Just like Martha's except less green and more dead.

When I planted the seeds I imagined a cute little tree sprouting to keep me company in the kitchen. One that would occasionally bear exotic fruit which I would use in salads and baking a la Martha Stewart. When people questioned where this fruit had come from (because people do that), I would nonchalantly mention that I had grown it myself. "But in, FEBRUARY?!?" they would explain. I would cooly brush it off as if it were no big deal... as if the plant had basically gown itself, picked itself, and chopped itself up for my salad. This was the fantasy eluded to by the compostable packaging that my little tree seeds came in. I failed to compost the packaging and I failed to grow a tree.

The packaging claimed that in as little as six weeks a grower could expect to see fruit and, well, five weeks later, there I was, still staring at a pot of mud. My curiosity got the best of me today and I went rooting through the mud to see if anything was going on "down there" and not a single speck of green had started sprouting. What gives? I watered it regularly. Loved it. Talked to it. Gave it a sunny little perch. All I got was mud.... and I have two guesses why;

1. it was a gift given to me by a classmate when I move to Ottawa... two and a half years ago. Perhaps I was supposed to plant the seeds 16 months ago? Perhaps then they would have grown.

2. there may have been a night or two that I forgot to take it off the window sill and froze my little germinating baby in it's sleep.


I have a bad track record with plants. I've been known to mistakenly weed up entire rows of cucumbers and carrots from my parents garden, and there was that time I drove through my mom's flower garden with the lawn mower. My herb garden dried itself out before I had a chance to turn it into anything. On my second try I asked a green-thumber for a bit of advice. She told me not to water too often and to water before the sun came up or the little water droplets would burn holes in the plants. So there I was waking up at 4am, worried that I was watering too little or too much. I succeeded to keep my basil, lemon balm and mint plants alive long enough for us to use them, but failed to keep straight which plant was which. Needless to say, we ended up with lemon balmy pesto and some rather minty gazpacho.

This matters because for the first time in many years I'm going to be able to have a real garden. I've already put in an overly enthusiastic order to Vessey's and am indulging myself with daydreams of cauliflower, beets, pumpkins and artichokes fresh from the garden. Does anyone have any tips or words of advice for someone with a handicapped green thumb? Has anyone ever actually grown artichokes?

I am not a winner and you probably aren't either.

Now, Before you groan, roll your eyes and go back to watching youtube videos of cutesy kittens doing cutesy things, don't worry, this isn't one if those "whoa is Britt, I loose at life" posts, and I'm not going to cast a gloomy old rain cloud on anybodies bright and sunny (all-be-it freakin' cold) day. The cutesy kitten videos can wait five more minutes while you finish reading this.

Now, some people (they're probably a neighbor, or a friends parents), have some natural talent at winning contests. They spend $5 at a social and leave with a new lawnmower, toaster oven, and a $300 gift certificate for skate sharpening; they're the same ones walking away from office Christmas parties with a trip for two to Cuba and two weeks paid vacation, while the rest of us walk away with tea cozies that the boss's Grandma knit in the company colours; they have an uncanny ability to know that there are 982 Jelly Beans in that jar; and when they scratch, they actually win. You know the type. Maybe you are the type (if that's the case, we all secretly hate you and spread rumors behind your back... now you know).

I, like most of you, am not a winner. Yeah, sure, we've all won a coffee with Tim Hortons rrrrrrrrroll up the rim to win... but so has my dog. When every other cup is a winner it's more like a coupon than a contest. If you're like me, you also have your big claim to winning fame that you cling to like saran wrap does to jello (if you've never tried to saran-wrap Jello, then you have no idea what you're missing out on) just to make yourself not feel like a total loser. Mine is a $280 hockey scholarship that I won at a Chinese auction at Lilac Resort Camp Grounds in '94 (do the math, I was eight). Why there was a Chinese auction at a camp ground I don't remember. The real question is "why did I enter to win a hockey scholarship?" I remember really wanting to win the horse race game and I didn't use the scholarship.

Child hood memories aside, I haven't done a great deal of winning things since. Until (you guessed it) NOW!!!!!!! I really cleaned up shop this week. First there was my big score at Safeway. You all know what I'm talking about, this little tear and rip cards that the cashier hands you five of for every purchase of $1. I've been tearing open those things for years... I have enough of them to insulate a house and I've never won a thing... then Monday comes along and BOOM!!! APPLE JUICE!!!! Yes, I am a lucky devil. The fact that I don't drink or like apple juice, means nothing and I don't let that small detail steal an ounce of victory away from my win. I won apple juice.

Then my inbox had a big old surprise for me this morning. As I'm om-nom-noming some serious oatmeal, enjoying my coffee (no, not apple juice, ick), and trashing all of my junkmail that accumulated in my inbox during the six hours while I slumbered.... I stumbled across a piece of junkmail that wasn't. It was/ I was a winner! I won two tickets to the wonderful world of wedding show happening this weekend! YAY ME!!

Now those of you who are reading this and already know that I'm not an overly excitable bride, probably sensed the sarcasm in that statement. And, those of you who didn't already know that white dresses give me hives, and that boutonnières and cursive fonts cause me to hyperventilate... well, now you do. Still, I feel a certain obligation to attend the show. So much of an obligation in fact, that I ended up with commitments to go on the Saturday and the Sunday. A weekend of wedding shows. Good god.

For everyone's safety and well being, I will have Steve in tow on Saturday. He's very good at running crowd control and getting between me and the nancy who just stepped on my foot with her three-inch spike heel and then knocked me in the face with her elbow, all while talking loudly on her cell phone. Steve sees that glint of bête noire in my eyes and manages to get me out of ear shot before I LOUDLY launch into a verbal lecture about how "SOME GIRLS have no CONSIDERATION, for OTHER PEOPLE" ... I am my grandmother.

Our mothers will also be along on Saturday. Mine to point out that "with some scissors and a little help from the hot glue gun, those table covers would make lovely invitations," and Steve's mom to ogle the destination wedding packages and to try one more time to convince us that a wedding in Mazatlan is the way to go. I love you both.

Then on Sunday it's back to the show with my local brides maids. Lindsay will have an absolute cow over the cost of flowers and know where I can get them for one tenth of the cost. Her parents are also the ones who require the help of six people to carry their loot to the car when leaving a social or any fundraising event where prizes were available to be won. I have no doubt that she will follow in their foot steps one day. Jen, on the other hand, will make the whole thing an educational experience with interesting little side notes like "if you have doves at your wedding, and people throw rice, the doves will eat the rice and it will expand in their stomachs, and then they will explode." And I'll counter that with "Sally ate a bag of rice once and she didn't explode." And she'll either tell me about the time her dog ate a box of Lasagna noodles or go into the scientific explanation about why Sally did't explode.

I've asked these two to be in my wedding party for reasons that are obvious. I am ecstatic that they both agreed and want them to know how much it means to me and I've promised not to nickel and dime them to death with small little wedding related things... like tickets to a wedding show. So the freebies will go to the girls and we'll all spend an hour or two eating free samples of wedding cake and entering draws for things that we won't win.

One Great City

I'm going to ask that all readers direct there attention away from the date on my last blog post and play along with me as I do my best to convince you that it hasn't been three months since you last heard from me, and I could make up a story about a time warp, or the internet exploding... but no matter how hard I sell it, you probably won't buy it.

It's a new year so lets start fresh with a little life update. We no longer reside at 42 Park Avenue, which make the the title of this blog a little misleading. I thought about changing the URL, but "415 Stradbrook" just doesn't have that ring to it. "The Wakefield" was a promising candidate with a lot of potential but in the end, I had too many sentimental, schmaltzy, and mushy feelings about Park Avenue to let it die. I'm a sap, what else is new?

Well, not really that much. Sally continues to eat my shoes, I killed a poinsettia and my hippo-teapot got a camel-teapot-friend to keep him company (thanks Jen!). There was a trip to North Dakota where I met my maker in a bottle of Shiraz, and Visa put a hold on my credit card. Steve took a trip to Vegas to drive sports cars, shoot guns, and ogle showgirls. Versache, Coach and Corningware all made an appearance on Christmas morning, and while you were counting down or kissing someone special on New Years Eve, I was taking Sally outside so that she could poop. happy. new. year.

Now lets talk about life in Winnipeg. Unlike in Ottawa, I can no longer wear my pajama pants in public, because nine times out of ten, I run into somebody who I know, or who knows me, or knows Steve, or my mom, or Steve's mom... actually nine times out of ten, they're in pajamas too. In Winnipeg there aren't six degrees of separation, there are only three (and there's no dress code at Superstore)). It's more likely than not that I'll recognize the person in front of me at Starbucks from a University class or as an old co-worker, or that I went to highschool with the asshole who just cut me off.

But, it's a good thing that you know so many people here, because you certainly won't be bussing to Montreal to visit friends for the weekend, and you won't be carpooling to Toronto or New York either. Your road tripping options are limited at best. Fargo, Grand Forks, Regina or Brandon. Take your pick. Realistically you could do all that there is to do in all of the aforementioned cities in a few fun-filled days, but why would you want to?

Lets talk some more about the city where I "got grown" and how it compares to our capital. Parking is $1/hr, not $12; a beer will set you back $4.50, not $7; our liquor commission is still open after 6pm; the ice on our skating path hasn't been destroyed by hundreds of bureaucrats on their way to the office but unless you're wearing every piece of clothing you own, you're going to freeze your everything off while you're on it; sushi is to Winnipeg what shwarma is to Ottawa; our main highway runs around the city, not through it; and your dad might drive an Audi but my dad drives a Ford F250 that makes smart cars wet themselves.

"and in the dollar store the clerk is closing up , and counting loonies trying not to say... I hate winnipeg"