It's Getting Hot In Here

11:30 am. Strong, steady, 90-minute sweat session led by a favourite of yours and mine, Dave, the subtle powerhouse.

As I position my toes and heels together in the center of my mat and interlace my fingers for pranayama, I smile. Wobbling a little out of first-set awkward pose, I smile. Dave leads us through the always intense, focused second set of standing head to knee, encouraging normal breathing and a "smiling, happy face" -- I feel the tickle of my lips turning upward as I relax into the tremendous effort and hold solid the posture.

Class becomes dreamlike, as I float calmly through every breath, movement and muscle contraction. I want to be nowhere but in the moment, marveling at how dewy I am -- both in physical appearance and bliss between the ears. I allow a thought into the cloud of content fighting gravity to enable such a lightness in me it may threaten levitation. The question that forms in the air upstairs asks, "Have I done it? Have I gotten to the elusive place in my practice of effortless effort?" Either way, it seems all-too familiar, feeling vaguely reminiscent of another activity I enjoy that makes me sweaty and incredibly relaxed. Ah. So this is why I waltzed into class today, hydrated not by water -- like a good yogi -- but a double mocha with whipped cream -- like Allison.

Come to think of it, I arrive to class "unprepared" often and without apology. Of particular intrigue to me is how my practice seems completely unaffected. I get it now. Inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes (for those not part of the cult-like brand of yoga I teach and take, this is Bikram-speak), when I hit the mat, at least a piece of my gray matter big enough to exert visible influence is in my sex space. If my heart ends up there too, I'll start to get worried -- but the honing of pleasure, relaxation and the abandonment of expectations I've brought into my yoga have served me very well.  I practice as often as possible, with everything that I am and all that I have -- an approach most of us would do well to adopt both in the hot room and in the heated one.

Beer-Flavoured Nipples

Maybe my cherry savours sweetly of rye -- or a fine Argentinean malbec -- that must be it. There can be no other sensible explanation for why who I deem to be in the upper echelon of lovely lovers would allow themselves anywhere near my tangled web of familial misfortune. Through 29 years of societal influence and actually paying enough attention to my partners to value what matters most to them, I have come to find just how much importance most men place on the establishment and maintenance of a warm and fuzzy family unit -- in other words, the extreme opposite of the mess from which I hail.

I do tend to lust, love and nurture with an openness most people would fear allowing themselves. For the most part, such an unreserved approach has brought me what I imagine to be unparalleled passion and happiness; while that may be enough for me, is it enough for him?

I have been in several long-term relationships, one of which was a cataclysmic, yet exquisitely pure marriage, which enables me to focus on the inclusive nature in which I was welcomed into those families. There have always been hugs, kisses, "I love you's" and acceptance as a member of the pack as if I'd forever been a welcome fixture at the dinner table.

And, of course, there has been strife over questions with answers that confound those from families whose parents actually wanted and continue to want them. These queries of why, when and how so much love and acknowledgement has been lost are met with little more from me than a sweetly sad, resolute response -- for me those things never existed in the first place.

Yet for reasons unbeknownst to me, apart from my proclivity to give and get exactly what I want and need from the objects of my affection and provide what I'm fairly certain they desire in return, I seem to find myself welcomed into the arms of lovers who appear to want more than a few stolen moments between the sheets.

Bizarre. Can one person emanate enough warmth to compensate for the frigid air of abandonment of which she is so painfully aware that lingers around her, despite her insistence of its insignificance? I know I can, as most of my inner and outer circle find me reliable in my overall content nature. Generally, I strive to save the drama and focus on savouring the delights. But will that be enough as time passes and I choose another person with whom to have a long-term union, maybe another child and every element of a shared life that comes with such commitment? The cool absence of in-laws, grandparents, welcoming holiday households and a built-in support system will surely surface as a tragic part of life with Allison.

Hopefully, my je ne sais quoi will carry me through more than a few short-lived intrigues and enable the development and sustainability of something a little more serious. Time, as it always does even in its most bittersweet ways, will tell. In the interim, I'd better keep close my signature lures and divulge only what is absolutely necessary to a carefully chosen few. Who knows what accouterments I may need to  wield in the not-so-distant future? There are a lot of good boys out there; the men who ignite the fire and keep it burning are, however, few and far between.

Teaching -- The Single Mother Version

If only teaching yoga paid the bills as well as it pays the heart.

Pretty much every time I instruct or practice a class, someone makes me feel appreciated -- whether it's through gratitude, a hug, a smile or even just a look that indulges my desire to affect positive transformation. Maybe it's because I push a regular just that little bit extra -- a drive that person always has that occasionally needs igniting; perhaps a story or joke I share allows an unnecessarily-furrowed brow to soften; a practitioner may find acceptance upon facing whatever he has in the mirror and choose to work with, rather than against it.

Surely, rewards are bountiful in the hot room and tend to foster relatively relaxed, positive souls outside of the Bikram bubble. As an instructor, however, it can be painfully difficult finding a monetary balance because we truly do what we love and, of course, more often than not, what a person loves doing often fails to keep them financially afloat. The industry standard income for hot yoga instructors is oddly dissonant with the substantial role we play in the lives of our students and communities.

So as reality is often somewhat harsh, I shall soon be pairing down my teaching to seek a more stable livelihood down another avenue, one which will hopefully at least have ties to teaching, health and wellness.

Molding impressionable young minds in a high school classroom has often beckoned me. Well, if I'm being honest -- and that is the point here -- to be honest in sharing one's challenges, triumphs and wisdom accrued from such experiences -- teaching in its traditional form (the kind that provides a decent income, great vacation time, health benefits and a solid pension) has been shoved down my throat from infancy.

My Grandpa taught elementary school and, early in his career, celebrated the firm hand of authority he naturally delighted in exercising on anyone willing to submit by becoming a principal. Never fulfilled ruling one when he could have several under his firm, but loving grasp, for 14 years, he simultaneously served as a principal for six schools in the BC interior. Up north, communities are still and always were small because of course, it's up north. So for over a decade, my dear Grandpa rented out his waterfront home on Vancouver Island (the property he was able to purchase socking away most of his teaching salary) and happily squired the hearts and minds of his most captive audience.

My Mother, growing up with a stellar example of success through dedication and stability, followed suit and, by 22, was running her own classroom. Not having a natural affinity for small children, those who know her are still puzzled by my Mother's choice to teach elementary school; as she is, however, easily intimidated by independent, mature minds, those who truly know her understand completely.

I'm fairly certain she finds most of every day in the company of seven-year-old hooligans (these are privileged kids from a fairly affluent community, most of whom have grown up running amok whenever they please) grueling, but -- here it is again -- she has afforded herself a lovely life. She works 8 am to 3 pm, during which time, she has of course a fifteen-minute recess and a forty-five minute lunch, as well as occasional prep time. She has every long weekend to do with as she pleases, 2 weeks off at Christmas, spring break and 2 months off for the summer. Sure, some teachers choose to coach track and field or have to supervise recess once a week -- either way, not a bad gig at all.

The past few days in particular, having taken their toll on me physically to the point that I open my mouth to make a verbal adjustment in class and nothing but the squeaks of what is left of my virus-ridden voice are audible, I have made what I feel is the responsible decision to revisit the pursuit of teaching high school. I would, of course, teach English -- this being the subject in which I earned my Bachelor's Degree because it was the only choice I knew would keep me engrossed in and writing fanciful analyses of great books over muffins and coffees at my favourite neighbourhood haunts. I can't even tell you the extent to which I deplore libraries -- I try to avoid them whenever possible -- and studying -- of any kind. Isn't life best lived? Pleasure please; I'll take as much as I can get.

And as anyone who works hard for their money knows, pleasure comes in many forms, most of which can be costly. So as Maya's Mommy -- a girl who insists on indulging in at least some of the finer things whenever possible -- trying to make it on my own in a city of unforgiving cold, even more unforgiving men and a barely-there transit system that pretty much necessitates having a car, I've accepted the time to shift gears from a Hot Yoga Teacher to a hot English Teacher as now. Applications are due in early spring, volunteer hours required and, hopefully, by next September, my stilettos will be pounding the pavement back in Van at UBC for a year of High School Teacher certification. I look forward to a new forum in which to boss people around.

No Life Jacket Required

Last week, I was in the yoga room 15 times -- for someone with a hyper metabolism and an effortless ability to ignore the all-important inner monologue of what a girl wants; what a girl needs -- this is a substantial amount of time spent sweating out some of which I may have been better off keeping in.

I haven't spent over 22 hours in the hot box since before I got pregnant over two years ago, at which time I was a sprightly 27-year-old; at 29, back on a full-time teaching schedule and fitting in a solid practice, I may have to start pumping electrolytes intravenously to keep from passing out at the end of the day. Either that, or I could just eat and pound coconut water constantly.

Whatever symbiotic solution I find to keep me ticking and ward off the several midnight incidents to which I've unhappily awoken, completely cramped -- paralyzed from the knee down, calf muscles calling out for me to treat them more kindly (salt and potassium please Miss Allison), for now I'll simply have to take my body's transitional state one step, breath, posture, class and day at a time. This weekend, for instance, I made the easy decision to (apart from teaching doubles both days) strive for allowing only the contraction that comes from strutting around in sky-high stilettos for a Friday night downtown worthy of stunningly uncomfortable shoes and a tastefully provocative cocktail-bandage dress. So far so good. As yet, an intake of wine and tequila seems to have adequately replaced my desire for 3 am bags of salted rice chips, so I must be striking a decent balance there somewhere.

Maybe it was the incredible dinners at Vij's and Sanafir, places I would not normally have the opportunity to enjoy back to back, that replenished my depleted resources, or the surprisingly irresistible charms of the tattoo artist with whom I spent an alluring hour last night at Adrenaline.

There are so many sweet sources from which to nourish one's body, mind and heart. This afternoon, I satisfied (as much as possible from a province away) the constant craving I have to see, hear and laugh with my daughter. Over Skype, she proudly displayed her newly acquired talent for holding a pen and instead of just putting it in her mouth, with the utmost concentration, pulling the lid off and replacing it repeatedly until I distracted her with greetings from some of my curious students. A cluster of buff, bared yoga bods eagerly surrounded my laptop and giggled along with Maya at her pen-handling genius. My heart full, I blew her a kiss and headed into my home away from home to teach a double dose of the ultimate effortless effort.

Now sitting alone (which I always hate -- particularly late at night), having downed a mega-sized coconut water, working towards even just pretending to feel comfortable tucked in by myself, I lie awake, trying to lull my busy mind to sleep with Jason Mraz -- not such a hot idea as listening to "Lucky" is serving no greater purpose than creating a hollowness in my chest as if the manic monkey from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs is ripping my heart out like he does to the unsuspecting evil gummy bear who, as a result, perishes heartless (if you've not seen the movie, stop lying to yourself and admit you loved it).

Tonight, on the floor of my sister's bedroom (my residence for only a few days more), the waters are inclement, there is a small craft warning; I could go down, flounder helplessly. But life is best managed calmly. With balance comes buoyancy. At least the clock has passed midnight and (apart from a tightness in the leg I had to keep still for an hour last night while my foot was being branded with words of limitless wisdom) my limbs are relatively relaxed. No signs of debilitating cramps this evening. Staring at my right foot, I find calm in the honest script so beautifully curved just above the instep. I will take my own advice and follow what is written there: trust, breathe, smile.

Life Lessons from the Indelible Britney Spears

Last week. I already pine for you and your final days of summer sun. The grueling schedule I kept of yoga and soaking up the sun at Kits Beach, left me little time for writing, but now the skies are ominous, offering nothing but drear and damp, so I'm back at the keyboard.

Heading home (as in the floor of my sister's bedroom, where I currently occupy a space the size of my couture IKEA mattress) in a haze of yoga high from a thick class on Commercial yesterday, I opted for the always ingenious soundtrack of Miss Britney Spears to accompany me home. Sometimes a girl just needs a little old school to remind her, no matter the current weight of life's circumstances and how unnervingly unforeseeable the future, everything will turn out alright in the end. Take our darling Brit: in the not-so-distant past, she was a completely disheveled (on the inside and out), unhinged, downward-spiraling, fury of destruction. Today, buffed and polished to a finish smooth enough to appear a once again competent mother, partner and artist (that's right, I referred to the princess of pop as an "artist" -- deal with it), she has re-emerged, relatively unscathed and back on top, continuing to dazzle and captivate legions of fans. And because so many worthwhile life lessons come from standout role models like Britney, when the going gets tough, but merits a tone none too somber and just scratching the surface of delicate introspection, her lyrics are full of diamonds in the rough.

Borrowing a gem from one of my faves, from the days of Britney's stellar acting debut in Crossroads I too have re-emerged -- a brighter, unobstructed by the expectations of others, independent version of myself.

"Say hello to the girl that I am! You're gonna have to see through my perspective."

"Overprotected" -- the theme song of life in the Sinclair (my maiden moniker -- we even have a darling tartan) clan. Released about 10 years ago -- about the same time, at 19, most of my girlfriends and I felt similarly hampered by our parents' view of the course our lives should take. Good work Mom and Dad -- I really used the four years I spent at UBC effectively. Because you said something along the lines of, "If you don't go to university right away, you will be an epic failure and no longer a member of the family we will choose to acknowledge. Well, we might acquiesce to identifying your body when the police find it under the Granville St. bridge frozen solid, because you won't survive the winters here sleeping in a box outside, which is the only accommodation you'll be able to afford if you elect to forgo higher education." Yep. I'm pretty sure the open-minded, warm and fuzzy advice of only the best intentions with which my parents provided me went something exactly like that.

At one time, I was a relatively obedient daughter, hoping to glean some affection from the confounding creatures who brought me into being by following a path I thought would appeal to their ideologies of what good girls should do. But never being one to blindly follow the pack and conform to a life that doesn't make me happy, I decided within the first semester of my English Literature Degree to do pretty much whatever I wanted. Sure, I read all the books, but only because I enjoyed them; I handed in all of my papers early and always seemed to do well, never being handed back work with less than an "A" of some description scrawled across the top. But I allowed my science requirements and electives that failed to interest me fall by the wayside, giving me a decent amount of recreational time -- which of course I filled with partying.

I managed to work my way through a solid roster of lovers, friends and everything in-between. I thought at least the life experience I gained from experimenting with what I wanted and didn't want in the people I kept close to me would prove useful, but thus far, I am still somewhat clouded with those silly lures that so often accompany short-lived unions -- you know -- a look, a touch, a smell, a certain mystery; something extraordinary that is magnetic but sadly doesn't turn out to have staying power or realness. I did, after all, manage to marry a man I hardly knew at all, but did he ever have a je ne sais quoi -- like none other.

Anyone who has played the game of love, lust and all necessary and unnecessary associated evils knows the couples that last are (much more complex than it sounds, trust me) the ones in which two people genuinely like each other; they have to laugh with each other, listen to and actually appreciate most of what escapes one another's mouths, so much so that just words can turn the wheels in the brain that ignite the fire in the heart -- and other, much lower regions in the body equally important in maintaining a certain level of interest and intensity between successful lovers. However rare, such connections do of course exist. One can choose to need them, want them, or simply settle for whatever comes -- or nothing at all.

I"ll take one of everything please. I'll see whatever comes; if it's not what I need and want, they'll be something just around the corner that is. "I need time, love, joy; I need space; I need me." If I ignore the expectations of others in the process, the only disappointment they truly experience will be their own -- in themselves.

I Am Me -- Without Apology

Does anyone near and dear to you look upon your lifestyle with disdain? If, like me, you are merely a yoga teacher in this crazy mixed up world -- you know, the one in which most people live to work -- you may be misunderstood. My parents somehow fail to grasp the notion that I am content doing what I do for the modest income with which it provides me, for which my real compensation is relaxation and happiness. Oddly enough, their heavy-handed judgement comes from a place of hypocrisy. They are not stockbrokers, real estate moguls, successful entrepreneurs, doctors or lawyers; mother is an elementary school teacher and father is now a retired police officer. Throughout the course of their careers, neither one of them has really seemed to enjoy a single day of that with which they chose to define themselves. They brought in decent coin -- nothing to impress the neighbours with -- but enough to live comfortably and raise two kids. They have healthcare benefits and pensions, all of which are, to some degree, important. But what confounds me more than anything is the lives they've carried on with for over 50 years, without ever seeming to live.

I meet a lot of people like my parents in this void of passion respect. They did what they did and do what they do because they choose to govern their existences by following the road more travelled -- the straight and narrow. Scintillating, I know. Sure, such paths have stability, predictability -- but lest we forget, nothing can be completely anticipated. Think about how many people you know today who have been slapped across the face with the news of an aggressive, life-threatening cancer, even the people who lead the cleanest, healthiest lives. Think about the random life-snatching acts of nature, human incompetence and -- worst of all, but less often random -- nurture.

How can those in this moment granted the privilege to live choose instead to adopt a "walking dead" existence? I find them unnerving -- those insipid individuals who simply move through the motions of one day after another, the fire (if it ever existed) in their eyes burnt out.

Sure, part of being an adult is accepting some level of responsibility, especially an adult (like myself) with a daughter. But irrespective of the challenges thrown at me, or the ones I create, unless it's to hook up with a vampire, I'll always choose to live among the living.

Teaching yoga, I may never be in the upper echelon of money-makers, but I'll always have enough to enjoy the simple pleasures (like this morning's mocha) -- and if I don't, I can move to Mexico. Of the highest importance will be my happiness, and the warmth it will always allow me to impart upon my daughter and anyone else so deserving.

Philosophical Foray

Bikram Yoga is like an escape from reality. Is it? Killed my Self in Cedric's class at Kits Monday night, in which he brought to our attention the backwardness of this statement. He told us to look at ourselves in the mirror and embrace this moment as our reality; this sweaty, awkward, emotional (more so for some) body-bending and strengthening session we put ourselves through so we can better manage life on the outside. I thought, this guy's for real. He know's what's up. The gym-jacked, perfectly-tanned, egocentric poser with the attention span of a toddler between me and Cedric created such a glaring juxtaposition, it was difficult to keep from laughing every minute of the 90.

This constant struggle, moving meditation, taking oneself to the brink, beyond and back -- this is reality. Walking into a brightly-lit room, wearing next-to-nothing, free of the accouterments to which so many of us are accustomed (the yoga room is one of the few places you will ever catch me without makeup), facing my own deeply introspective eyes, skinny arms, rosebud breasts, junk in the trunk, camel pose calluses attractively taking up precious real estate on my knees and not only accepting what I come into the room with, but constantly assessing every body part, muscle, ligament, joint, facial expression, to make sure it is working at its optimum level, to create a body that just won't quit and a mind so peaceful, it is overwhelmed by nothing -- this is honesty.

Reality is inescapable inside the sanctum of the yoga room, ever elusive on the outside. In an effort to make life seem easier, we often choose to make malleable the truth that is ourselves and our existence, but truth is unalterable -- it is exactly as it is and we must accept it as such if we ever hope to work with what we have, rather than against it.

I recommend coming to class just as you are, but carefully cognizant of whom that really is. Maybe you're someone who, out of habit and self-doubt, always sits down after awkward pose; maybe you refuse to practice anywhere but the farthest, dimmest, coolest back corner of the room; maybe you choose only to situate yourself front and centre, next to the podium, afraid you'll be too easily distracted or fail to push yourself otherwise (often a bad habit of mine). Whatever your deal, you're always welcome. Bring your inhibitions and transform them into wings that will enable you to become much greater than the sum of your parts.

Mr. Darcy has it Right -- Most Ardently

You know when the pieces of your life somehow untangle themselves, if only for a moment, so you can see them each clearly enough to evaluate which belong, which don't, if any need rearranging or require transformation or swift expulsion? For me, last week culminated in an epiphany of this sort; a clarity I knew existed, but had yet to reveal itself and its imperative nature until I let it.

Without my usual domestic responsibilities, as my daughter is currently with her Daddy in Edmonton while I fulfill my role as double Maid of Honour, I actually had time to reflect. I taught, practiced, partied, played, rested, relaxed and soaked up all the goodness I could get. I kept only the best company and was constantly content. Last week is up there with the best I've ever had -- and I was no where but my usual Vancouver haunts. The difference was the way in which I experienced them -- with a whole new appreciation; an openness; an optimistic warmth that lit me up from within.

I have always believed we create our own happiness; you forge the path you want or accept a life unfulfilled. Because life is short and so much of it is ridden with potholes, I choose to relish the smooth parts, even luxuriate in them. Having experienced that level of unbridled enjoyment, whenever possible, I rarely allow myself to expect less. As I draw another year closer to turning 30, I've come to acknowledge it's about time I grab hold of what I need and want before it's too late.

Positive changes already abound from my ambition to live ardently. The past few days, I have laughed to the point of tears almost once a day, felt passion, warmth and compassion in pleasantly unexpected places, worked my body only as much as I wanted, not felt I needed, exercised my mind and taught myself to hear and see things and people differently, watched zero television (with the exception of The Bachelorette finale because -- let's be serious -- that was important stuff), consumed only what I consider to be the best food and wine -- because, otherwise, what's the point? I have never felt more relaxed and satisfied. Reuniting with my daughter tomorrow will complete the picture and further elevate the appreciation I have developed for everything I have. It will also mean less selfish time, but more unconditional love. Fair trade.

Last night in Christian's class, I locked out in standing bow -- two feet in one line! I struggled and grunted my way through what I thought was (with my hamstrings) impossible and then found the sweet spot of letting go, the place where limitations cease to exist. As I started to give up, I chose instead to laugh at myself, and with a gentle nudge from Christian, kicked with everything I had. The aftermath of that class was the most relaxed contentment I could have imagined -- and it continued all night. Maybe it was the yummy Mexican food Dad took me and my sister for and the margaritas we downed or the Caper's dark-chocolate-raspberry tarts we devoured while taking in a late show of The Change-Up -- Either way, I'll have another of the same please. If Tuesday nights can be as fantastic as mine was and last week can be a game-changer, every day can be made to matter; to light the soul -- or at least try.

Damn It! I'm Not Right All the Time?

Even the most set in their ways can be undone. Today I learned an important lesson -- one I had been encouraged to consider previously, but have been guilty of failing to adopt as yet. Today, I lived the truth of some people being worth a closer look. I discovered a much deeper, kinder, generous impression of -- get this -- the intolerably distracted woman with the sweater in class. Today, for some reason unknown to me, she still came in with her cover-up, but practiced right under the podium, under my nose, looking up at me with a smile throughout class. Very strange, I thought. Maybe she simply felt wary of me up until today; I am, after all, a visiting teacher who hasn't set foot on the podium of this particular studio in over two years. As a matter of fact, almost all of the previously quiet, to the point of what I thought were disinterested, students have seemed to warm to me. They are even thanking me now after class and acknowledging me by name. The biggest surprise, however, for sure is "sweater woman."

One of my regulars this morning threw her back out, later explaining to me she had injured it a few days prior to her practice today, gotten overzealous, and pushed just a little too hard -- it's always a fine line. When in doubt, take it easy, honey. After coaxing her through how to lie appropriately in order to put the least pressure on her back, I helped hoist her up off her mat and supported her feeble limp out of the hot room.

As we finally make it to the door, who's behind us, carrying the injured party's mat, towel and water bottle? The one I had so swiftly dismissed as inconsiderate and flippant -- "sweater woman."

While this enlightening experience does not mean I'm going to ignore blatant laziness and hypocrisy from other instructors, it has encouraged me to give a person more then a moment to make an impression on me. I suppose I would appreciate the same, so why not? In the end, acceptance is just as important as striving for excellence.

Only Here for the Food

Araxi in Whistler: a dining experience we nearly aborted. Prepared to spend about $100 each for dinner, we had fairly high expectations. But even though disappointed loomed from the moment we walked in the door, none of our group of the pushover variety, we expressed our concerns at the apparent deterioration of such a notoriously impressive restaurant and they intelligently -- as on occasion I kiss and tell -- responded by rolling out the red carpet.

Upon the first sign of our distaste for our hobbit-like, mumbling to the point of inaudible, disgruntled server, the manager replaced him for a smooth, sweet, Australian treat who romanced every morsel served to us from the amuse-bouche to the double-chocolate ice cream brownie bar presented to us after we polished off the deserts we had actually ordered.

We were then brought a complimentary bottle of sparkling Okanagan wine and a full glass of the too-rich-for-my blood Cabernet Sauvignon I had asked just to taste to compare with my lower-end Malbec. Important discovery: expensive wine can be well-worth the frivolity. Drinking this particular Cab was like sliding into a mud bath (like the one JP and Ashley visited in Fiji) and being rubbed down from head to toe with warm, capable hands -- it brought a lasting smile to my face and perfectly prepared me for my first course: an albacore spicy tuna roll with which my deep appreciation of fabulous food was supremely satisfied.

Following the sushi extraordinaire was a lovely balance of creamy buffalo mozzarella and bitter/sweet beet-arugula, drizzled in a dijon-balsamic reduction -- stellar.

Bringing the tantalizing tastes to a whole other level was my main. Always one to order scallops if the preparation intrigues, I decided on the curried-salt variety, paired with aubergine and a chorizo-chickpea-tomato puree. I am a reliable predictor of choice menu items. This buttery, exotic, perfectly-balanced melding of flavours exceeded my expectations.

Funny how after swearing up and down we couldn't possibly eat another bite, when the server came over to offer us dessert, we all immediately selected something -- mine, of course, was chocolate. Barely able to eat half of the three preceding courses, I somehow managed to devour both the molten, Valrhona double-chocolate cake (which was especially prepared "double" for us as we had made it clear we were serious lovers of the good stuff) and the accompanying salted-caramel ice cream in seconds.

I share my appreciation for all things indulgent with words to the best of my ability, but sometimes words are -- well, they fail to adequately get across my intense love affair with really excellent food. But fortunately, as in my love affairs with really excellent people, I'm good at sharing.

The Hangover -- Part 3

The girlfriends who get slithered together, prance around naked (oh, wait, that was just me), share clothes, table dance (also just me), share dance partners, beds, hangovers, epic four-course dinners -- these are the ones who stay together. You know -- the ones around whom you can just be yourself and let it all hang out.

Man, am I fortunate to have friends with whom I can abandon all pretense -- like the kind I am forced to exercise in front of people who suck. As my mother and sister sit out on the patio of the condo at which I am currently staying (I can't refer to it as my mother's home, because it belongs to her fiance and in it I am treated as an inconvenient guest, rather than a family member). But this kind of cool reception is something I have become accustomed to in the bizarre world of my parents and their transient lives. Shockingly enough, I was not invited onto the patio to sit and have lunch with the girls -- so I continue going about my day looking out for me.

This morning I was fortunate to have a dose (however small) of warmth from both the students and the environment at the studio I waltzed into before the sun had risen. I taught a double, surprised to see so many hard-cores in my 6 am on a holiday, sudsed up under the ritzy rainfall shower heads in the spa-like change room and booked it to JJ Bean -- my little peace of heaven -- and solace.

A chocolate-whipped cream-laden mocha and visit to Whole Foods later, I was happily high on the simple pleasures I enjoy whenever possible and cruised home with an infectious sense of serenity I was more than ready to share until the patio party shut me out -- yet again.

But, of course, yet again, I will survive this slight. My sister knows not the exclusionary damage so unsuspectingly inflicted upon me, which is why I still want to take her for some quality bonding at Kits Beach.

So, while I head off to oil up, strip down and spend a little time at my favourite spot in Van with my sweetly oblivious sibling, indulge -- if you dare -- in evidence of some of the shenanigans that went down over a memorable bachelorette weekend in Whistler. Don't forget to blame it on the alcohol.

I Messed with the Law and the Law Won -- So Far

Beyonce knows what's up. As I'm placating the morning's sorrows in Noodle Box leftovers, tea and Much Music, mesmerized by her latest release, Best Thing I Never Had, I find myself inherently salivating over the couture wedding gowns in which she's frolicking along stunning beaches, attempting to show her ex what he's missing. As the song winds down, she smiles sympathetically and leaves me with, "Bet it sucks to be you right now." Damn right doll -- today, in this very moment, it kinda sucks.

My day started pleasantly enough with a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate-zucchini muffin and a mocha at JJ Bean Yaletown (their coffees make my heart smile). There's something so special about the ambiance at this particular location of my choice cafe; it's like the juxtaposition of the hipster staff and the pretentious air of Yaletown create a perfect vibe -- a place you just want to be -- simultaneously relaxed and fabulous.

After soaking in as much JJ Bean as my schedule allowed, I hopped on the Canada Line to teach a double at what used to be a studio to whose standards I held all others. Maybe it was just a bizarre collection of practitioners this morning, but it was pure chaos up in that joint. People left the room to pee without even appearing to consider whether or not the necessity was real or imagined. Hand towels to (gasp) wipe away any signs of sweat were rampant. One shining star actually brought a sweater into the room (obviously she does this on a regular basis) and proceeded to put it on and take it off at random intervals. I told her if she was cold, she should work harder. I'm not known to run a cold room -- ever -- unless it's beyond my control. It was like teaching in a bubble of disconnect. Just being in the room with that kind of unfocused energy gave me an overwhelming feeling of futility; the complete opposite of what I experienced practicing at a different studio last night.

Having narrowly missed a 5 pm class yesterday at Bikram Yoga Commercial Drive, I killed time in the always-electric neighbourhood, checking out the ecclectic shops and (of course) popping into the sweetest spot in the city to pick up a stash of my to-die-for dark-chocolate-halva cups. Thank you for your creations, Sweet Cherubim. I suffer dessert deprivation without you (okay, really only halva cup deprivation as I attempt in vain to find replacements).

Just before 6, I walked into the studio, warmly greeted, ready to get my sweat on in one of the now two practice rooms. Class was amazing -- somewhat like going swimming in a really hot pool with 30 of your closest friends and leaving the pool with no hamstrings -- fantastic; just what I needed. More please. Hopefully, I can hit up the Drive again tomorrow to re-energize, re-organize and re-vitalize the damage my enthusiasm for the yoga sustained teaching in the land of the lost today.

As usual, my love affair with words has delayed my disclosure of what really knocked me down this morning: a cop on a power trip. That's right, 24 hours in Van and I've already had a run-in with the law.

Apparently my aptitude for using the Canada Line is not up to par, as I failed to validate my ticket before ascending the stairs outside one of the stations. As I got to the second floor of the terminal, I was verbally accosted by a gruff, old dude trying to pull off his police duds as if he wasn't past pushing retirement. Squinting through his spectacles, he pointed out the fine print on the back of my ticket (because everyone reads the back of bus tickets), detailing the correct procedure to pay for and board the offending train. He dismissed my Alberta ID, explaining that my clear understanding of the English language was enough for him to assume I know the rules and was in violation of them enough to merit a $173 ticket. I know -- ouch. More than I made teaching two classes for which I had to ride the militarily-patrolled transit system.

But, alas, all's well that is made bearable by some of the best food in the world -- and that's certainly something Vancouver has aplenty. Tonight, we cool the burn of belligerent fuckers with cosmos and pasta at Anton's. Thanks Sarah for waiting in line with me and thanks Dad for the company -- and paying.

Hometown Glory

Waiting in the exhilarating Edmonton International Airport (it's so modern and stimulating, there's one Starbucks) to board my flight to Vancouver, I take way too big a mouthful of divine date square just as Mr. Handsome with a mischievous grin comes over to pass the time with idle morning conversation. Isn't that always the way? At least he seems entertained as I struggle to utter a response to his greeting with as much grace as I can muster in the moment. Fortunately, I'm not here to exercise my flirting skills.

I'm literally vibrating in anticipation of spending an entire month in my home sweet home -- as much of it at the beach as possible -- in the company of people and places I hold dear. I will, however, be without my mini-me, whom I have left in the capable hands of daycare and Daddy. This is the first time I have chosen to allow myself more than a few hours of adult time and, while it should prove to be a much-needed respite from domestic doldrums, I did experience several pangs of anxiety over being without my Maya for two weeks. I'll just have to party extra hard to compensate for stings of loneliness.

Shouldn’t be too difficult considering I’ve got the first of two epic bachelorette parties this weekend and at this point, I've planned tequila and cupcakes for Friday night’s menu. As it has been at least a good month since my highest stilettos have seen a dance floor, I’m overdue for a serious night (or two or three) of dropping it down. Watch out Buffalo Bill's – we ladies tend to bring with us shenanigans that are both raucous and unpredictable. Last time we graced the crowd at Bill's, I was pretty prego and threw my first drink ever on some idiot whose physically aggressive flirting methods merited him nothing more than a wet crotch and a police escort out of the bar. What can I say? I enjoy a little drama every now and then – and it was only club soda, so I knew it would wash out of his Sevens.

This weekend’s anniversary girls’ getaway (I seem to end up in Whistler for the weekend with my ladies about the same time every summer) is sure to include some theatrical moments, as any solid bachelorette weekend should, but as I won’t be an incubus of raging pregnancy hormones, and am more than prepared to deal with at least a few character-building run-ins with alcohol-fueled dudes, there should be no need for using cocktails as weapons (unless of course five girls sharing a bathroom becomes more than my limited patience can bear).

I will, however, spend a great deal of time wielding whatever kitchen gadgets I can find to keep from living on takeout or developing a vitamin deficiency staying at my Mom’s. No offense Mom, but we all know you treat muffins as an essential square meal. And as I have been honing my culinary prowess of late, prepare yourself to be highly impressed.

This past Saturday, in an effort to conquer the ever-intimidating poaching of eggs and making hollandaise from scratch, I made eggs benny. After going through only three or four eggs, attempting to delicately drop them into boiling, vinegar-infused water, I mastered the flick of the wrist required for such delicate artistry, poached perfect eggs, laid them atop whole-wheat English muffins with avocado and tomato, bathing my creation in a healthy dollop of lemon- dill-yogurt hollandaise. Check it out – I complemented my all-time favourite brunch feast with rosemary pan-fried potatoes.

Delicious. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up – actually six – as Maya and Nimrod heartily approved. Watch out world – my bistro attached to a yoga/dance studio on the beach somewhere fabulous is coming. For the moment, I’ll have to dazzle on a smaller scale.

I should say, “watch out Vancouver” – those who know and appreciate my particular brand of sharing (sometimes too much of) myself with almost everyone in my path would agree: I tend to leave a mark. Hopefully, I’ll give and get as much as I need from this visit. I’m teaching a few classes at Bikram Yoga Richmond, dropping in to a few classes at Harbour Dance Centre and eating/drinking my way through as many of my hot spots as possible. So ready for this. I think I’d better start with some really great chocolate.

Cutting Back on the Sugar

Today I played (as my girlfriend Wendy likes to put it) "hooky from life" for a couple of hours and took myself to see Friends With Benefits -- a well-chosen escape from the torrential showers responsible for taking the banality of E-town to a whole new level. There is a vaguely Vancouver feel here at the moment -- humid, grey and wet -- but without the mountains, ocean and green space.

Having spent some quality time this morning pouring over the latest issue of Women's Health (mostly because Rosie Huntington-Whiteley is on the cover and who doesn't enjoy staring at her) at Cafe Remedy with a mocha and a delightful lemon-pistachio square, I thought it prudent to continue my appreciation of the great indoors at the Cineplex.

This was my kind of movie -- hot people doing hot things in the totally stunning, impressive surroundings of New York and LA. Justin Timberlake (although somewhat overly effeminate for my taste) and Mila Kunis (always stunning) paraded their sweet little asses around, giving us a realistic taste of the kind of sex everyone wishes they were having -- you know, the kind in which each partner knows exactly how to please the other; they realized a fantastical carnal connection simply because they bossed each other around until both got it right. Because they agreed on the terms of their liaisons -- no emotional connection being important -- before hitting the sheets, hurt feelings weren't a factor. No sugarcoating. Imagine if we lived even one or two aspects of our lives being completely straightforward. I think the abundant benefits would outweigh any initial harm.

Straight shooter Tommy (an exceptionally cast Woody Harrelson) sums it up for JT's emotionally reserved Dylan when he shares his rules to live by: "If you want to lose weight, stop eating; if you want to make lots of money, work your ass off; if you want to be happy, find someone you love and never let her go." An astute, fantastic message. Sometimes, I fear we are so delicate with our words (both in communicating with ourselves and others) we impede positive growth.

Ricky gave it to us on the level in class this afternoon in encouraging us not to give up when the going got tough. As students dropped like dominoes, he shared sound reasoning: "you came here to work hard, so do it. Get the most you can today out of your experience here."

I had come to the studio heavy with melancholia and the too-recent Monte Cristo I'd had for lunch and gotten just what I needed from such effective leadership. Ricky drove the bus with a proclivity worth emulating. He was inclusive, leaving no one (even those who tried to escape or lie low) behind. That is exactly how it should be. I hope most people don't pay to coast through class in a way they could practicing on their own in their bathroom. I hope they come to be inspired and transform in ways they may have never thought possible. For me, with growth has come clarity. I am slowly realizing the real sources of happiness in my life, how I can give to and receive from them what I need to do more than merely put one foot in front of the other.

Because I'm Worth It

I hate surprises, but for some unfathomable reason, the men in my life seem to delight in throwing the unexpected my way; while they may think this makes them appear spontaneous and exciting, it does not -- it tends to irritate and disappoint. I am always impressed by actions that reflect knowledge and appreciation of a person; like when my husband has my bar none favourite chocolate confection shipped over from Vancouver -- A+; when he takes me to Thailand to stay in rat-infested hotels and have the overt sex trade thrust in my face at every turn for our honeymoon -- big, fat failure. It's like having your best friend, who knows you hate beer, serve you Corona at a party. Maybe he does it because he doesn't actually listen when you speak or really know the intricacies of you at all -- or maybe he just doesn't care, and if that's they case, you probably shouldn't waste any of your spectacular self on his complete lack of effort or interest.

Fortunately, there is such a spectrum of people with whom to associate, if one gravely disappoints, there'll be at least a few who are more than willing to satisfy. Like the lovely, inclusive friend of a friend, who welcomed me into his home Saturday night and proceeded to treat me like a VIP, even though I unintentionally crashed his intimate bbq. Shortly before I intruded, I had been left hanging by an inconsiderate narcissist that (while devastatingly charming) must have thought I didn't mind waiting by the phone with bated breath for him to tell me when to jump and how high. Not one to put up with such insolence, I sent the word out to a few near and dear that I was downtown in need of quality company with which to imbibe. Having Maya as my regular date, it is so infrequent that the opportunity to let loose presents itself, I like to make the most of such precious evenings.

The bbq was charmingly intimate and hosted by a smooth and hot like butter host with the most. As opposed to the standard grill fare, he was smoking butter chicken -- that's right, one of my favourite dishes made from scratch -- and it filled his apartment with the most enticing, heady aroma. The crowd was thin, just the host, his cousin, his roommate and date, with my friend Blair rounding out the group and doing a delightfully considerate liquor run to make sure all were provided for and content. Unfortunately, my evening suffered from being overly well-planned, so I couldn't even stay for a bite of dinner and had to politely sneak away to meet my girlfriend and her new main man.

At around 9:30, I waltzed into The Treasury, because of course, at that early hour of the night, there was no lineup and only a handful of quiet souls sipping cocktails; two of these belonging to the mellow set were Sharon and Kristof, with whom I sipped, swigged and bantered until it tolled 11, my stomach growled and the little alcohol I had consumed was keeping me buzzed as it dawned on me I had yet to have dinner. The bar's kitchen had already closed, so we strolled down the street to 100 -- this is a restaurant unworthy of its pretentiousness. For $30, I had one glass of wine and an appetizer so small, it left me wanting. I adore Sharon and am ecstatic to report the object of her affection is everything she described so my time in their company was well spent, despite having to give up butter chicken to eat lame lobster tacos at midnight.

Overall, my night on the town had been adequately salvaged, but not one to hold a grudge, I felt the need to smooth things over with the one who had left me in the lurch early on -- so, in response to an inviting text, I made my way over to On the Rocks to join the gang with which I had originally planned to slurp and sup. The club was packed, but I bypassed the lineup just by asking the bouncer -- he let me slip in despite my denial of his request to see my best "pouty face" -- and walked right into the arms of my friends. Because my host, who tonight was disappointingly without the most, is usually a crowd favourite and seems to know everyone, we were treated very well and the night culminated the way it should have started -- with good people, solid drinks and music and an all-too-rare opportunity to let loose. Cheers to more of the same please -- but next time, let's save the drama for our mamas.

Saturday Satisfaction

After a rather uneventful Friday night of providing a teething, congested Maya with major tlc, an unexpected morning of foodie heaven was just what I needed. It began with brunch at Sugarbowl -- which floored me as every weekend for 2 years, I have seen nothing but some version of the daily omelet on the feature board (always satisfying, but never memorable); today's special was bacon, onion, and goat cheese-stuffed portobello mushroom cradling paprika-dusted poached eggs . It was exquisite; brunch how it should be -- something carrying a little more drama and a lot more taste than what I could throw together at home in five minutes.

Superbly satiated, I followed the perfect Sugarbowl experience by another of my weekend routines, walking the farmer's market. Today, however, I was sidetracked by a bright pink beacon -- the outline of a giant cupcake -- beckoning me with promises of "the best" in Edmonton. Flirt cupcakes did not disappoint. I quickly decided on a dark chocolate-cookies 'n cream confection, with an oreo baked inside and cream cheese frosting. Needless to say, this was a solid choice. No need to peruse the market, as I was completely content.

Tonight, I have plans to wine and dine (and hopefully cocktail) with friends in high places (apartment overlooking the river that makes for unparalleled entertaining), where I have yet to be disappointed. Cheers to a Saturday of which I hope to have many more.

Take Two and Call Me in the Morning

Do you ever catch yourself smiling for no reason? Hope so. If not, what's the point of waking up in the morning? I suppose there's always mochas, morning sex (not sure what that is any more as the person I live with disappears before the crack of dawn), pedicures (guys, foot massages are a lost art and tend to come with worthwhile reciprocity), being with the people you love -- the ones who make you smile just because.

Think about how much you give to those around you just by sending them a little piece of your heart. I taught a tiny class this morning, which is always much more challenging than leading a stacked room, and it was enough having one smiling, happy face (Randy, you never let me down) to motivate me and feed my soul so I could sparkle (even though I'd started my day with a disappointing Starbucks experience).

After teaching, as I gave myself over to my own practice, I thought about how I stay lit from within and developed a prescription to make the rest of you tolerable: get a little sunshine everyday (even if it's the synthetic kind found at the tanning salon); kiss someone whose touch enraptures; sweat to awaken your body (this can be more fun than you think if you use your imagination); satisfy your sweet tooth (only liars don't have one); allow your vulnerability to shine -- those worthy of your attention will appreciate it; embody your inner strength even if it keeps people at a distance (your allure will eventually attract companions for whom you don't have to pretend; take care of someone who needs you (choose this person carefully). Breathe deeply and let the endorphin release wash over you.

We all know our happiness is a result of the choices we make. Even the poor choices can be rectified. There is always something positive you can take away from an opinion or experience. As I set myself up for pranayama breathing this morning, I checked out my alignment in the side mirror and scrutinized what I felt had become a little too boom-boom-pow an asset. Thoughts of myself as a lost Kardashian sister crept in, distracting me from breathing as long, slow, and as much as possible. It took a few fake-it-till-you-make-it smiles before I conjured up one that proved genuine, which I used to slay my self-sabotage by focusing for a second on the men in my life who have come and gone -- and come again, all of whom prized my rear view. Staring at myself in the mirror for an hour and a half almost everyday is what makes me vulnerable and allows me to embody my inner and outer strength; some practitioners say it's the hardest part of the yoga.

What we're really aiming for in the hot room and outside of it is honesty -- with oneself. You know what's up. Maybe you need to lose weight, gain a few pounds, makeover your soul. A student today, who happens to teach another style of hatha yoga, told me his motivation for doing Bikram lies in the sense of community that comes with such an all-consuming practice. When people partake in something requiring a minimum two-hour time commitment, they tend to become emotionally invested in the studio and other students who share their experience. Do you ever feel like busy classes buzz with energy so tangible, it pushes you along? You work harder than you might otherwise, without consciously trying. Power of the voodoo right? Didn't we tell you that coconut water is laced?

The real drug from which you experience double-rainbow effects is the honesty you are forced to confront the second you step on the mat and see yourself staring back at you. Once you hone it in the room, you can live it on the outside. Let it be the reason you get up in the morning. Your honesty gives you an all-access pass to your emotions -- so you can smile for no reason at all whenever you want.

Black Sheep

Immersed in the carnal wonderland of True Blood last night, after making my customary mental notes on ways to expand my sexual repertoire, I became uncharacteristically melancholy over the show's title, and how it reminds me how untrue my own blood is.

Technically, I have a younger sister and two parents, but since adolescence -- about the time my independent nature became apparent and alienated me -- I have felt orphaned and been in search of replacements for the family that, to this day, behave as if I was unplanned and unwanted.

Always an original, demanding attention and doing things my way, whether it warms or cools the hearts of my relations, I tread my own path. Being a separatist has come with more than it's share of difficulties, but this comes as no surprise; agreeable people are easier to handle. My impassioned, energetic, open spirit is more often than not overwhelming for my relations who would rather I nod, smile and bow to whatever unsuitable or irrational demands they make.

The outcast of my family, I speak my mind and heart too much for their sensitive natures and spend fruitless tears on their exclusionary treatment of me. And some who think they know me wonder why I'm an attention seeker; aren't we all in search of ways and people to fill the holes in our souls?

I've managed to close the gaps with friends and their parents who love me as if our ties were unbreakable; I've found fulfillment in romantic liaisons with fiercely affectionate partners whose warm families, so different from my own, have embraced me wholly; I've created life -- a daughter whose smiles and snuggles brim with an attachment only (most) moms understand; mine often treats me like a fair-weather friend and saves her Gilmore Girls style of mothering for my sister.

Maybe I'm the problem -- I expect too much of those near and dear to me. I love hard and fast, which makes it difficult to understand any other way of expressing a sentiment essential to happiness; so perplexed am I by emotional inhibition, I once broke off a relationship fueled by the sizzling chemistry I'd only ever imagined because even though I knew he loved me, he never said it. Over brunch one morning, I remember feeling defeated by a comment he made in response to a couple next us exchanging "I love you's." He'd smiled fondly at me and remarked how "cheesy" and "unnecessary" it was for two people who felt that intensely for each other to vocalize it. Right then and there, over coffee and croissants, I decided his cowardice was unnecessary and left him.

I've had more than enough cold in my life and need all the warmth I can get -- the catalyst behind my addiction to hot yoga? Perhaps. The moment I first stepped into that room, thick with exertion (as those who practice know, it becomes tangible in there), I was enveloped with a sense of belonging -- pure comfort in working myself harder than I ever thought possible. Through the surrender comes a constant evolving, an emergence of one's true self.

Accustomed to facing challenges, I thought I'd learn to accept the fight to fit in with my family as a constant battle, worthy of my efforts if real, unconditional love resulted; but last night I came to question the importance of being included by my true blood. Are those who refuse to reciprocate a modicum of what I give really worth it? I know my sister can give me what I need and I will never give up on her -- ours is a friendship worthy of weathering any bullshit impediments. My parents, however, may benefit from a little less of my struggle to obtain their affections; one can only swim against the current for so long before growing tired and drowning.

All We Have Is Now

If we fear death, why do we live for the future and not the present? One would think valuing this moment would make for the most fulfilling existence possible, but I constantly hear, "I'll travel when I'm older and more financially secure, find something I can make a living doing that I genuinely enjoy, spend time with my dearest friends and loved ones when I have more time off, find the lover who ignites my most passionate self and holds the flame steady, have kids later."

It has become customary for people to put their lives on hold and be what they think is responsible, complain about the banality of such existence and wait until time has run out to really start living. Bitching about one's circumstances, while cathartic, creates an ambiance of melancholy, which is rather lonely and, at best, pacified. The person who plods practically through days, weeks, months and years may as well abandon their fear of death, because however unsuspected, death has already come.

Last night, I saw the grim one creeping into my consciousness in the form of another evening numbing my already underused gray matter with Maya's bedtime routine (however important, giving my daughter dinner -- half of which ends up on and around her, a bath, a bedtime story and sitting patiently while she decides when she will succumb to slumber is less than scintillating), semi-interesting reality television and cleaning the kitchen carnage from dinner. In favour of giving myself and my soul a little special attention, I left putting the house to bed in the capable hands of my husband and treated myself to a big glass of wine and a movie, for which I knew he wouldn't care and I was certain I would adore.

For two whole hours, tucked away into the bowels of the Princess Theatre, I immersed myself in Woody Allen's latest fantastical, engaging neurosis, the theme of which is living in the present. Midnight in Paris features Owen Wilson as Gil, a confused writer, whose obsession with the 1920's keeps him wishing he could live in what he feels was a time intellectually and culturally richer than now; he becomes so consumed with the place in time in which he longs to be, he ignores his own life and what it has become -- one of emptiness -- in environment, career and relationships.

Sometimes I feel displaced, not in historical period, but on the path I have chosen. I often fear not doing, being, engaging enough of what I have and potentially have at my disposal -- which really, is everything. As B would remind me, "It's never too late." He might also kindly suggest to kick my ass into gear and save silly things like sleep for when I'm dead -- infinite wisdom.

The Space Between Your Ears

One of the reasons we hone the mind-body connection in class is so you can enable the power of your mind to overcome resistances in your body. Your mind knows what's up, what your body can handle and what it can't, what is good for it and what will leave you doubled over in a sugar coma of uselessness. Our mind can be our worst enemy or our best friend -- it's up to us. We make the decisions to look, feel and act a certain way.

On Canada Day, I took Maya for an afternoon escape to Starbucks, which delighted her even more than it did me, because she walked there -- the whole way alongside me. Granted, we live across the street from Starbucks and it's likely no more than 100 metres from our door, but for a peanut, that's pretty far.

A look of accomplished pride plastered across her face as we entered the cafe, she drew eyes and hearts from all around. The barista couldn't resist and handed her one of those dangerously delicious, but totally unnecessary cake-pop pastries they recently started carrying; while kind and generous in intention, the offering was a digestive disaster. Maya clutched her pink, sugary prize, nibbling away at it all the way home. Shortly after a paltry dinner, which couldn't be helped because her tiny tummy was full of nutritionally bereft garbage, Maya tossed her cookies. Fortunately, most of it hit the laminate and not the couch and she seemed to be pacified with a bottle of water and a snuggle, but I'm fairly certain her gastrointestinal fireworks could have been prevented had her afternoon alimentary intake and its possible ramifications been more consciously considered. Poor doll -- victim of a cake-pop. Who knew something so innocent in appearance could do so much damage? I've experienced far worse from more benign delights.

The night following my gross negligence of Maya's nutritional needs, I prepared for her a complete, nutrient-rich dinner (by prepared I mean heated up what Nimrod had already thrown together) of beef goulash, broccoli and wholewheat noodles -- perfect. Having taken care of the most important person, I muted my mind, tucked her into bed and, having exhausted my domestic energies, feasted on a box of granola for dinner; this was a choice lacking any intelligence or foresight. Granola, being laden with satiating fiber is great in small amounts, but anything more than a small bowlful can sit in the stomach for enough time to turn one off it forever. By Sunday afternoon's afternoon of teaching, I still had a belly full of the stuff and resembled myself at four months pregnant -- very attractive and ironic considering my rant about the responsibility of a Bikram Yoga Instructor to look the part. But of, course, the magic of the hot room worked on me and after three hours of emphatic encouragement, coaxing new students to stay in the room and take it easy, and pushing regulars beyond their self-imposed limitations, my stomach shrank down to normal and I looked forward to whatever divine dinner I could suggest Nimrod make for me.

Incredible how powerful the mind can be when effectively harnessed and how easily it can be neglected, like when anyone decides to consume anything from McDonald's. Women can use mental strength to distract or focus themselves (whichever serves them better) and withstand childbirth unaided by pain-dulling medication; people can run marathons, make it through Bikram's torture chamber unscathed; go without sleep for 30 hours straight caring for the ill and wounded (don't think you do it without looking -- and acting -- like you belong in Shaun of the Dead); heal from heartbreak and open themselves up to finding another partner they can't imagine life without.

It is not enough to have the potential of mind control; we must be cognizant of it and use it to be the best possible versions of ourselves. Sure, nobody is perfect and the occasional slip is always a lesson learned, but a mind is a terrible thing to waste; some lose theirs entirely before their time expires and, from what I can gather reading and watching films on the subject of mental degeneration, they feel completely futile.

Past adolescence, we know what's best for us; so why do so many of us spend our whole lives choosing the opposite?

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?"