Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Light in the Darkness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple Pleasures -- Kind of

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get What You Give

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Sedentary Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Europeans Do it Better

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

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

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

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

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

It Takes a Village

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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