A Lottawa fun in Ottawa

An exasperated, “Why do all of our vacations turn out like this?” Is not the way any weekend should begin.

This was uttered from my oldest as we sat in customs filling out a lost bag report from a foreign city not on our original itinerary as we pushed Matty in a wheelchair after our flight was cancelled.

Sometimes it doesn’t occur to me that things go horribly wrong some days. Stevie was still fighting his concussion, Jessie had an ear infection, Matty had twisted his ankle the night before and our connecting flight to Ottawa for the NHL All-Star weekend was cancelled upon arriving in Washington. I guess I considered ourselves ahead of the game that despite all of those events, we made it all together.



Nor did I know at that time what a fabulous time we would have. Sure, I knew it was going to be fun--we sort of love these kinds of things--but each event was just so enjoyable together, that every inconvenience was sort of eclipsed. We pushed Matty’s wheelchair through the snow and ice-packed streets of Ottawa taking in all of the sites. We attended the parties, the games, the events. We made fun in between and just kind of took it all in stride.



There were players, and mascots and Prime Ministers. There were old friends, new friends, and laughter. There was, “Did you see who that was?” and bad imitations of Canadian accents are higher math calculations on the exchange rate.



But we were all together.

And on that last morning packing up way too much luggage and a ton of memories over the last 48 hours, I couldn’t help but think, “I love that all of our vacations turn out like this.”

20th Anniversary Dinner (and breakfast)

Last week we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. And what better way to do so than at a restaurant it takes 20 years to get a reservation? (Or close to it.)

By sheer luck (or default) we did manage to secure a spot at Nashville’s newest culinary hotbed--The Catbird Seat Restaurant. It features no menu, but an offering of 7-12 courses of whatever the chefs feel like making and/or what’s in season. As a foodie and lover of all things new in the dining experience, they had me at “porcini Oreo.”

Unfortunately, the only reservation available in this decade was on a Thursday night at 9:30 p.m. We didn’t get seated until after 10, which is usually the witching hour for people with jobs and kids, so I preface the entire experience with that caveat. Once we were seated, we were immediately plied with several of the most delicious courses paired with interesting libations that I would never have been able to remember later save the graph/flow chart that they give you on the way out.



Among the offerings I can remember was an oyster in cucumber water that tasted like the sea, a cow liver braised in an onion cream sauce that tasted like the earth, and a dessert of, “Wood grain sponge cake, maple jam, Birch cream, and pine snow” that I swear was a spoonful of the forest. It may have been one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten, and certainly the closest you could ever come to opening your mouth outside and taking in a big, luscious bite of Mother Nature’s pantry.

There were a couple of things that may have been better left outside to the elements (the beef cheek was a miss along with some mead that tasted like Beowulf brewed it) and that may or may not have contributed to my nausea that lasted the weekend. But so much was so right with the experience (and it was more than a meal, it was a journey) that I will assert that the 27 saltine crackers I ate over the next two days were worth that one small plate of aerated foie gras with Meyer lemon mostarda, St. Germain pudding and pumpernickel.

Just maybe not at midnight.

381 more words about my hiatus...

...And then I'll be done and we can move on to the new stuff.

Here's the last column I wrote for the WOW, and it explains things a little more.



From the October 2011 issue

Flip Flops for Cowboy Boots


I’ve been writing this column for the WOW for the last seven years. In addition to this bit of ridiculousness, I have also had the honor of sharing my other favorite topic, reading, in the Casing the Book Shelf column. For a time, I even covered the Voting Member meetings, and yes, still lived to tell about it.

One year ago, our family got an awesome opportunity to move to Nashville. We packed up the four kids, dog, and eleven years worth of sand and salt-coated memories and made the journey to Tennessee. It hasn’t always been easy, but it has been the right move for us.

One piece of advice that I’ve tried to instill in my children as they’ve tried to shake off “the new kid” label is the wisdom of investment. Absolutely hold on to those old friends and memories, but genuinely try to invest yourself in the place you’re living. Take advantage of every opportunity while making new friends, trying new things, and becoming a native.

This hasn’t been the easiest lesson, but I think it’s an important one so I try to hammer it in anyway.

And so by example, I think that’s where I am with the amazing World of Westchase. I’ve made some wonderful friends, have had loads of fun, learned a great deal, but it’s time for me to fully invest myself in my new home.

I would like to sincerely thank everyone who has allowed me into their homes (even those who just let me sit sweating in a plastic bag in the driveway before tossing me into the recycle bin) by sharing a story or a laugh every month. It has been an honor and privilege that I won’t soon forget. I would especially like to thank Chris Barrett and Tracy Urso for giving me this opportunity and creating and maintaining such a quality publication. It really is a gift to the community.

As I’ve said, I’ve learned a lot here. Amongst my many lessons is to always have a copy of Robert’s Rules for Parliamentary Procedure handy, and that neighbors can become friends with one simple act of kindness.

And above all, don’t forget to invest yourself.

It yields the highest return.

Good-bye and Hello

When I wrote that last post in July, I didn't intend for that to be my final blog of the year, nor of my writing career. However unintentional, it was at least true of the former.

There is no big story, drama, issue, major problem, or otherwise specific explanation behind my accidental hiatus. I simply discovered that it took a lot longer to really move in even long after every box was unpacked.

It turns out moving is a lot more of a time-consuming process than I originally allotted for. It takes time to find your way--both literally and figuratively--and when you multiply that by four children, one husband and a dog, well, it's not exactly speedy.

But not in a negative way by any means. I love this new place, and have enjoyed the last six months really living it rather than worrying about writing about it later. We've traveled, met new friends and reconnected with some old. We've gotten to know some neighbors and alienate others. We've started new schools, got a driver's license and another concussion. We've seen another ear surgery for Amy, stalked some more country music stars and watched a whole lot of hockey.

And a funny thing happened.

Instead of worrying about if, how, where and how much to write about those moment, I simply lived them without any further thought on recording them.

And that was pretty liberating.

In September, I officially gave up my writing gigs. I think some were surprised by the decision, but it was the right one at the right time. I loved my jobs, but they belonged to a different writer--a different person than the one who types this sitting at her kitchen counter in Nashville, Tennessee before leaving for a hockey game with six or seven kids in tow.

I'm not exactly who she is yet, but I know I'm going to enjoy getting to know her better in 2012.

I hope you will, too.

I can't win in Vegas on many levels it seems

Basically I've been avoiding Legionnaires Disease my entire life.

I know that sounds like a rather random pursuit--and it is--but let me assure you it's entirely true. I blame on my mother, because I have never known anyone with this affliction, am not personally familiar with any of the affects, nor really know exactly what it is, but I do have an unreasonable fear of theme park misters and water parks. And I swore early on that if I ever became First Lady, the eradication of this disease would be my personal Betty Ford Clinic.

After a lifetime of holding my breath past Splash Mountain and resisting the urge to hurling those stupid spray bottle fans that always seem to mist me in line for a churro by sweating strangers, I have now been exposed to my worst nightmare of dying a slow and painful death in a VFW lodge, and I was no where near a log flume.

Yep, we were in the freaking Aria Hotel in Vegas on the dates in question.

The only possible upside I can find in this situation is that so far Sean nor I haven't experienced any symptoms yet and when I do finally become First Lady my charitable foundation won't seem nearly as hollow now.

Super Road Trip

Every summer I like to plan a family road trip. Every fall I realize that my husband and I have totally different thoughts on what exactly that means.


Me: When I said I wanted to go on a road trip to an exotic locale, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Husband: What could be more exotic than Metropolis? It’s the home of Superman!

Me: Somehow I think the comic book was referring to some other major fictitious city, not Metropolis, Illinois.

Husband: I know. We lucked out that it existed just a few hours drive from home.

Me: (Staring up at giant plastic Superman statue in the town square.) Not sure if “lucky” is the word I’d use....

Husband: Go stand there in front of it and I’ll take your picture.

Me: As much as I’d love using that image as my Facebook profile picture, how about we go into the museum instead?

Husband: Way ahead of you there, honey. I’ve got V.I.P. tickets right here!

Me: (Inspecting dilapidated building we are about to enter.) Did you say, V.I.P. or OMG?

Husband: (Ignoring me, completely engrossed in the gross.) What was that, dear?

Me: Oh nothing. Say, was that substance Superman was susceptible to?

Husband: Kryptonite?

Me: (Noticing the falling ceiling tiles.) How did he do with asbestos?

Husband: (Again, ignoring me and now stumbling into the 1970’s Superman popular merchandise exhibit.) I had that same lunch box when I was in the third grade!

Me: Hmm, very authentic. I don’t think it’s been dusted since then. (Surveying the dingy surroundings.) You know, I saw Superman I, 2 and 3, and not once did Krypton look like some creepy guy’s basement.

Husband: I know, isn’t it great that all of this precious memorabilia could be preserved like this and not thrown away by a wife who has watched too many hours of HGTV...

Me: (My turn to ignore. I am captivated by the Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist’s puppet on a unicycle dressed in Underoos hat seems to follow me with its wooden eyes around the room.)

In unison: I wonder if anything (I hope nothing) in here is for sale....

Me: If you take one more step toward that case of Justice League replica signet rings, you’ll be sleeping in your own Fortress of Solitude.

Husband: Why don’t you go outside and wait by that empty phone booth? You never know when you might run into Clark Kent.

A few more bad super hero puns, a bag of nostalgic novelties and five ice cream ringed smiles later, he and the kids emerge giggling and triumphant.

It is then I realize that he may not be more powerful than a locomotive or leap buildings in a single bound, but when it comes to fun family road trips, he is Mr. Fantastic.

Ottomans don't make good stocking stuffers

Every time I hear the phrase, “Christmas in July,” I want to punch someone in the throat. I apologize to all the furniture and mattress salesman for my violent outburst, but it must be said.

If we set aside all of the obvious and significant religious, cultural and historical differences, Christmas and the 4th of July have absolutely nothing in common so I’m not sure why retailers insist on linking the two. With the exception of the freshest corn on the cob and best-looking steaks in the case, there is no buying frenzy on the Fourth. And while “Crazy Louie” at the fireworks stand may strike a resemblance to Santa, I’m pretty sure that his big white beard is mange and that’s a prison jumpsuit. (And you don’t even want to know what’s in that sack.)

It’s not that I don’t love Christmas, I do. A reindeer tattoo on my left ankle almost proved that before I realized that “Blitzen” might be construed as overindulgence on egg nog rather than my affinity for yuletide woodland animals. Nevertheless, I do love Christmastime. I just have a finite fondness that lasts for the month of December and don’t appreciate being reminded of it during the lazy days of summer. The only trees I want to see decorated are with tire swings and fireflies and fruitcake should only refer to cherry pie.

Christmas is also one of the most obligated-laden days of the year. There are so many “have-tos” it’s kind of nice to have a holiday where the only must is watching a parade. No one ever says, “I really must get my Independence Day cards out earlier this year,” because the only reason to ever take an awkward family picture in July is for your passport photo to Barbados.

So while I appreciate the need to stimulate the economy prior to Black Friday, let’s lay off the yuletide references on this Red, White and Blue Monday. Just because I still have my Christmas lights up doesn’t necessarily mean I’m ready to buy a mattress. A ladder and a case of egg nog, perhaps, but not a mattress.

(But now I know what to ask for from Santa this year...)


©2011 Tracey Henry

You can Divamail me those Independence Day cards if you want to....