We're not broken; we just need to take a few deep breaths together -- naked, sipping margaritas on a beach in Mexico, remembering how we came together in the first place.

Romance Redefined

Just to give you an idea as to the current level of passion in my life, I'll tell you what my stubbornly sensible husband gave me for Mother's Day -- a laptop. That's right; my one and only gave me an ever so delicately feminine, sturdy, black beast of a laptop. In all fairness, it was intended as a gift in support of my creative interests, or as he put it, a necessity; a medium for the incarnation of my best-selling novel that would take us from drowning in debt to swimming in the waters of our private beach in front of our sprawling 5-bedroom bungalow in Hawaii.

Up until yesterday, I was writing on an ancient notebook at which I had to impersonate The Hunchback and squint to get any work done; a little ghetto, but I didn't mind. As long as I could produce the small fortune required to appease my daily mocha addiction and keep me humming along happily, I made due. I never asked for an upgrade, but the gesture in support of my professional aspirations as an artiste, although exceedingly bereft of the romance called for by such an occasion as this one (celebrating not only the nine months I endured growing a human being inside me and the physical and emotional scars I was left with, but the responsibility I have taken on to nurture and cherish this being forever -- even when I don't feel like it) was appreciated. I suppose I'll just have to buy a pink case for it.

Fortunately, it wasn't all sense and sensibility in the Levy household. I knew not to expect much in the way of frivolity. I did, however, receive a dozen roses accompanied by a card from father and daughter cute enough to display on the fridge (the platform on which I display all my fine art and anything sentimental that will adhere via magnet). Of course the itinerary I had planned allowed for further romantic opportunities to unfold (sipping mochas on my patio of choice followed by a walk along the river and a delightfully indulgent lunch somewhere with impeccable service and food worth the wait and the contribution to our debt). As every parent knows, however, the best-laid plans are pointless with child in tow. On this particular day, our petite princess woke with a runny nose, sore throat and a disposition to match. We quickly laid our day of dalliance to rest, pumped her full of Tylenol, grabbed our mochas to go, took a drive around the river and came home to spend the rest of the day on the couch glued to whatever our PVR had recorded all week. In the end, I thought the day a smashing success. The three of us were happiest snuggled in sweats and each other anyways.

Somewhat Self-Indulgent

Fresh off a two-week trip to Vancouver (the place I still call home and continue to insist I am "from" whenever asked), I thought I'd leave today fairly uncluttered. My reason for leaving a city so popular it sells dilapidated shacks in sketchy neighbourhoods for no less than $1 million and agreeing to spend five years in Edmonton is on-call today, so I am totally and completely on my own getting our darling little diva out the door and dropped off at daycare.

Why surgical residency programs choose to refer to twice-weekly 3o-hour shifts as "on-call" escapes me. I suppose it makes them sound as if they are not taking eager medical school graduates and turning them into hapless zombies. At least he has remained an enthusiastic daddy. He may not have time or energy to spend on his oft-neglected partner, but what parent does? Only the ones who are lying.

Having a flair for the dramatic from the moment I arrived earth and spent the first year of my life screaming in my parents' ears, giving them no indication as to why, I tend to crave attention; so it's only natural that my darling daughter would as well. And even if her doting daddy fails to notice his beguiling wife prancing around in lacy booty shorts as if this is how she normally does the dishes, at least he is making our little princess feel important. In all fairness, it's impossible to ignore someone so sweetly manipulative in her constant vying for attention. A few tears and she can be denied nothing save having to sit on her sweet little fanny pleading to be held while Mommy gets herself ready; I may be exceptionally talented, but I can only do so much with one arm while carrying 20 pounds in the other.

Coiffed and ready to present ourselves to the world, 20 minutes later (okay 45, but I don't want to sound too high-maintenance) Peanut and I are comfortably settled in the car grooving to Rihanna as we make our way to daycare.

What's up next for me? Coffee, of course. Unless I'm waking up on a beach in Mexico in a town so small it doesn't have a coffee shop, I'm sipping a double-shot, creamy, dreamy, dark chocolate mocha by around 9 am. Since I became a mother and started having to rise at the ungodly hour of 7:30, my daily date with whomever is behind the bar at Starbucks is never later than 9 am.

So I'm sitting at one of my go-to tables overlooking the cluster of boutiques that stand invitingly in the only area of the city that somewhat reminds me of Vancouver savouring my sweet standby trying (but not very hard) to look like a woman of substance while perusing the titillating pages of US Weekly. Cut me some slack; I also read books -- sometimes and only if I've exhausted the month's magazines with the best celebrity covers, but I do. My husband forced me, despite much protesting, to read all 7 Harry Potter books and I must admit, I was enraptured; maybe not as much as by Twilight, but nonetheless, entertained for sure.

Sweetly buzzed on caffeine and cocoa, caught up on "What the stars did and said" this week (this motivates me to realize my imaginings of vacations in the Maldives and the several pairs of Louboutins I intend to purchase while strolling the Champs Elysees in the not-so-distant future), I am off to the only place that keeps me from jumping off a bridge and plunging into the frigid depths of the Saskatchewan River because I love living in Edmonton so much -- Bikram Yoga.

Seriously, thank god for Bikram. Thank my smile, sanity, killer abs and yoga bum for Bikram. A practitioner for three years and an instructor for almost as long, I'm thankful to Bikram for not only keeping me ticking, but allowing me to transform. It's given me a new passion, an education and a job that is the only one thus far I've ever wanted to stick with for more than a day. From my first week of practice, I've dubbed the 90-minute "torture chamber" that has developed what some call a cult following my "happy place" because, well it is just that. Sure I sweat buckets through my Shaktis, push till it hurts and can't wear make-up for a couple of hours, but I am never more free than in the hot room. No one demands anything of me but to give myself everything I possibly can, to find the ultimate release through what Bikram calls, "English Bulldog determination" and "Bengal Tiger strength." There is no greater relaxation. Even in sleep, I am not as calm, more than half the time having to share my bed with my husband, my daughter nestled between us and 2 cats at our feet.

So I think I've gone on long enough for my first-ever blog entry. I've got to hit the mat anyways. Got to make room for the Indian takeout dinner I'm craving and the inevitable hit of chocolate to follow. My mat and towel laid out, water bottle within reach, I'm in it for the next hour and a half. Toes and heels together, concentrate, meditate; let's breathe.