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.

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.

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.