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.