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"

Warning: This post is Cheesy

My opinion of Ottawa is no secret. While I don't "not like" the city, it has grown on me the same way that mold grows on a piece of cheese. We've all been there. Don't pretend you haven't done it. You find your forgotten block of cheddar hidden behind the pickles. Little green fuzzy bits are clambering up Cheddar's southern wall and rather than throw the valuable block out, you cut off the fungal bits and call the rest of the cheese edible.

In this case, I'm the cheese and Ottawa is the mold, and in my two years here, parts of it have grown on me despite my best efforts to cut off the fungus and keep the cheese mold free.

Normally we think of mold as a bad thing (the analogy continues), and it's true that quantities of certain molds can harbor bacteria that makes you sick. But other types of mold are famous for saving lives. Remember penicillin? The superman of mold?

Moreover mold either is, or is essential to the creation of, some of our favorite foods: bread, cheese, yogurt, soy sauce... wouldn't be possible without our good friend mold. Give me a mold free world without yogurt, and I'll tell you to shove it. I'm staying here with yogurt on moldy planet Earth.

Turns out that the cheese (me), is actually made of mold. Trying to cut the moldy bits off is like cutting off my cheddar nose despite my mozza face. Stop trying. Accept the mold... I think?

Basically, in the process of writing this, I realized that I am moldy cheese. I'm just beginning to come to terms with that... or even understand what it means.

Sorry for the bizarre analogy. I hope you followed.

How did this obscure epiphany come about? Well, Steve and I are moving back to Winnipeg. Surprised? So are we.

What surprised me even more is how sad I am to leave a city that I didn't think I even liked. It hit me hard. The majority of people in our Ottawa posse are Winnipeg imports, which means we will see them again. But, they're a great group of friends that I only realized I had as I was saying goodbye. That's my bad. Bad cheese! Bad! Joni Mitchell had it right after all:

"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got ‘til it's gone. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot."


p.s. I googled the whole cheese/mold cutting off thing before posting this to make sure that I wasn't committing some health taboo (it occurs to me that I should have done this a long time ago), and it turns out that this is a totally safe practice to engage in, as long as you cut an extra 1/2" in from the moldy bits... next time I'll use a ruler. Cheese mold ruler! There's a business idea that's doomed to fail.

Life of (pumpkin) π

Growing up Thanksgiving meant turkey, ham, Caesar salad, mashed potatoes, stuffing (I never convince myself to try the stuffing, to me it always looked like something the bird had thrown up), gravy (I didn't take this either; it remindes me of what comes out of the other end), garlic bread, meatballs, holopchi, perogies, other Ukrainian foods that my spell checker doesn't recognize, pumpkin pie, whipped cream, additional assorted diabetes inducing desserts, second helpings of everything and, eventually, undoing the top button on my pants.

One year we deep fried the bird... insert heart palpitations here.

These festive binges included the usual suspects of immediate family members and a few faces that I only saw once or twice a year - and the only things we really had in common were the heaping plates of food in front of us. Conversation was politely forced, as I imagine it usually is when a large group of people who only have turkey in common are forced to politely converse.

At eighteen years of age, to my parents horror, I took the vow of a vegetarian and swore off eating anything with a face. It was deemed a "passing fad" and I was left to fend for myself at the family dinner table. When my first Thanksgiving rolled around, I won't lie, I struggled a little. It's hard to be satisfied with a dinner roll and perogies with the bacon bits picked off when everyone else is chowing down on a meaty feast. That year the topic of conversation was my dietary decision. I threw the first stone. I tried and failed (horribly) to convert anyone at that table to my vegetable loving ways. They, in return, put me on the spot and critically questioned my choice. I was unprepared and I was out numbered. I'm pretty sure even the turkey said "eat me!!" When the pumpkin pie came around, I dove in. This was the one part of Thanksgiving that I could share with my family and enjoy. I hadn't been robbed of this delicious seasonal treat. I had seconds.

I stuck to my guns, I livened up the table talk, I learned a valuable lesson. It was the last time I told anyone they shouldn't eat meat. I hated being attacked for my choice. What right do I have to attack another persons choice? Eat, or don't eat, whatever you want. I'll even cook it for you, just to prove my point.

Last year was my first Thanksgiving in Ottawa. I was lucky enough to have my parents fly in from Manitoba and my favorite franc'o friend, Laura, buss in from Montreal. She brought a sugar pie (only the french could dream up such a food) which I may have well just slapped on my thighs because I ate the whole damn thing. Steve and I rounded out the crowd with a few more friendly faces, I preheated the oven the 425F, poped in two of Loblaws finest frozen lasagnas (one veggie, one meaty). Dole provided us with a tasty pre-washed bagged salad, and a few other side dishes "magically" appeared... I didn't fuss. The grocery store made our meal, I just heated it up. But there was a home-made pumpkin pie (the sugar pie having magically disappeared at this point), and I can take credit for that.

The next day we drove down to Montreal and feasted on smoked meat sandwiches (I ate a really big pickle).

A bit of an unconventional Thanksgiving but no one complained.

This year there was no family, no franco'friend Laura, and no sugar pie. I missed them all.

This year there was turkey, and stuffing and all of the fixings. This year there was pumpkin pie. This year it was all from scratch (except for the stuffing, that came in a box... and I still think it looks like turkey vom). This year I fussed.

I am thankful that the godzilla-bird fit into my oven and that nothing burned or caught on fire. I am thankful that I didn't get saddled with doing the dishes. I am thankful that there are enough leftovers to feed Steve all week and that I will not have to cook.

This year a Spaniard, Palestinian, Somalian, Pollack, Ukrainian, and Yogini sat around a table that was just a little too small and shared so much more than a meal. We shared our stories, our music, our talents... there was sketching, spoken word, and I'm pretty sure the dog broke into a dance. At the end of the night, sugar pie or no sugar pie, my heart was happy.

Today there were no smoked meat sandwiches and no giant pickles. Today there was sunshine, and dog park, and a long run, and a coffee with a great friend, and a coffee with my fiancee, and quality time with quality people, and a really grateful pumpkin on my dining room table.

Next year I don't know where I'll be or who I'll be with. I don't think I will roast a turkey again. Tofurkey maybe, but I am not sticking my hand up a bird's butt ever again. Ever. I hope there will be great friends and conversation, and dancing, and singing and sugar pie.

I hope everyones Thanksgiving was as wonderful as mine. Gobble.

Editors note

Sugar pie is a single-crust pie with a filling made from flour, butter, salt, vanilla, and cream, with brown sugar or maple syrup (sometimes both) often used as additional filler. When baked, these ingredients combine into a homogeneous mixture similar to caramel.

Just incase anyone was thinking of making it for me.... here's the recipe.

Igredients:
Unbaked 9 1/2 inch tart shell
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
2 tablespoons flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup heavy cream

Directions:
Set the oven rack in the middle position. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Combine brown sugar, flour, and salt in a mixing bowl. Sprinkle mixture evenly over bottom of tart shell. Add vanilla to heavy cream and pour over mixture, spreading lightly with an offset spatula. Bake approximately 35 minutes, or until pastry is golden brown and filling is dark and bubbling. Cool on a rack. Serve slightly warm.

Turtle Crossings

I have a confession to make. Every so often I see complete strangers on the street and I fight back the urge to run up to them and invite them to my place for a sleepover. Creepy? Yes.

Usually these people have large backpacks and look like they haven't showered in a few days. I get all nostalgic about my own time traveling and remember all of the people who helped me out, and the urge to pay it forward wells up in my throat. Steve recently pointed out that these people with big backpacks were likely on the their way to do laundry. Blindingly simple logic, but I had managed to overlook it. In my mind everyone with a pack was a worn and weary traveler looking for a place to rest their tired heads and my couch would be the perfect place! This, I'm sure, is a symptom of Couch Surfilis (like syphilis but without the rash).

A year ago I became a participating member of the Couch Surfing community and since then I've participated in almost every way possible. First I mastered the art of surfing, finding hosts all over Europe and the Middle East. Simple in theory, but a fine art in practice. In the beginning I surfed solo, staying only with couples or other women for safety reasons. Smart and practical but unnecessary based on my experiences and the people that I've met thus far.

When Steve met up with me we surfed together - and also stayed in a few hostels -for the remainder of our trip. When we weren't surfing, and sometimes when we were, we went to "meetings" (read: beers) to meet up with other surfers and hosts. It was a great way to meet people that lived in the city as well as travelers who had just been where you planned to go, or going where you had just been. To each other we would make invaluable recommendations, share a few drinks and, in less than a few hours, become unbelievably good friends.

After getting ourselves settled in Ottawa, Steve and I agreed that it was time we opened our doors to travelers passing through. To date we've hosted fourteen. Sometimes we share a meal, sometimes a beer, sometimes nothing more than stories. Sometimes they do the dishes and that makes Britt really happy (what's up with the third person???). We just said goodbye to two lovely sister's from Germany who had rented a car to tour the Great Lakes area. Talking to them last night we were discussing national parks and what they would see there. "You have a lot of turtles, no?" one of them asked me.

"Hmmm, well yeah, I guess... we have a few. I wouldn't say we have a lot." Maybe they don't have turtles in Germany, I wondered?

"But we see signs everywhere for them." Signs, now this was a new one to me. I had yet to see a turtle sign in my entire time in Ottawa. "It looks like this" she said, drawing with her fingers in the air....

"Oh, those are for speed bumps!" I laughed, she looked confused. I explained what I speed bump was. She joined me in my continued laughter. This moment was brought to you by Couch Surfing.

Last weekend Steve and I drove out to Alexadria Bay, New York. What was there? Not too much. Just our good friend, Adam, that we had met in Florence, spent more time with in Rome and have successfully kept in touch with since (thanks Facebook). Turns out he's from Syracuse New York, only four hours away - driving, not flying, which is incredibly close when you think about all of the other places that he could have been from. He drove two-hours, we drove two-hours and we met in the middle, Alexandria Bay, where we camped and paid tribute to our Couch Surfing introduction by hosting our own CS Meeting (read: drinking beer). This time Steve suffered the hang over the following day and I was off the hook.

Adam was nice enough to bring the lovely Alexa along with him. A fellow Iron-Manning american who provided hours of the entertainment that only real Americans can provide. Another lovely memory (and friend) sponsored by Couch Surfing.

two thousand and sixty nine kilometers

In the same amount of time/distance you could theoretically drive from Ottawa to Dallas, Texas; Omaha, Nebraska; Orlando, Florida; New Orleans, Louisiana ... or Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Google estimates the drive from Ottawa to Winnipeg to be 25 hours. Our GPS gives a more realistic suggestion of 32 hours (I think it accounts for sleeping, road side assistance and pee breaks), and if you decide to stick to the Northern side of the border, you're looking at an additional four or five hours of road time - this is all assuming that you don't hit a moose, get lost or get left on the side of the road during a particularly heated spousal disagreement.

We've made the drive several times now, under varying conditions. We've taken friends along for the ride and we've subjected our dog to it. We've camped along the way and we've stayed in seedy motels. We've been pulled over at the border. We've had our vehicle searched. We've narrowly missed speeding tickets ... and we haven't always been so lucky. We've killed ourselves and made the drive in record time, and we've also taken our time and done it at a more enjoyable pace, but every time we make the drive home (and we're driving "home" either way you look at it), a few things stay the same...

1. I'm always grumpy when we leave.

2. Steve's in charge of music, but I burn a few CD's just incase.

3. Britt eat's out of the cooler full of tasty veggies, yogurt and fruit. Steve eats out of every Harvey's, McDonalds and Burger
King that we pass.

4. We get pulled over at the Sault Ste Marie crossing. Always.

5. We stop for Subway in Duluth. Always.

6. Once we're in the good'old USA, it's every man for him/herself. We're in a cup-to-cup coffee consumption race to see who
can injest the most carcinogenic creamer substitutes in a 24-hour period without getting sick. We alternate stopping to pee and stopping for coffee until 1pm, then we switch the soda.

7. There will always be an unaccounted for roadblock/accident/detour.

8. There's a great bakery just outside of Marquette. Stopping there is as mandatory as stopping for gas.

9. The last three hours of the drive and always, always, always the longest three hours of our lives.

In a weeks time we'll be homeward bound one more time, which means that in about a week and a half we'll actually be home - insane when you acknowledge the fact that we could just fly and be home in two hours. I bitched when I had to travel through Toronto, adding on a few extra hours, but even then I was in Winnipeg for lunch. I'll try to keep that in mind the next time Air Canada pisses me off (I already know that I'll forget).

When I leave next week I'm going to have a difficult time remembering why I'm driving West to Winnipeg, when I could just keep on heading South and be in Orlando by Saturday. But, then again, it's hurricane season down there and I would miss out on driving through cool places like Ashland, Wisconsin and Ispeming Michigan.

Winnipeg it is... yay.

"You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you."

MMM! The delicious taste of rejection – it ranks right up their with an orange juice and toothpaste coffee. I like mine black, extra strong and served so hot that it burns my entire tongue, and the roof of my mouth and then mixes with the little fleshy skin bits that peel off. Sorry, I don't mean to gross anyone out but I need to vent.

Despite my oath to get out their and grab Life by the gonads, Life has decided to kick me in mine ... twice... in the same day... and the search for the perfect job (read: any job), continues.

Lets crunch some numbers: Six preliminary interviews + Five follow up interviews + Three follow-up follow-up interviews + Four reference checks + One job offer + One budget cut = a grand total of zero jobs *sob*

(for the sake of my dignity I haven't kept track of how many resumes have been sent and straight-up ignored by the HR department of wherever)

I find it slightly enjoyable, actually, getting that call. They always find something to compliment you on first, “you're writing skills are outstanding,” “your portfolio is very impressive,” “your references said great things about you” .... and then they drop the bomb (it' a big bomb, painted florescent orange and pink, with strobe lights attached to it and sirens going off, and you see it coming miles and miles away) “it really came down to you and another candidate.... BUT... I'm really sorry that it wasn't you. Nine times out of ten (as the case is) that other candidate speaks French. And they're not actually thinking “wow, I'm so sorry it wasn't you.” They're thinking “wow, I'm really sorry that I drew the short-straw and had to make this call because I feel REALLY uncomfortable right now.” But at least then, when all is said and done, you know that you don't have a job. Which is a heck of a lot better than not knowing and waiting for your phone to ring, checking your email every 30 seconds, and avoiding the mailman like he the carrier of small pox, on the off-chance that they've gone old school and sent you the dreaded rejection letter. Yes, I enjoy a good kick in the confidence about as much as I enjoy a good session of electro'shock therapy.

Truth is, Ottawa is a Franco-city and I'm a by-product of my rural-Manitoban, anglophone, upbringing (where, by the way, the little French that I do know, would knock the pants off of 95% of the population).

Truth is that's an excuse (all be it a very good one), and I'll wallow in self-pity for another day, maybe two, and then I'll brush off the ol'resume and take one more swing at it... not that my resume is very dusty at the current moment, or that I feel very much like swinging any more... but a girl's gotta eat and that first pay cheque's going to taste minty-fresh; hold the orange juice please.

Do you choose your life or does your life choose you?

When I find out that something I was looking forward to has been canceled, when I've missed out on an opportunity, or I find myself letdown for one reason or another I like to comfort myself with the phrase "everything happens for a reason."

These five little words have an innocently-optimistic ring to them.

"It's okay that you missed your bus, you were meant to sit here in the rain for 20 minutes because the next bus is a magic-adventure-bus and it will take you anywhere you want to go." ... but the magic-adventure-bus never comes and I just end up being thirty minutes late for that interview, for that job that I really wanted. "But it's okay that I didn't get to that interview for that job that I really wanted because I didn't really want that job and the next job that comes along will be the magic-adventure-job of my dreams."

"Everything happens for a reason" implies that life chooses you and that you don't decide where you go with it, or what you do with it... and it's probably the best excuse, scapegoat, and biggest load of BS that I tell myself on a daily basis.

By nature, I'm the kind of girl that gets out there and grabs life by the gonads.

"If you haven't tried it, try it; if you're afraid to try it, try it anyway. If you haven't done it, do it; if you're afraid to do it, do it anyway. If you haven't seen it, go there; If you're afraid to go there, go there anyway. And, if it isn't broken, break it then fix it; if you're afraid that you won't know how to fix it, learn."

This is the philosophy that I choose to live by, not because it's right (it's not right for everyone), but because it resonates with me.

For the past few months I've spent a lot of time thinking about everything I want to try, do, see, break, fix and learn... and for the past few months I've spent too much time thinking and too little time actually trying, doing, seeing, breaking, fixing, and learning.

So this is my declaration (here for all eight of you to witness and hold me to, lucky you):

No more excuses... no more "it happened for a reason."

This statement would be nearly pointless if I didn't follow it up with a list of some sort to measure my doing/trying/seeing'ness by, so I've written out a list of 30 things to accomplish by the time that I turn thirty (a scary six years away). Let's not call this a "bucketlist" because I don't have any intention of kicking the bucket at the age of thirty *fingers crossed,* this is simply a list of things I've wanted to try or do for a while, and now I'm committing to making them happen.

(presented in no particular order):

1. go sailing
2. take a painting/drawing class
3. write a cookbook
4. become can-fit-pro certified
5. study at an ashram
6. work abroad
7. go vegan for 90 days
8. go raw for 30 days
9. take my parents somewhere nice
10. get published in a magazine
11. make my own wine
12. run a half marathon
13. hike the 65km coastal trail of Lake Superior
14. take a web development class
15. take a cooking class
16. go rock climbing
17. enter a photography competition
18. visit the provinces and territories that I haven't
19. research my family tree
20. start my own business
21. write a screenplay
22. throw a theme dinner party
23. learn to sew
24. learn to drive standard
25. create something that will last longer than I do
26. choose a faith
27. graffiti a public building
28. make a public stand for something I believe in
29. go snowboarding
30. camp in the middle of winter.

Some of these will be easier than others. Some require a large time commitment of weeks, or months, or years and others only require an evening. Some will require a lot of motivation to actually follow-up on... and fortunately I have that motivation eating breakfast with me every morning.

I was very proud of myself after completing this list... so proud in fact that I bragged about it as if I'd actually completed all of the tasks. Boastfully I read Steve the list while he ate his eggos and I ate my oatmeal... and without skipping a beat, without letting me have a moment of boastful satisfaction (!!!!) he looked me dead in the face and said "alright, which one's first?"

S'more Camping

What started with an overlooked exit off Hwy417, ended with a ruined birthday cake being cast by yours-truly (plate and all) into Mother Nature's great wonders... followed by a second ruined cake being hurled (once again, plate and all) into the bush - both plates shattering against an innocent and unassuming Spruce. Then I went and kicked the dog (calm down, I didn't kick the dog... THAT would have been overly dramatic) but I did swear at her and I'm pretty sure she went and sulked with the spruce-tree for a while while I tore Steve a new one.

Yes, every camping trip presents us with its own unique challenges be they in the form of bad weather, crap directions, malfunctioning tents, bodily injuries or, as the case may be, all of the above. Normally, overcoming theses challenges and proving yourself rougher, tougher, better prepared and more adaptable than your city-slicker friends can be part of the appeal of these weekend adventures. In reality, setting up a two-pole tent and starting a campfire with liquid "fire-starter" isn't challenging at all - engineering and invention have raped camping of all of the skill that was once required.

Still, I have a high self-opinion and a tendency to think myself rougher and tougher then I know I really am. Generally I weather the rough patches with all of the grace and poise that a young lady who has sustained herself on burnt marshmallows and not showered for three days can muster. I'll make optimistic statements like "at least it isn't snowing," "I guess we won't have to worry about forest fires!" and "it's a good thing the bear didn't get the beer" ... which probably make people want to slap me more than they actually help the situation, but they do have a way of putting things into perspective. If things ever got that bad, you know you could always just jump in the car and drive ten minutes to the nearest Motel6.

Throw spousal dispute into the mix, and you're no longer talking about a mere disagreement with your tent's fly and a Motel6 isn't going to fix the mess... what you have on your hands is full force combat against anything that looks at you the wrong way - and when that cake looked at me the wrong way I lost my cool.

As far as camp-karma goes, this has not been a good year. The season started with a bon-fire ban, bugs, and a tent circa 1811, that wasn't going up, no-way, no-how. The curse continued when I lost my keys, my air-miles card and our dog on the next trip. It then produced closed hiking trails, sun burns and hypothermic weather conditions on my Manitoban adventure. And finally on this last trip: a two hour detour, destructive dog, forgotten tent pegs, full on hissy fit, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, two broken chairs and a chipped tooth (not mine, thank-god, Steve's... but don't worry honey, it's cute).

Which makes me think that perhaps I will pack in the tent for a year and call it a season - before a tornado makes a go for our tent, or a ravenous bear invites himself to our campfire party, or I fall into the out-house, or a bag of expired hotdog buns give us all food poisoning...

“Life's a journey, not a destination”

"You listen to me! I'm getting on that plane!" My blood shot eyes narrow as I wave my boarding pass at him in a threatening manner. It's 9:30am, I haven't had my coffee yet and I'm not in the mood to play games.

"No Ma'am, you listen to me! Your bag isn't on that plane and neither are you."

My exaggerated boarding-pass wave proves to be less threatening then I had hoped and I don't get on the plane. Instead I get to loiter around Toronto International Airport for a few hours and Air Canada gets another $75 of my money... I'm sure they needed it more than I do.

Now pretend this blog post is one of those movies where the opening scene is something that happens half way through the movie and after that scene you go back in time to the actual beginning of the story ... Compronde?

5am - the alarm goes off, get up, brush teeth, get dressed, pack toothbrush, toothpaste, wake up Steve, walk the dog, still on auto pilot, drive to airport.

6am - arrive airport. Try to check in, machine won't work, swear at machine. Stand in line, line is long, note that line seems especially slow moving, dream about coffee. Wake up. Talk to clerk and try to check in "old fashioned way."

6:15am - miss plane

6:16am - wake up for real. I'm no longer dreaming about Starbucks, Tim Hortons and Second Cup. I'm wide awake and the woman in front of me is telling me that I won't make my flight and I'll have to take a later plane. shit.

7am - pay an extra $75 and successfully acquire a ticket for a flight to Toronto boarding in half an hour. Advance to security, no problems.

7:30am - board flight and wait.

8am - continue waiting.

8:30am - still waiting.

9am - wait.

9:15am - Huston we have take-off! Fly like a bat out of hell to Toronto.

9:10am - land in TO.

9:12am - RUN!

9:15am - arrive at gate *insert opening scene*

9:20am - miss second flight of the day because you can't travel without you bag and my bag was still on the other plane...

9:30am - battle it out with customer service. acquire a "stand by" seat on a flight that will get me to Winnipeg before supper time.

9:45am - buy the biggest cup of coffee in the airport. Enjoy.

10:30am - stop standing by and board the plane to Winnipeg.

TIME CHANGE

1pm - land in Winnipeg. No bag, the irony is uncanny.

3:30pm - pick up bag

5pm - leave for Falcon Lake and act like nothing happened.

Deep roots grow tall trees....

At 5'4" I'm not especially tall nor am I deeply rooted.

Perhaps it was in retaliation to my upbringing - 18 years in the same town, house and room - that launched me into my string of serial-moves. In the years that have followed my initial advance I've lost count of number of addresses, apartments and roommates that I've had. In fact, I stopped counting a few years ago when all of the aforementioned stats reached the double digits.

I am neither proud nor ashamed of this. "This" is simply a part of being Britt. I will move until I find the place that makes me want to stay. And then I will stay and be happy. Or not.

When Steven asked me to move to Ottawa I saw anther opportunity for me to potentially find that place. "Yes, of course! Ottawa! I was always meant to live in Ottawa! In Ottawa I will find what I have been looking for!"

What I hadn't anticipated (I never do) was that I wouldn't find what I was looking for there. While Ottawa itself is a great city, what with its ability to weather recessions well and all that, it's a great city away from the friends, family and the other people that I know and love. And so now I second guess brushing off the possibility of living happily in Manitoba, for life in it's Easterly neighbor.

So here I am with one foot planted in Manitoba and one foot planted in Ottawa, and two arms reaching out and frantically grabbing for South America, India, Russia... or anywhere else that might have what I'm looking for. Or, it might not.

Tomorrow I fly back to Manitoba for an annual camping trip with friends. I will be gone only a few days and I will remember why I want to live there, and I will also be reminded of why I don't. And then the two ideologies will fight internally within me second guessing one another until they're both blue in the face and so exhausted that they will just agree to disagree and I'll move to Alaska to see if what I want is there.

What do I want? Like everyone, I want what I don't have. As the case may be, I want roots. I want roots that run so deep they wrap around rocks, houses, water pipes and other trees. Roots that declare themselves, and the entire tree, happy to be "HERE" forever. But, I don't have roots. I have branches and, for now those aren't so bad.

If you wait to do everything until you're sure it's right, you'll probably never do much of anything.

It seems there are blogs about everything these days. Blogs about cooking, cleaning, dogs, cats, babies, weddings, flowers, frogs, traveling, being "green"... cooking clean, cooking while you clean, cleaning your cat, cooking for your dog, cooking your dog, cats and dogs, babies and cats, babies dogs and cats, weddings for your dog/cat/baby, wedding flowers, cooking for weddings, destination weddings, green weddings, traveling green, green babies, green frogs, cooking green, blogging green....

you get the idea.

For a long, long time now I've been waiting for the right reason to start blogging again and several opportunities presented themselves over the past few months.

1. I got engaged! I could jump on board the bridezilla blogging bus and tell the world about what sort of place settings we've registered for, or that we were soliciting proposals from local banks to conduct a financial assessment of our friends, family and coworkers to determine who would provide a better ROI (return on invitation).

2. I moved. I move a lot actually. I could blog about moving, packing and the best way to trick your friends into helping you -- FYI, it's inviting them over for pizza and neglecting to mention that you won't be ordering that pizza until they've carried your couch five blocks down the street and up three flights of stairs.

3. I like cooking so I could become the five-billionth blog about that.

4. I adopted the worlds happiest basset hound and I'm sure you would all love regular detailed posts about Sally's eating, pooping and sleeping schedule.

5. I'm unemployed... or as I prefer "transitioning." You could hear all about my search for the perfect job. My tenth, eleventh, and twenty-third interviews, how I rambled, talked excessively with my hands and about the time I stole the interviewers cellphone.

I know these topics would all make for interesting blogs, but none of them have come to fruition. I'm not a bridezilla, I hate moving, half of the things that I cook I end up burning, blogging about my dog seems a little desperate and blogging about unemployment IS desperate. So I've decided to stop waiting for the right thing to write about and to just blog about all of it. All of these crazy little things that make my crazy little life, what it crazy little is.

Oh I can hear the critics now "oh no! Not another life blog... that's sooooo done. I hope she doesn't tweet about it."

Well you critics can go hate on some other blog, we don't need none of that round here!

(Okay so I made the thing about critics up just so that I could use the phrases "hate on" and "round here." And incase you were wondering, the answer is no, I won't be tweeting about it... that's sooooo done.)