Misunderstood

There's a new bitch in town (I only bring her out to play on special occasions) and she's telling it like it is; apparently, some are not quite ready to hear it.

This may come as a shock to most of you, but -- guess what -- I'm not actually a bitch, or a vapid, superficial narcissist dolling out judgments on my unsuspecting colleagues. I'm a passionate, compassionate instructor of the most demanding yoga around and, because I expect so much of my students and fellow instructors, I expect a lot from myself. I subscribe to Bikram's prescription, "99 percent right = 100 percent wrong" and make a concerted effort to practice what I preach; tonight in Lisa's class, she expressed these sentiments of mine so concisely in her closing remarks, "Namaste -- the highest in me honours the highest in you."

My critical eye can, at times, come across as harsh, but it is merely my opinion that to adequately represent a faction of health and wellness, it is imperative one appear both healthy and well -- not perfect -- not once have I ever mentioned perfection; I'm not even sure what that is; it's certainly not an astute description of me.

Self-deprecating when the occasion calls (too often and it's either really depressing or just fishing for compliments), I fell into a fit of giggles on my way to the bus stop tonight when a passerby asked me if I knew where "Double D's" was. I looked down at my excuse for breasts (thanks Mom), smiled and responded, "Do I really look like I would know?" From what I gather, Double D's is a bar in the eclectic neighbourhood our studio calls home; it's existence and the inquiry made to me of its whereabouts was the light in my darkness tonight for which I am deeply appreciative.

I needed some light to reignite my happiness, suspended since I seem to have unintentionally offended a couple of my colleagues -- I know if you misconstrue my intonation and lightness you probably don't really like me much anyway, but nonetheless -- sorry.

For anyone interested, my point of view comes from a very different place than most instructors in Edmonton. Hailing from Vancouver, when I graduated from Teacher Training, I auditioned for a teaching position. In Edmonton, a keen student can attend Training, come home and waltz directly into a job in any of the studios; this is simply because there are so few studios and teachers here. In Van, if you are fortunate enough to win a placement somewhere, you had better be on top of your game -- all the time. Studio owners take the classes of every one of their instructors on a regular basis and give them constructive criticism; the number of times per week each instructor practices is monitored; dialogue is strictly adhered to and studied consistently; at some studios, an instructor must know a certain number of new names in the room every class -- if you're not meeting and exceeding these expectations, no worries, there's about 50 other jobless, trained instructors waiting to replace you -- and all of them look pretty damn cute in a pair of spanky pants.

So there it is -- a healthy dose of perspective; I got an even better one tonight when I came home after class to see my daughter walk across the room to me -- for the first time! Elated, I cried (she's been wobbling unsteadily, surfing furniture for months) and thought, does all the other shit that kept me up last night wracked with upset and stayed with me while I whimpered on the inside during the spine strengthening series today really matter? My time and attention is decidedly better devoted elsewhere.

We're Not Selling Spare Tires

Incredible how after weathering the trials of motherhood (particularly noteworthy are the special mornings I've woken to the fragrant notes of tot pee because, of course, Maya has wet the spot on my pillow right next to my head), I have become so mellow when faced with what I used to consider epic disasters -- like dumping the entire contents of my Ole Henriksen moisturizer all over the bathroom floor and failing to get even a dime of it on my face. This was indeed a bitter pill to swallow, but, while listening for peeps of possible discontent from Maya eating her breakfast in the living room, I cleaned up the remnants of my exorbitant face cream and tossed the carnage. Surprising, I know, that I am one of those suckers who always opt for the pricey, hard-to-pronounce beauty products that, upon close inspection, have almost identical ingredients to their drugstore siblings. I am a marketer's dream; the fancier the package, extolling bogus product virtues, and the more upscale the store in which it is carried, the more appealing the contents. If La Mer made a Vaseline counterpart, I'd probably choose the fabulous (but likely to bankrupt me) former. Isn't it what's on the outside that really matters? Sometimes, it is.

A new friend of mine (if she were an old friend, she would have already checked it out) miraculously convinced herself and her boyfriend to try Bikram for the first -- and last -- time. She loved the practice but not the instructor; her man, having gone begrudgingly to appease her, hated it, sharing his partner's dislike for whomever led the class and presenting me with an interesting argument about how physically dissonant she was to such a profession. He said she simply didn't fit -- rotund and seemingly hypocritical to be leading such an intense series in which he found it hard to believe, based solely on her appearance, she participated. Nor, according to his critical eye (he is a surgeon, so this is to be expected), did she have any muscle tone or definition whatsoever. I thought this to be particularly curious as Bikram Yoga Instructors are not only guiding students through a demanding practice with strength, encouragement and compassion, they are selling a product; and most people don't want to purchase something aesthetically discordant in the industry of health and wellness (like me and my often sold-out, overpriced skincare).

Would you hire a flabby personal trainer? Not likely. Even if said trainer is well-versed in effective fitness routines and how to produce the results you desire, unless she has the body to match the brain, you'll look elsewhere. At Bikram's Teacher Training he (however insensitively) draws attention to any of the overweight and out-of-shape trainees and makes clear to them if they are to represent his brand, they've got to commit to "no breakfast, no lunch and half a sandwich dinner" until they look the part. This may sound cruel and superficial, but that's business baby.

One of my nearest and dearest instructor buddies and I often remark on the dedication required to maintain the best physiques we possibly can, because we know our well-earned coconut bums are not just for superficial fulfillment -- achieving and maintaining them is our responsibility. Sure, there are a host of mental and emotional benefits to Bikram as well as physical, but if my hot pants start to look less hot, I'll cut out the mochas for a while or risk an empty room and feeling like an impostor. This, loved ones, is the nature of the beast; so shape up or ship out.

I hope to hear more positive accounts, to which I have become accustomed, of friends trying the yoga we put so much of our bodies, minds and emotions into, rather than stories that dishearten and embarrass me and, frankly, tarnish the brand. Often first impressions are the only impressions. My girlfriend and her guy now choose to get their sweat on at Moksha.

A Little New York Goes a Long Way

All good things come in chocolate -- and little blue boxes.

That's right lovelies, Mr. Darcy has made an appearance just in time for his wedding anniversary, narrowly escaping (at least for the moment) his execution by guillotine I had tastefully planned.

Saturday morning, I awakened to a small, smiling creature in the arms of a big, burly one who, through a blur of sleepy, morning fog and my crazy hair, vaguely resembled the person to which I said "I do" five years ago. The one who has my eyes, gazed lovingly through them at her stunned Mama, as she handed her a baby blue box expertly tied with a white ribbon, which I knew would contain nothing less than pure happiness. Of course, even the purest delight comes in varying degrees, and while the content of the box did not bestow upon its recipient a 10-carat, princess-cut, platinum-set sparkler (got to keep up with the Kardashians, while still remaining tasteful), the package did contain a stunningly simply "Return to Tiffany" double-heart pendant. Lovely. The work of a seasoned pro, who deftly satisfied a palate that, however refined, is really quite easy to please. Now darling, quit your job so you can spend quality time with me on a regular basis, enable the materialization of 1o million dollars for us (you're industrious -- I have faith in you -- and that amount, with the right investing, should sustain us for some time) and become generally agreeable -- forever -- yes, I think that should do it.

Patience is a virtue to which I have not thus far subscribed with much enthusiasm, but I suppose I could work on that, considering it does seem somewhat more immediately feasible than the requests I have so kindly made of my partner and should help me weather the interim until they come to fruition; so it's a good thing I am shortly heading off to the studio, which seems to be the only place I build small levels of the stuff.

For the moment, I will continue enjoying my double, nonfat mocha, iced with a perfect cloud of vanilla whipped cream and regale you with the details of Friday night's dinner at Niche.

Sweet spot; a little too brightly-lit for my taste; lame cosmos, but an adequate wine list compensates; solid goat-cheese appetizer; decent main of halibut cheeks and prawns over a bed of bacon-leek risotto; excellent dessert. Believe it or not, I do appreciate actual, good for the mind-body-soul food -- not just dessert; but Friday night's final course was up there with the best. Notice my complete attention given to the dense dark chocolate brownie pooled with salted caramel and given a healthy dollop of lemon-honey whipped cream. This indulgence (as most reviews of the restaurant will also recommend) is a must. Coupled with the espresso-chocolate-almond-oatmeal cookies I made for a barbecue over the weekend and the incredible, from-scratch, cheeseburgers my girlfriend prepared for it, I've got a few goodies to burn off in the hotness today. Fortunately, I'm sporting my new Tiffany's, which will surely fuel my determination to push, push, push; having something pretty to look at in the mirror always helps.

Nonfat Mocha Please -- but Don't Forget my Whipped Cream

I indulge so you don't have to. Feast your eyes on my satisfied, sunny morning perking up at Duchess with a honey latte and a blondie. In case you've never tasted heaven, a blondie is the cuter, slightly sweeter, butterscotch sister of the brownie. Much like my own sibling, its richness is of a more covert nature, tempting its admirers with buttery palate-pleasing notes of white chocolate, caramel and (at Duchess) coconut. Kindly lick the drool from your lips and try one if you dare; you have been given fare warning -- there may be no turning back.

While it was a lovely way to start the day, it may not have been the ideal fuel for the stamina required to withstand one of our newest teacher's first classes. As he reminded me, "That's what people pay for", he killed us -- only for two hours -- nothing I couldn't handle, but something my quivering limbs could have powered through more solidly had I prepped my body with oatmeal or something of sustenance rather than sugar, butter, milk and more sugar. Ah, hindsight. Being somewhat a glutton for punishment and all things worthy of desire, I never seem to learn from experience when it comes to a + b = c, at least when it comes to anything yummy (men tend to be the most dangerous) -- or maybe I just don't care. I successfully maintain the important equations, like the effort you put into your fitness being equal to the benefits you receive; there are never any shortcuts here and the people who suggest there are tend to be full of shit (and marketing revenue).

One such deceptive shortcut appeared in my inbox this morning; I stumbled upon a hilarity-inducing post from Vitamin Daily Vancouver Edition's finest, extolling the instant results of Nu Age Lipolaser; it sent me into a fit of giggles, particularly the bit about not having "one of those mythical 'fast metabolisms'" and using this contraption to help hone a body worth parading around during bikini season. FYI editors: speedy metabolisms do naturally occur and any metabolic rate can be adjusted (to a degree) with exercise, not magic. Interestingly enough, I was unable to include the link to this wise beauty advice as it must have already been removed from the site. Why they didn't choose to archive such a scientific gem is beyond me; perhaps the writer who included it did so during a cheeseburger coma in the middle of the night -- the e-mail came to me at 2:15 am. However it came to be, it contributed to wellness naivety by living online long enough to do some damage. Quel dommage. The Vancouver spa selling the inane service will have to find other mediums with which to prey on those hampered by unsuspected love handles.

Bikram would smile and simply suggest to those with excess baggage, "no breakfast, no lunch and half a sandwich dinner." The man is a charmer, for sure, and refreshingly realistic. For those whose weight is not gnawing away at their self-esteem and ability to live, he advocates balance rather than deprivation. Clearly, I subscribe to his straightforward, sensical approach.

Tonight, I will repast in style (I hope) and decent company (depending on how my hubby's golf lesson went) at Niche, a bistro recently opened in our building. I hear they serve a flourless brownie dressed with salted caramel and lemon-honey whipped cream; so I expect to be impressed. If anything, at least they'll be good wine.

Face the Fire

I exercise so you don't have to (a gem I borrowed from Daisy Barringer, who writes for another fab blog, xojane). I love everyone in my yoga family, but I sometimes statements like this are necessary to awaken the more dormant members.

If you have been practicing in the hotness for years and have seen zero change in your mind and body, maybe you should consider sucking your stomach in and putting your back into it. Showing up may seem like the biggest battle, but it's not enough. If you want results, you can't just be there; you have to want to be there. So if you are ready to commit (I know -- this can be the most insurmountable obstacle in life for many of us), allow me to torture you for 90 minutes. Please do not drag your ass to class begrudgingly because, trust me, there are countless others who would take your place in a heartbeat -- those who aren't physically able to participate (not because they had too many shooters the night before), financially able or mentally/emotionally fit to engage in such an intense practice. This life is a gift; sweating out whatever ails you is a privilege; it's always up to you how you choose to use it.

Even in times of trial, whether at home, work or play (fortunately, I've been able to make the two latter interchangeable) I try to cherish the good stuff. I'll bitch and moan for some initial catharsis, then look for the rest in whatever simple joys I can grasp. Funny how the general ambiance in the yoga room of late has been one of disgruntled flailing. Struggle is, of course, part of the process, but one can elect to push through it with even a hint of a smile and turn suffering into strength.

Just a couple of days ago, I brilliantly prepared myself a satisfyingly dense, creamy, comforting pasta lunch (who doesn't crave this stuff when it's gloomy outside) only two hours before practicing what turned out to be a solidly challenging, heavy, humid class. Standing there, inches from the mirror, in my tiny two-piece, about to give my abdominal muscles a beating, I reflected upon the dangerous combination of rich food and working myself inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes -- not such a hot situation. Like almost always, I managed to persevere and push, push, push -- even making a concerted effort to paint a small smile onto my face, which as is apt to happen, became genuine.

Class finished. I made it -- we all make it through every practice, even the most hellish ones, but we best serve ourselves and our fellow yogis doing so with as much grace as possible. I always encourage breath before depth, standing still, sitting down or laying down when necessary. If you spend most of your class moaning and groaning in what can only be described as, what Christian at Commercial Drive delights in comparing to, "auditioning for soft porn" -- suck it up buttercup and keep it to yourself.

Most of the outward complaining in the room seems to be nothing more than a cry for help, but honey, you know the only person who can help you is yourself -- so get on it and come see me tomorrow.

Yummy Mommy Survival

In homage to my Vancouver nostalgia (which I will always have, irrespective of the recent lack of decorum shown by hockey enthusiasts whose fierce passions could have been put to much better use), it has been pissing rain in Edmonton for a good week now. Such inclement weather here is unexpected and, however satisfyingly juicy the accompanying humidity has made the yoga room, it has been fueling my disdain for this city, which having recently plateaued, is again climbing steadily.

At least I got to while away some of my weekend with amusing people generous enough to include me in their circle. Saturday morning, Maya, Aba and Mommy braved the torrential showers to meet a girlfriend of mine and her wee one at the downtown Farmer's Market for some comforting coffee and perusal of the goods. Soaked, but smiling, we brought our fine finds home to throw into one of my infamously decadent omelets and a chocolate-raisin-pumpkin remix of the cake I made a couple of weeks ago; in this one, as an ode to Jewish honey cake -- just because Sunday was Father's Day and I figured I could stand to show my husband a little appreciation -- I used honey instead of sugar. The result was sweetly spiced, sinful perfection; check it out.

Yes, it looks much like a giant muffin -- my mother would be so proud; one of her essential daily food groups. Deceptively simple in appearance, it was a wealth of gooey goodness and is already gone.

Having spent the bulk of Saturday afternoon cooking, I was more than ready to slip into something a little more glamorous than my Sevens and sip something a little harder than caffeine. Fortunately, a fabulous friend of mine was having a gathering at his elegantly edgy bachelor pad; so, shortly after Maya's imaginary bedtime (which I am determined to make a reality at some point), rocking my choice black suede stiletto booties, I trotted off to wine, dine, schmooze and throw back a couple of shots with an eclectic, entertaining and delightfully inclusive group -- my natural habitat.

After indulging in the welcome reprieve from several nights glued to the couch with my babe and her bottle, I thought about the far too many mothers who allow themselves to be wholly consumed serving the darlings they bring into the world and forget to prioritize themselves. If spewing forth what keeps me going serves no other purpose than to nudge even one mom into taking care of herself, my blog has served its purpose. A gentle reminder that sweatpants are not to be worn as a daily fashion statement (even the designer ones) and manicures require maintenance can enable a lost soul to find herself again. Sure, life can be harried and overwhelming -- but so can unkempt brows. In an existence of endless diapers, sleepless nights, food smeared everywhere and dying romance, self-preservation equals survival.

Hometown Hysteria

While I playfully ridicule Edmonton's efforts to strive for greatness far beyond the reach of a landlocked, redneck city, I must remember to acknowledge it does try, and its attempts, however less-than-successful, are harmless -- unlike the city from which I hail.

Vancouver, how you and your hockey hooligans have shamed me. Trying to be "so ghetto, so thug" now are we? You, whom have peppered yourself with pockets of prissy perfection (Point Grey, Kitsilano, Yaletown, West Van) are now home to gaggles of moronic meat-heads whose sore-loser mentalities cannot be kept in check with merely a few consoling beers; instead they choose to riot as if a greater power had just taken away their reason for living. In just two hours, gangs of jersey-clad heathens beat and pillaged our fair city, injuring many of its inhabitants and visitors, forever shattering its pristine image. Good work you fist full of assholes. Didn't your mother ever teach you to play nice?

Edmonton may be a place that prides itself on the ability to consume the most beef and booze, while functioning at a level high enough to stand consistently as the richest province in Canada, but seemingly simple in its nature, its greatest complexity is its wealth of lovely inhabitants. How so many warm, intelligent, attractive people came to call E-town home may confound some, but the reasoning makes sense -- cost of living is still relatively low and wages are the highest in the country. Whether they are born here, recruited here or acting as a support system for a loved one who brought them here, many of the city's citizens choose to stay; maybe it's because one cannot help but fall in love with the people.

Don't take this isolated declaration of appreciation for the place I currently call home as any indication that I want to settle here. I miss my peeps in Van; like me, they have decorum and didn't engage in, as my Dad so eloquently puts it, "scumbag" behaviour following the big loss. The few friends of mine who are interested in hockey are surely wearing their disappointment with looks of melancholy for a few days and moving on. To the hoodlums responsible for defaming Vancouver's stellar reputation: lighten up; try breathing deeply; a dose of Bikram's torture chamber might put things into perspective for you; if all else fails, try my no-fail daily dose of mocha -- it heals all ills -- certainly makes me a little sweeter.

Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

My "come what may" attitude is serving me well these days. Nothing seems to be turning out as I expected. Today I was raring to give -- get this -- the Good Woman Dance Collective contemporary class at Dance Alberta a try. I know, it is hard not to imagine a group of free spirits, running around naked waving scarves; but apparently, despite their ill-chosen moniker, they are a mainstream, classically trained company.

Looking forward to the emotional release and unmatched satisfaction dance has always given me, I woke up, selected my cutest Lulu tights and attempted to brush my teeth -- that's when I heard it -- "Mama...up....uppie."

"Ok peanut." Those dove-grey-blue pools of love (from my own mother) can be denied nothing, particularly when Maya pulls out the big guns and extends her little Michelin arms towards me pleading to be held. So I sweep her up in my arms for a snuggle (unconditional love: the ultimate cure-all prescription) and enjoy the warm of her nestling into me -- wait a minute -- we have a situation; yet again, Mommy has been peed on -- and so has the bed, through the sheets and all over the mattress. Sweet. Only angels are this inconsiderate.

With a shrug and a smile, I peel off her damp nightie and put her straight into the bath, which I know will add precious minutes on to our morning routine and could impede my making it to dance on time. I know better than to allow in frustration; as we remind our students in the sweat lodge, "no anticipations."

20 minutes later (lately Maya is very proud of her ability to shampoo her own hair and enjoys the time to show off this new talent), smelling like Johnson & Johnson, Maya is ready for breakfast and I am ready to attempt giving it to her -- she has a delicate palate. Strapped into her high chair, she innocently takes a spoonful of the organic blueberry-flax oatmeal I have provided her, looks up at me with an impish grin, and flings it directly onto my foot, where it squishes between my toes and all over my stylish summer sandals. Then, just to show a little more love for my breakfast offering, she smears what's left of the oatmeal in her freshly-washed hair -- perfect. At least she'll smell like cinnamon and sugar.

Not all mornings are this chaotic. Days like this are for helping me appreciate the mornings I just get kicked in the face because Maya has insisted on sleeping in our bed perpendicular to me (somehow that's more comfortable), or painted with peanut butter -- or peed on (I'm a tough cookie and I'm washable). Maybe she and I will have a lovely evening together, snuggling on the couch (milk for her and a margarita for me) watching So You Think You Can Dance, after which she'll fall asleep with no fuss, no later than nine -- in her own bed -- maybe.

Unfortunately, watching a dance competition on TV will have to suffice for today's artistic expression. C'est la vie. There's still time. Bikram would tell me, "it's never too late" and remind me to exercise the patience I have been honing "start to finish" in my practice. Thanks B. "You ever been peed on?"

Light in the Darkness

Edmonton continues to entertain me in its strive to be anything and everything it is not.

After pouring over the latest issue of US Weekly last night, which featured a juicy foray into Leo Dicaprio's impressive wooing of Blake Lively on the French Riviera, I awoke this morning to an overwhelming desire for something fabulous with which to start my day. The only difficulty being -- where in Edmonton can one breakfast that in any way compares to one of the lovely cafes sur mer frequented by the likes of Hollywood royalty? Only one cafe in E-town comes close to creating the vibe I was craving, so I elected to indulge Italian-style at Leva, a charming spot on the university campus that boasts ingredients sourced from the land of lovers and prices just as decadent.

The mocha was molto bene (for $6.25, I would hope so), but I've had equally satisfying for a couple bills less -- and my view was of a pot-holed road littered with frat houses, rather than the turquoise waters Blake and Leo enjoyed. Alas, as I am not strolling the boardwalk in Nice this morning, I must accept my lot in life and appreciate I have options other than Edmonton's finest collection of Tim Horton's. And if I care for a walk along the water, the mosquito-strewn Saskatchewan River's alluringly brown waters invite me.

My husband tells me he has lately grown past the point of irritation over my complaints of where he has brought us to make our lives for the duration of his residency. For a moment, I consider being kinder to the place I have been forced to currently call home until I look out the window of the cafe and am confronted with a group of empty-headed protesters, smiles painted on, carrying a giant cross, parading up and down the sidewalk wearing "pro-life" t-shirts -- and my momentary consideration dissipates. At least we had a booming pride parade over the weekend -- progress.

Having lived most of my life in Vancouver, this morning feels as if it has played out like some sick, twisted narrative someone else is writing for me, laughing, as they imagine what they will throw in my path next. Whomever is writing my story -- I know my acquiescence to move here stripped me of my own creative license for the time being -- was, however, kind (in part) to me this past weekend. My heart heavy with domestic discord, I let my time at the studio lift my spirits. Fortunately, I was teaching doubles both Saturday and Sunday, so I had a healthy dose of yoga family comfort. It never fails to amaze me how, no matter the emotional burden with which I enter the hot room, spending 90 minutes feeding off the kind of positive energy I've rarely witnessed elsewhere, helps chase away the baddies -- if only for a few hours, it's always appreciated. Interesting how the "torture chamber" quickly becomes a great escape.

A life well-lived is incomplete without escape -- reprieve from anything too responsible or dull. I'm still seeking an outlet for my artistic passions. I want to dance like everyone is watching, which I can only do in a professional school; until I can open my own, and because Edmonton's options in this respect are (for a city that boasts its support of the arts) inadequate, I'll have to settle for putting it down at the bar like no one's watching with a few like-minded girlfriends.

Most of the time, however, being the mother of a pint-sized princess doesn't allow for much exploration of Edmonton's nightlife. Some highlights from the past couple of nights include: Maya falling asleep before 10 pm two nights in a row -- major score -- and spending an hour perusing the aisles of (another taste of Europe) the Italian Centre, carefully selecting ingredients to craft our always-stellar homemade pizza. I also brought home a decent flour-less chocolate torte and made margaritas with fresh-squeezed limes and honey, which only I enjoyed because everyone knows I'm the fun one.

So, I've managed to experience a little piece of India, Italy, Mexico -- oh and how could I forgot -- a moment in one of the more conservative, intensely religious southern United States, all in the little town that (while most of the time hits and misses) at least endeavours to impress.

Simple Pleasures -- Kind of

As my sweet sister soaks up Mediterranean rays on a yacht, sipping the perfect cappuccino over a breakfast of chocolate croissant and serenity, in the company of every girl's greatest companion -- a best friend -- I can't help but allow, however fleeting, pangs of jealousy to creep into my heart. It's not that my life pales in comparison; it's merely (as I mentioned to her in an e-mail this morning) restrained. My focus is on rearing a lovely little lady, whose utterance of "Mama" and visible comfort from my embrace is enough to dampen any minor irritations (the time she pooped in the bath the other day wasn't so hot), nurturing my own mind, body and soul -- and occasionally paying some attention to my surgeon-zombie husband if he does the same for me. Like I mentioned yesterday, you get what you give.

My lifelong girlfriends -- you know the kind you never really have to try around because you know each other so well -- are a 13-hour drive away. They're probably having coffee -- together -- at my favourite cafe, eating the muffins I would have for breakfast every day if I were there too, discussing how incredible it is that I haven't yet torn my hair out in frustration over living here without them (but they know I wouldn't do that; I have really great hair).

All of this unfortunate, but natural, tendency to compare my existence with that of my friends and loved ones who live different lives than me because they made different choices makes me wonder if the paths I've taken were the right ones; they haven't yet led me to the places I want to go (obviously -- I'm in Edmonton) but if they don't before too long, maybe I should change them.

Either way, my life will always be pretty sweet. I'll always enjoy a decadent morning over something indulgent, in good company (most days mine is just as good as anyone else's), making time to write or lose myself in a juicy magazine or romantic novel. I do, however, wonder if those mornings would better begin waking next to someone (who hasn't gone to work at the crack of dawn and isn't a child or a cat), climbing out of bed unhurriedly, strolling over to a small coffee shop on the beach -- no less than minutes from our door (a definite requirement for me) -- and either hopping behind the counter to help run our bustling livelihood or parting ways, leisurely, as we head off to our respective workplaces -- my dance/yoga studio and his private clinic (or whatever suits his fancy) -- reuniting with our kids (no more than two) or, if we need some adult time, only each other for a divine dinner that is always accompanied with at least one smooth glass of red or a perfect margarita.

Sound like a fantasy? For a few adventurous, brave souls who choose to go against the grain, damn the man and make their lives exactly how they envision happiness, it's reality.

I met one of these rare birds on another one of my yoga-immersion getaways six years ago in Mexico. For a month, I lived in Tulum, a tiny town a couple hours south of the more heavily frequented Playa Del Carmen. At the time, there were no coffee shops in what is now a tourist haven, so I rode a (somewhat) sketchy collectivo (taxi-type van) into the bustling world of Playa every weekend for a stellar mocha and some bonding with the locals; in particular a tall, broad-shouldered, beautifully tanned, charmer with a captivating accent piqued my interest and cavorted with me on nights I didn't want to wander the streets unattached.

This guy was happiness embodied. He had left home (which country escapes me -- he was pretty, so it's understandable) where everyone in his life lived to work and moved to the Mayan Riviera without a second look back. Upon arriving in Playa, he quickly made a warm circle of friends (in case you haven't been to Mexico, most of the locals are inviting and make finding good company effortless), rented a small, but cozy apartment overlooking the beach and opened a cafe on a pedestrian-only street a block up from the water. By day, he flirted with patrons, enjoying his easy success and solid, laid-back living; by night, he dined at any of the countless charming bistros operated by his friends and neighbours with more than enough willing women (what can I say -- it was a good accent) and men with which to while away the hours. Not too shabby.

If I ever convince my partner to drop out of the rat race with me and live the sweet life in paradise, I'll be one fulfilled lady. I may have champagne taste, but I can adapt if it means working to live and enjoying every moment. I never said I had to live the life of a millionairess; I have, however, always made it crystal clear I expect my inner circle to me to make me feel priceless -- or at least like Kim Kardashian's 20.5 carat addition to her ring finger -- that would do just fine.

Get What You Give

Driving Miss Maya to daycare this morning, I tuned in to the sweet, growling vocals of John Rzeznik professing, "I'd give up forever to touch you" and thought -- well that's a load of crap, now isn't it, John? You would never really say that to another human being without being driven by album sales would you? Did you even write that lyric? Chances are, a woman penned that gem; and yet, it was you we fell in love with, like we did Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy when he stole the discriminating heart of Elizabeth Bennet with one compelling statement: "I love you, most ardently." Never was there a more succinct, unabashed declaration of what women most want to hear; unfortunately, in all likelihood, never has another woman heard it. So, rather than live with the delusion there exists a lover so intuitive and forthright, I have chosen to come down to earth and make some (what I hope are) realistic demands.

Kill me with kindness, shower me with love and I'll be yours always. In other words, give it to me straight. If I piss you off tell me. If I make you happy let me know I'm appreciated. If I don't elicit either of these responses from you, then I am clearly a banal companion and not worth your while, so cast me aside and move on. Leave me alone with my mocha.

I'd rather not bother with those who value passion as a pleasant addition to a relationship rather than an incomprehensible-to-be-without necessity. I need to be longed for, "most ardently." The trouble is, so few present themselves inside-out, it becomes difficult to distinguish between a 50-cent-type character, who cares for little more than a hot bitch to "put it down" on him and an Edward-Bella-level connection.

I always thought Jacob was a better choice; he would have provided the best of both worlds, plus his passion is tangible -- he's hot to the touch. Sounds like the real deal to me.

With me, the real deal is all there is; you know exactly what you are getting. I think I scare some people; not the A-level Casanovas, but the basic player for sure. I draw closer those who, like me, are effortlessly inside-out. That's probably one of the reasons most of my students talk to me before and after class; I don't create boundaries and neither do most who are comfortable sweating half-naked with a group of strangers. As most yogis know, the real fun happens after class in the change room -- funny how people tend to ask me more questions when we're naked; I wonder if the male instructors experience the same.

The men are certainly the most fun from which to take class. Somehow, they're slightly more dominating than the ladies. Maybe this is just from a female perspective, but either way, if I'm in the mood to be punished, I check the schedule.

Yesterday morning Dave whipped us into submission, which was perfect. His message was tangible: It's hot, you're all struggling, so deal with it -- work with it. Dave is totally "inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes" and, since waxing his legs, very aerodynamic (thanks for sharing that harrowing experience in class, teach). Because of these qualities we, as instructors and practitioners, see ourselves in him -- so we appreciate and trust him. He often closes his classes by inviting everyone to come and share questions or concerns, assuring us they will be met with "open eyes and open ears," a compassionate, positive approach most of us would benefit from using both in and out of the room. Are you listening, lover?

I choose to live my life as open as possible -- eyes, ears, mind, heart -- irrespective of the consequences. I expect a lot from a partner, as well as from family and close friends. I strive to emanate light, love, laughter, passion and compassion (what can I say, I'm a great catch) and will not settle for much less in return (one must still be realistic).

As I grow older and wiser, I'm feeling the need to extricate myself from unworthy companionship. So, darling -- and I say this with the utmost kindness and gentle encouragement -- it may be time to bone up on your Austen.

A Sedentary Death

A balmy 3 degrees in the land of hidden gems yesterday, I had legitimate fuel with which to light my fire of hatred for Edmonton. It is June -- and there was snow in the city's outskirts; this is unacceptable. Just when I'm pretending to really like you, I am faced with your paltry offerings of summer and am left with nothing but disdain. If it weren't for your treasures lurking that seem to appear when I most need them, I'd give up on you entirely.

So it's fortunate for our relationship, E-town, that yesterday was Saturday, the day in which the Farmer's Market takes over several downtown blocks and fills them with treats, trinkets and baubles. It was a happy morning. Primping with the voices of Max & Ruby squeaking away in the background (sometimes I miss the days of putting it down to Luda with my roommates while dolling ourselves up to face the world -- the sounds of Treehouse just don't have the same beat), I looked forward to girls' day with Maya.

I splashed us out with a hint of pink, strapped Maya into her chariot and pushed her up to the action downtown. We started our market experience at Credo, where we like to hang because, just like at Cheers, everyone knows our names -- and the mochas are pretty good too. Right away, we joined one of my charming friends, who regaled me with stories of the nightlife action I'd missed over the week (I don't get out much past 8 pm anymore); I salivated over every glamorous detail (being tall, dark and handsome, he makes them sound even better), appreciating the taste of grownup company.

Maya's attention span fading and a good part of her breakfast in her hair, we meandered into the bustling crowd. Unfortunately, at 3 degrees, there is only so much fun to be had in the great outdoors, so after grabbing our staples, we hoofed it home as quickly as my UGGs could carry us (that's right -- UGGs -- in June). And then the darkness fell.

My darling hubby had taken our ghetto superstar truck to work and it being our only set of wheels, we were stuck at home for the rest of the day. It being frigidly cold outside, another venture on foot was out of the question (I've never really felt transit worth the discomfort). Determined to prolong the positive tone of the day, I made a sort of peace with being stuck in the 700 square feet we call home for what I knew would seem like eternity. And then, the heavens opened, and the phone rang! Nimrod (never has there been a more fitting name for a spouse) had somehow cleared two whole hours for family time between surgeries and thought the best use of it would be to take his girls to lunch at Sugarbowl, another sparkle in the dim landscape of Edmonton.

I adore Sugarbowl. They make the fluffiest high-maintenance omelets (smoked salmon, basil and goat cheese was yesterday's feature) and pair them with expertly seasoned potatoes and whatever other finicky requests I tend to make. And take a look at their mochas...perfect.

For a good 90 minutes (a decent amount of time to engage in something worthwhile), I was able to escape an afternoon of desperately trying to entertain Maya in the cave. And then the bill came. Time to face the harsh reality that playtime was over for me. At least I got to have a fantastic coffee before my doom to rest on my laurels all evening was sealed. There is literally no where to go in our postage-stamp apartment; that also means there are very few places Maya cannot get into trouble because all of our belongings are on top of us. So, how do we pass the hours? After exhausting my toddler-appropriate singing and dancing skills, making smelly felt drawings (which inevitable result in rainbow-coloured fingers, faces and furniture), having a bath and eating, we plant our tushes on the big comfy couch and snuggle in with whatever salacious companionship E! provides for us.

As I am often told, I'm like an Energizer Bunny (the cuddly kind that also kicks your ass), so sitting for more than an hour at a time while Maya sleeps in my arms (because princesses insist on being held) is much greater torture than even the toughest class in the hottest room will ever be. So in an effort to alleviate my increasing insanity, I am open to suggestions on exciting ways to while away the evenings with little ones who refuse to go to bed before their parents. And Edmonton, if we are going to remain friends (not good ones, but friends nonetheless), I'd like my summer sun back please.

Europeans Do it Better

As I ease the pain of another morning feeling less-than-stellar with the best mocha made in Edmonton, I am more than thankful for chocolate and, in particular, the genius who first paired it with coffee; I bet it was someone Italian. Aren't so many of the rich, satisfying, sensual foods we enjoy Italian? It just makes sense.

Have you been to Italy? There is pure sex seeping from the city's pores; you can literally see and feel it. I once walked into a courtyard in the centre of Milan and was the only person not sucking face. Sure, I was busy licking my gelato, but it just wasn't the same. There's always next time.

But I digress, because clearly that's something I just can't help (no attention span). This morning's mocha was crafted by a lovely lady at Edmonton's nod to European patisseries, Duchess Bake Shop. At Duchess, all of the chocolate confections are crafted with Valrhona, a decadent, divine, dark French chocolate that makes the mocha here one in which I can let anything plaguing me fall away and just get lost. The Duchess tops their mocha with dollops of hand-whipped, vanilla bean-infused whip cream (today, mine is shaped like a heart); they don't pass on any opportunity for indulgence. It's easy to see why even early on a Friday morning, every table is occupied. They have also recently taken over the space next door and are planning to expand their haven of goodies -- excellent -- my love for Edmonton continues to grow.

As I am still battling a small plague of sorts and slightly feverish, I am unable to let loose my inhibitions in yoga today, so I'll do it here and bravely post my first photo (this is momentous, as my relationship with technology has always been somewhat rocky) -- behold my marvelous mocha.

Feeling fragile, I am forcing myself to adopt a certain level of laziness until I am no longer (as Miranda Priestly puts it so eloquently in The Devil Wears Prada) an incubus of viral plague, so am not quite up to my usual culinary exertions and have ordered a fabulous sour cream-cherry pie from Duchess for a bbq this weekend. Wendy, I wanted the chocolate ganache torte adorned with macaroons, but I figured your kids might prefer the pie; such discriminating palates children have. The adult behind the counter did, however, assure me the pie is equally impressive; she'd better not be lying to me or I'll be back with a vengeance.

It Takes a Village

Every Mom knows, the needs of the sweet little person she brought into this world come first. Even if she is sweating buckets with a 40 degree fever, feeling like her head will explode if the pounding doesn't stop, she's got to suck it up buttercup, put on her big girl panties and tend to her child, because who else is going to take care of business?

This Mom is often a one-woman show and even if she is suffering, must use her mental and emotional capacity (thank-you Bikram) to push through whatever ails her and make sure her princess is bathed, fed and nurtured (in Maya's case, until far past her bedtime). Last night, nurturing consisted of planting my bottom on the couch, Maya's bottom in my lap and sitting still for countless hours of mind-numbing television and my stunning nursery rhyme vocals. By 10 pm, I had managed to consume only some toast with peanut butter and a cup of tea for dinner, as that's all I could prepare with Maya balanced precariously on one arm. By 11:30 pm, my fever at an all-time high and shaking with chills, my composure failed me and the tears began to flow.

On the upside, I have mastered the important skill of holding the need to pee for over eight hours! This is merely a minor addition to my expanding repertoire of survival techniques, which I must keep finely honed as I am on my own with her highness often.

Maya's Daddy was busy performing life-saving surgeries all night (don't his patients realize I have needs too), so he was of no use to me until he came home this morning to my corpse-like visage, pasty and feverish, with Maya tucked into my clammy body. He demanded that I pop some pills and take the day off -- from life; I thought, not going to happen. He was expected at work again in a couple of hours and I was adamant he was not going to make up a day of work because I was careless enough to let myself get sick. So, sufficiently dosed with painkillers, I ushered him out the door to work, showered the horrendous night off me, got Maya dressed and took her to daycare.

And then the tears resurfaced. My morning mocha slowed them down, but they still fell. I felt anger boiling up inside me and self-pity at being left to fend largely for myself in Edmonton. Maya's grandparents on both sides may delight in their time with her when we visit Vancouver, but should probably start making more of an effort to hall ass to Edmonton before I disown them.

I wouldn't have to put up with this shit if I were a Kardashian; sure, I might be somewhat more vapid and self-indulgent than at present, but at least I'd have my family around me, all the time, even to a suffocating extent, which I never thought I would desire but, trust me, it trumps the alternative.

Through the unexpected trials of being a new Mommy in a new city, I've learned to really value anyone who wants to come close enough to take care of me a little. However selfish I was before taking on parenthood, I can't be anymore. I am a Mommy and will be forever (don't forget Mom, so are you). Even when my kids are my age, I'll still nurture them. I'm not that hard done by; I still find small moments like sitting at the salon for a couple of hours every few months or tucking into a booth at Starbucks for an hour or two whenever I can to keep me sane. Most of my "me" time is at yoga, but even there, I'm always open to taking care of others.

So maybe next time I'm sick to the point where my husband's colleagues suggest I check myself into the hospital, I'll let myself take a day off. It might just be time to check myself before I wreck myself; got to stay on top of my game. Maya is just a fledgling diva; she needs a good role model to take her to the next level.