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.

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.

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.