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Christmas 2018: A Weary World Rejoices

Last week, a woman threw her coffee at me. This kind of sums up my 2018, really.

I had parked my car along a curb to pick someone up from an apartment building. Another car pulled alongside mine, blocking me in. I waited a moment for them to move forward. They didn’t. I waited another minute or two, started my car, and gave a gentle honk of the horn to let them know I was there.

After a moment, a woman got out of the passenger side. I gave her a friendly wave. She slammed her door and yelled obscenities at me. Then she threw her cup of Tim’s coffee at my windshield and stormed into the apartment building.

I was shattered for the rest of the day. I asked myself, over and over, what I’d done to provoke it. I hadn’t been hostile. Why had she? I kept seeing the coffee splattering across my windshield, the mess obscuring my vision.

And that, for me, was 2018: I pinballed through the year thinking I was doing okay only to meet with the worst, until I could see only the mess.

I know I’m not alone in feeling like 2018 has dragged on for much longer than its allotted 12 months. This year has been a long slog through a dank pit of ugly. For me, I’ve been trying to emerge from a cocoon, but I am far from a beautiful butterfly (at best, I am a stubby moth). It’s been a year when I felt like the universe was shouting “NO” each time I tried to move forward — almost as if a physical roadblock was placed in front of me, forcing me to stop, check my map, and recalibrate. I’ve learned not to take stability of any kind for granted.

I shed a work situation that was financially ruinous for me; on the upside, it forced me to be intentional and creative about the path I want to take going forward.  Puck emerged from the worst (knock wood) of his challenges; his confidence and peace are a wonderful mystery to me, but I’m always on alert for things to change. Daisy, on the other hand, has struggled mightily this year against her own demons. My heart aches for her, and I worry about the road ahead. But my concern is tempered by the fact that my sweet girl shares her feelings and fears with me. We will find the strength to get through these things, together.

2018 was the year I confronted the demon that’s been riding on my back for almost 30 years: I was diagnosed with PTSD as a result of the sexual assault I experienced at age 20. I’ve long suspected the diagnosis, but as so many of us do, I saw the problems I’ve experienced more as character flaws and personal failures. I saw the symptoms individually rather as connected parts of a constellation. The hyper-vigilance and startle reflex. The nightmares. The flashbacks and invasive thoughts. The fear of groups of people. The fear of people who are drinking. The inability to trust people or open up to them. The constant, punishing self-hatred and self-sabotage. It was only when someone helped me to see these things together that I understood this wasn’t just something I could just shake off.  Parts of me are still stuck in that August afternoon in 1989, and I’ve started the hard work of facing them. World events have certainly forced my hand in this. It’s hard to deny your own experiences when watching Christine Blasey Ford give her brave testimony, or when listening to so many #metoo stories. The more women come forward, the more others make sense of what has happened to them.

There is relief in knowing that I can, finally, work through this, and that the world is in a more supportive place for it to happen. There is exhaustion and dismay at doing it at the same time my children need my full attention. And there is so much emotion. I am raw, and vulnerable, and I cry a hell of a lot. I am so angry, and so sad, but I have also found my voice and a new energy. I feel like kicking things. I want to kick at my memories, and at insensitive people. Inadequate systems. The patriarchy.

It’s tempting, after such a year as this, to turn one’s back on the holiday season. It may seem needlessly exhausting, frustrating, and even pointless to turn on the Christmas tunes and put on a merriment we don’t necessarily feel. There are oh, so many moments when I want to just pull a blanket over my head and hide until January 2nd. Many of us feel shame about our lack of Christmas spirit. But there should be no shame is noting what’s lacking in our hearts. Focussing solely on the happiness of the season ignores the polarity that’s inherent in Winter Solstice. This time of year and its celebrations are traditionally as much about the darkness as the light. Death and rebirth. Ends and beginnings. I feel that more than ever, this year. So despite the emotional exhaustion and confusion that’s been my 2018, I can embrace that polarity and drag myself across the year’s finish line. We’ve made it. It’s almost done. I might not be able to clearly see the light yet, but I can celebrating the fading of the dark.

This year, I find myself clinging to traditions. I’m not doing it out of a fear that it MUST be done or Christmas will be a failure (which is how I’ve felt in the past). This year, revisiting traditions and holiday memories feels healing and therapeutic. We dig our traditions out of boxes and recipe books each year not just to make things look good for those around us, but to connect with what’s missing. I do them because they bring me closer to the women who have gone before, who have struggled hard to make a magical holiday out of very little in times or war, unemployment and illness. I look at their cookie recipes, written in fine cursive on the back of a receipt in the 1940s, and I know I am another chapter in our family story. I feel less alone. There is continuity and renewal.

This year, Daisy and Puck are both teenagers. I’m less concerned with the external trappings of Christmas, and much more focused on how things feel. My rituals exist not just to give them magic and memories, but to give them tools for the future, for times when the pressure to have a holly jolly Christmas exceeds the happiness they feel. The tools aren’t fancy, and they aren’t necessarily ones I learned in social work school. But they can, I hope, help them fill their cups at times when they’re running dangerously low on magic and faith. This year, I’m teaching them to make the Acadian meat pie generations of my family has eaten on Christmas Eve, so that they can feel more connected to who they are and where they come from. We’re talking through memories as we choose which decorations to put out. Christmas 2018 is about careful, quiet activities that bring us peace, and that we choose for ourselves. If we don’t want to do it, we’re saying no. The three of us have come to realize, this year, that living up to others’ expectations — and sometimes, our own expectations — can be where trouble begins. Defining happiness for ourselves (and defining what Christmas will look like), can be where peace starts.

Traditions ground us, providing a reminder that no matter how unrecognizable life becomes, there are still elements of comfort and joy and familiarity — things that can take us back to what feels like a simpler time. They don’t have to be done to Martha Stewart standards. Half-assed will do very nicely, sometimes. Having the right decorations and an Instagrammable meal doesn’t guarantee holiday happiness. To be honest, some of the years when I had the most picture-perfect holidays was when I was feeling my absolute lowest.

There was a Christmas when Puck and Daisy were still babies, when everything looked perfect. The house was perfectly decorated. The gifts were just right. My freezer was stuffed with cookies. But my world smelled of gingerbread and despair. I woke in the wee hours the day before Christmas and thought, for an instant, that the best gift I could give everyone was to no longer be here. The thought was fleeting, but it was terrifying. Despite the brightly coloured lights around me, I could see only blackness. Later that day I went into my office, closed the door, and called a crisis line. A photo from a Christmas party I attended that evening shows me cuddling a young Puck in my arms, smiling and laughing. You’d never have known.

You never do know.

That’s why kindness — to ourselves, and to others — is so important. Everything is fleeting. Happiness. Life. The holiday season. Troubles.

The solstice approaches. The darkness has drawn out, but the light will return.

And to the woman who threw the coffee at my car — I get it. I do. A cup of kindness can be hard to find, sometimes, and the smallest thing can become too much. I hope your cup and your spirit are well replenished.

*NOTE: if you need help over the holidays, do reach out. There is hope beyond the dark.

Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868

Crisis Services Canada: 1-833-456-4566, or text 45645

Native Youth Crisis Hotline: 1-877-209-1266

or DIAL 911, or visit your local emergency department.

Fifty Candles

Two very annoying things happened this week, and they are related to one big thing that will happen later this month: my 50th birthday.

First, after three years of working on my own and some bad work and life situations that have left me financially drained, I need to find a ‘real’ job. I had an interview for a senior position a couple of weeks ago. It was a policy position for which I was perfectly qualified. It was between me and a man who is 27 and right out of grad school. This week, I got a phone call that the job was offered to the younger man. I was immensely qualified, I was told, and my experience was impressive…but they’d decided to go with someone who might have “some longevity with the organization.”

In other words, I am too old.

Of course I was pissed off. But I also had a chuckle, because this is like some weird Gen X twilight zone. When I was in my 20s, I got turned down for job after job because they went to Boomers who had more experience. Now, I have TOO much experience and am losing out to Millenials. At some point in the past 15 years, for a good three months or so, I might have been exactly the right age to hire. I wish I’d known when that was happening.

The other thing that happened was that the “Oh, what are you doing for your birthday?” questions started. I was at an appointment, and the person had seen my birthdate on my file.

“Ooh, this is a big one! What are you doing to celebrate?” she asked, breathlessly.

I shrugged. “Not much.”

She pooh-poohed this, insisting I MUST do something monumental for my 50th. She and her friends had gone to Vegas. Or maybe my husband would throw me a big party?

I shook my head. I had neither the necessary people or resources to make either of those things happen. Plus, as an introvert, my idea of the Bad Place would be a surprise party or a weekend in Vegas.

“I will be at home, with my cats and kids, eating a lot of cake,” I insisted. It seemed ideal to me, really. But this woman looked at me like this was the saddest idea in the world.

I’ve never really enjoyed birthdays or New Year’s Eve, or any event for which you are made to feel required by law to have a good time no matter what else is going on in your life. Don’t get me wrong – I am not giving in completely to my inner Eeyore and indulging in a pity-party for my birthday. I do not intend to spend my birthday staring mournfully out my window and thinking about everything that’s wrong. But somehow, having a giggly wine-bash just because that’s what social media says I should do doesn’t seem right to me. That’s not what I want. It’s *my* 50th, damn it, and I should mark it the way I want.

There are a lot of good things in my life, and things I’m proud of. know I have a lot of privilege, and I’m grateful for what I have. But I feel the weight of these 50 years. I bear the scars of having survived them when, a few times, I was sure I wouldn’t. Lately, I can’t seem to get out from under the weight of my life, and that weight obscures all but the dark things. My kids are unhappy and struggling. My parents are ill. I have no job or income. My personal life in no way resembles what I thought it would be a whole lifetime ago, when I was 25. I cannot say that I am a success in any of the areas of life that are important to me.

To no one’s surprise, this was one of my favourite books when I was little.

Am I wrong for not wanting to throw a party to shine a light on that?

I know there are things I can’t change in my life. There are things I need to just keep pushing through. But maybe I can light these 50 birthday candles and shine a light to find the joy.

To help me think about what the next part of my life will look like (and what I need to do to get there), I recently did a Joy Audit. A Joy Audit (or Life Audit) is a series of reflective questions about key parts of your life — personal, professional, spiritual, financial — that helps you focus on what is bringing you joy, what you need more of, and what you need to cut loose.

What my Joy Audits always remind me is that I need to be true to the things that have been important to me since I was a little girl: things like writing and being creative, helping people, taking care of myself spiritually, and being independent. This time, my Joy Audit also helped me think about how I want to mark this approaching milestone birthday.

My Joy Audit reminded me that one of the things that brings me joy is doing something to leave a legacy to the world. If my years in this realm are slipping through the hourglass, how can I leave a mark that says I was here? How can I be sure the fact that I existed made a difference? How can I bring joy to others?

So my celebration of this milestone birthday will be quiet and personal, but it will last the whole month (I’m wondering if this means a month of cake, too, and I think the answer is yes. Because 50, damn it).

Every day until my birthday on November 28th, I’m giving myself four gifts:

  • I’ll focus on one thing I’m grateful for, and do whatever I can to amplify the joy it brings.
  • I’ll make time for the gifts I’ve already been given, like writing just for the pleasure it gives me. I won’t let it be pushed to the back burner (helpful that my birthday falls during #NaNoWriMo!).
  • I’ll choose one gift I can give the world, in whatever small way. This might be a small act of kindness. It might be joining a board of an organization where I know I can make a difference. Whatever it is, in a small way, it will help me leave the world a better place.
  • I’ll choose one gift to give to myself. Not a material thing, but something that brings me everyday joy. A walk in the forest with my dog. Coffee with a friend. Reading one of the books piled on my nightstand. Forgiving myself for not being who or where I expected to be.

Fifty candles can shine a lot of light. They can burn down what’s not needed. They can give warmth and comfort.

That’s what I can do, too.

Grey sky. Bright leaves.

Are you as exhausted as me?

This week has been HARD. I should know to stay away from the news. But I couldn’t. I kept watching, even while a sexual assault survivor was mocked, the whole world became more hostile, and anger and pain seeped out of every social media channel I checked into.

I felt frayed. Every cell in me felt shrill, like I was screaming from deep inside and no one could hear me (or no one would listen). My eyes burned with tears that wouldn’t fall. My head ached. I think a lot of women felt like that, this week.

That would have been more than enough, frankly. But I was also struggling personally this week. I had a child in crisis (not the usual child, either) and felt like a failure as a parent. I had a mother who couldn’t remember that I’d called already, who hinted I was a failure as a daughter. I was trying to move on from a job I’d left, with suggestions that I hadn’t done enough.

Messages of failure, all around.

I wanted to crawl into my bed and hide. But I couldn’t. My husband was away, my kids needed me, and life had to go on. I had to be the adult, even though I felt like I’d failed at being an adult.

By mid-week, I felt alone. I felt unloved. I felt (as many of us do) tired of fighting the same fight, over and over again. I felt lost. I had nothing more to give.

What pulled me through? Not self-care. Not bubble baths or meditation. This was beyond that, frankly.

What pulled me through was other people, and gratitude. Messages of love, all around.

All it took were a few messages. A few people who checked in to see how I was doing. People I haven’t heard from in a long time, but who, I was so happy to know, still thought about me.

Never underestimate the power that has.

If you are thinking about someone, tell them. A simple email or text asking someone how they’re doing can make all the difference in the world to someone who feels alone and is struggling. It’s those delicate but strong little spider webs of connection that can hold us in place. I needed to know, this week, that someone saw me; that someone heard me. I needed to know, this week, that someone thought about me fondly. I needed to know I mattered.

Knowing that other people care about us can help us to care for ourselves. These messages of care lit a match in my darkness. They showed me I wasn’t alone, and that there was a path in front of me. They pulled me to my feet and gave me the energy to keep going.

I often hear it said that we can’t be loved until we love ourselves. There is truth in that, to be sure. But love doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We need to know we matter. We need to know there is a place for us, and that someone sees us. Connection is a huge determinant of health. None of us can do this journey alone.

That doesn’t mean having a huge friends list or a non-stop social life. It can mean a connection to one or two people who really see you. It means connecting to people who see your value and your flaws and care for you, just the same. It means connection to people who, ultimately, allow you to not be strong or have a perfect image all the time. This gives us permission to not be strong all the time. Sometimes, like this week, we just can’t.

It’s Thanksgiving, and all through this rotten week, I was also reminded that I’m supposed to be grateful. It sounds trite when you’re feeling really low, but finding even small, mundane things to be grateful for can help make the flame that lights our way a little brighter. Even with all the crap in the world and in my life, there is still gratitude:

I’m grateful that my kids are able and willing to open up to me about what they’re experiencing.

I’m grateful for new beginnings.

I’m grateful for the courage to revisit paths that are important to me but that I’ve strayed from. I’m also grateful for the courage to step onto a completely new, somewhat surprising and completely different path — one I’m going to travel simply because it can bring others joy.

I’m grateful for my cats.

I’m grateful for friends, especially those I thought I’d lost.

I’m grateful for the brilliantly coloured leaves that flare against this morning’s grey sky, reminding me that there is hope in the bleakest moments, and that change can be beautiful.

What are you giving thanks for?

Cold milk, warm cookies, & magic.

Every evening after supper, my son and I take the dog for a walk. And every evening on our walk, we have the same conversation – one of us will ask the other, “If you were at Disney right now, what would you be doing?”

No matter how hard his day was at school, or how intense his anxiety and depression, talking about Disney brightens Puck’s mood. His face animates as he tells me which park he’d be in, and which ride or attraction he’d visit. We talk about which restaurants we’d go to, and which treats we wish we could eat right now (Mickey bars and Mickey waffles are two of our favourites). We imagine which resort we’d be staying at, in which type of room. We even reminisce fondly about the Orlando airport, or the beautiful boat ride from Port Orleans French Quarters to Disney Springs. By the time the walk is over, we’re both feeling happier and have planned out a whole day’s activities for a vacation we aren’t even planning to take any time soon. And we’ll do it all over again the next night.

IMG_0170Yes, we are one of *those* families. We’ve been to Disney – a lot. We’ve been on a Disney cruise. We’ve gone on other vacations as a family, too, but it’s Disney that holds our hearts.  I’ve been fortunate to travel a fair bit. I’ve been (and lived) from coast to coast in Canada, and I’ve traveled throughout the United States. I’ve traveled to several islands in the Caribbean, and several countries in Europe. But it’s Disney that we keep returning to as a family. Some people don’t get it, and question why we go back over and over. It certainly wasn’t what I had planned. I was going to show my kids the whole world. But for us, Disney provides a dependable happiness and a retreat from reality that we haven’t found anywhere else. The rest of the world can wait. We’re searching for a world of magic.

Don’t get me wrong: my history of vacationing at Disney is not one of perfect family time or unbridled joy. We are not the happy family you see in commercials. Each trip has come with its own challenges, but also lessons. As a teen, I traveled with a mother who actually didn’t like Disney at all, and a father who wasn’t keen on most rides. I learned to appreciate everything else the parks have to offer. My first trip with children of my own was as an extended family. At the time, my father-in-law was in the early stages of dementia and was confused and prone to getting lost. My mother-in-law was recovering from a hip replacement but in her typical no-nonsense fashion, refused any help. I learned to slow down and not try to do everything.

Other trips have been planned to balance my daughter’s “let’s do everything!” style with the ups and downs of Puck’s constellation of challenges. Sometimes, sounds were a problem for him, so we learned which attractions or places to avoid. On other trips, it was the crowds, so we learned where to watch fireworks in a less intense setting.

Tinkerbell and Daisy in a deep fairy discussion.

Although we used a travel agent for our first two trips, I quickly became an expert at doing the planning on my own, focussing on my family’s special needs. I learned what Disney had available to help us, and created detailed itineraries that helped Puck understand what was going to happen each day, while still giving us the flexibility to have fun. I learned how to help Daisy do the things that would make magical memories while keeping Puck happy and calm.

We go back because even though Disney can be a non-stop, intense destination, it actually does a lot to cater to families like ours. Never was this more clear than on our last trip. My father-in-law’s dementia has worsened to the point where it is impossible for him and my mother-in-law to travel on their own. We knew it would be hard, but we wanted to take one last big trip together, as a family.

I was so hesitant. I knew caring for him and my mother-in-law (who is game for anything, although frailer than she’d admit) on a cruise and then at Walt Disney World was going to be a challenge. On top of that, we had our own kids to think about – including Puck, who would turn 12 on the trip, and who had been having a terrible year with clinical depression and anxiety. I honestly didn’t know what to expect. Even though a dear friend and Disney travel specialist helped plan the details of the trip for us, I had very low expectations.

We didn’t get off to a good start. Puck’s anxiety about leaving his routine kicked in at the airport, and he was in the bathroom being sick right up until our flight boarded. My father-in-law had no idea why we were on a plane or where we were going. We spent the five hours of travel explaining to him, every ten minutes or so, that we were all going on a vacation together.

Everyone was tense.  I was sure we’d made a big mistake.

We were leaving on a cruise the next day. But first, we’d have a night at a Disney resort. We got settled in our rooms and headed to the Magic Kingdom for the evening. My father-in-law had been agitated and confused, asking repeatedly where we were. Puck was weak and anxious from being sick and was popping ginger tablets like candy. The rest of us were tired and a bit defeated, feeling certain the trip was going to be a disaster.

But when we got off the bus, got everyone through security, and walked onto Main Street, everything changed.

My father-in-law stopped and stared at the castle in the distance. “Oh!” he said, a big smile spreading across his face. “We’re at Disney!”. And he proceeded to tell us stories from visits 40 years earlier, when he’d gone there with his young children. He could remember those trips in detail, and while sitting on Pirates of the Caribbean, he marveled at how things were just as he’d remembered. He grabbed Puck’s arm and said, “Oh, the jail scene with the dog is coming up next!”

He couldn’t remember how we got to Florida or why, exactly, we were there, but somehow, he remembered what scene was coming up in a ride he hadn’t been on in years. He was smiling and relaxed and having fun — something that happens too little, these days.

Puck, too, changed as soon as we were in the Magic Kingdom. The anxiety melted as he saw familiar sites he loves. Puck’s challenges make him a bit less mature than his age would suggest, but that doesn’t matter at Disney. Everyone – even me, who was just turning 49 — can be a child. There is no pressure to be mature, and no one judges you for acting like an excited child. He can act younger than his age. I (a grown woman) can get excited to the point of tears over hugging Eeyore. It’s all good.

You’re never too old to hug Pooh bear.

Later that night, when we got back to our resort, my father-in-law wanted a ‘bed snack’. We went to the quick service restaurant, and my mother-in-law chose some cookies for him. At the cash register, my father-in-law became distraught: he couldn’t eat cookies without milk, he wailed. He was on the verge of tears. My mother-in-law panicked; she didn’t know where the milk was, and she couldn’t leave my father-in-law to go look. She was worried about him making a scene, and not being able to calm him down. The cashier came to the rescue.

“Of course you need milk!” she assured him. “You can’t eat cookies without milk! Let me get you some.”

My mother-in-law was fretting, though, because she hadn’t brought enough cash for milk (and didn’t understand she could charge things to her room).  The cashier waved off her concern.

“Don’t worry about the milk,” she told her. “It’s a gift from Mickey. He wants Mister to enjoy his milk and cookies.”

When my mother-in-law told me this,  we both cried. She didn’t remember the name of the cashier, so I went to the front desk and thanked asked them to thank the restaurant staff for their kindness.

When we got on the cruise, warm cookies and a glass of milk were magically brought to my in-laws’ room every night at bedtime. Screen Shot 2018-09-29 at 11.52.44 AM.png

THAT’s why we keep going back to Disney.

Yes, it can be a crazy, overwhelming place, but even for a family like ours (with proper planning) it can be the best vacation you’ve ever had, with people who work so hard to make magic for you. For families like mine — with parents exhausted from trying to manage and micro-manage every detail of the day, who have come to expect that people will not understand, will judge, or will let you down — this is amazing. That’s why my son and I talk about it every night when we’re walking the dog. It’s an escape, to be sure, but it’s also familiar and warm. It’s a place where burdened adults can be children, even just for a while, and where children who sometimes don’t feel confident can discover they are actually brave enough to ride Splash Mountain.

Even though we talk and plan every day, it’s not likely we’ll be going back anytime soon (our finances don’t stretch to that, at the moment). But still, we dream. We talk. I help other people plan their vacations and live vicariously through them. In fact, I’ve actually thought about becoming a Disney vacation planner, so that I can help other families with special needs realize that spending time together on such a trip is not logistically impossible. I’ve done a lot of work in my life to improve services for people with special needs and mental health issues on a policy level. Maybe I could also create some magic for people at a family level.

Families like mine need some cold milk, warm cookies, and a heaping serving of magic to keep going. Really, these days, we all do.

The Big Drop

Having my kids in my late thirties was a spectacularly bad piece of planning on my part. Just when I’m embarking on this magical journey to Menopause Land, my kids are beating down the gates to Puberty World. My house is currently the worst theme park ever: emotional rollercoasters, long queues for the bathroom, people fighting over the last chocolate treat, and a parade of characters that switch on a whim from princess to villain.

My 14-year-old daughter and I spent the summer on a happiest-place-on-earth hormone high, excited about what the Fall would bring. For her, it was a new school that will allow her to better balance academics and her professional dance training program. For me, it was a leap into full self-employment as a writer and consultant. We spent long hours writing, creating, and dreaming. We congratulated each other on how fabulous our decisions were.

Then, September hit. The hormones crashed. We went from happiest-place-on-earth to haunted house.

Like someone flipped a switch, both Daisy and I felt our internal light go out as darkness settled into the place where hope had been. Both of us, faced with meeting our goals and doing what our hearts told us was right for us, were struck down by fear. Imposter Syndrome grabbed us and buckled us in. We were on this ride for the duration, and it was headed down a big, scary drop.

Imposter Syndrome is a very real thing, and I’ve experienced it frequently throughout my life (although never quite so profoundly as I have these past few weeks). It’s the feeling that despite your gifts and abilities, despite your experience and knowledge, you are a fraud who doesn’t deserve to succeed. You worry that someone will find out you actually have no idea what you’re talking about or doing. You worry that any success you’ve had to this point was a fluke. Imposter Syndrome convinces you that you aren’t worthy of joy or success. Those are things for other people. Not for you.

This is more than a ‘fake it ’til you make it’ feeling, and it’s not about low self-esteem. It can be terrifying and confusing, causing you to throw away the very things you’ve worked so hard to get close to. I know more than one person who, faced with actually landing their dream job or taking a big step in life, ran away in fear — it was easier to not try, they reasoned, than to fail and lose their dream. The light of their dream, up close, blinded them like the sun.

They convinced themselves it would never work.

They told themselves other people were better or deserved it more.

They said they just weren’t ready, or they’d changed their minds. They didn’t want it, anyway.

But they hadn’t changed their minds. The Imposter Syndrome had changed their ability to stay true to their dreams. It had robbed them of their courage, replacing it with self-doubt.

The fear of not doing something well (if not perfectly) can keep us from doing anything, at all.

Imposter Syndrome can also keep us from acknowledging what we’ve already achieved. For Daisy, that means that despite being accepted into a professional ballet training program, she still thinks she’s not a good dancer. For me, it means that despite being a published author, I still feel like I’m ridiculous to think of ever being published again. As a result, both of us started September in crisis mode: she was going to quit dance. I was going to quit writing. Who were we to think we could succeed?

The fact that Daisy was faced with Imposter Syndrome at the same time I was helped pull me out of it. I spent long hours talking and counseling her, coaching her to see her potential and her accomplishments (leaving me exhausted and feeling even more like an imposter, since I couldn’t practice what I preached. Such is the life of a mama.).

These are the tips we’ve been following together:

Acknowledge it. And then tell it to shut up. That nagging voice that tells you you’ll never succeed? That’s your gremlin — your worst critic. Give it a name (the name of someone you strongly dislike is good, because you’ll be swearing at it a lot). When it sits on your shoulder and tells you that you’re going to fail, listen. Challenge it (“Really? Because I’ve succeeded at xyz before and I know I have what it takes”). Tell it off. Move on.

(Note: your gremlin is NOT the same as your gut. Your gut gives you clues about when something isn’t right. You should listen to that. But don’t trust your gremlin.)

Challenge those thoughts. Are you falling into thought traps? Is everything either good or bad? Are you constantly going to the worst case scenario? Ask yourself (and your inner critic) why you are assuming the worst will happen. Why aren’t you assuming the best will happen?

Keep a list of your successes.  It can feel braggy, but keeping a running list of projects you’re proud of can be good to keep at hand for times when you feel like you never have and never will accomplish anything. I keep a list of things I’m proud of tucked away in a journal. Daisy keeps a notebook with positive feedback from her dance teachers.

Keep the big picture in mind. You will get over the Imposter Syndrome. This is just a set-back. Who do you want to be? Where do you want to go? If you run away from whatever is scaring you now, how will you get where you want to be? How would your 7-year-old self feel about that?

Get your dreams out of your head. Make a vision board. Tell a friend about your goal. Make a big announcement on social media. Once your dream is out in the world, it becomes more real. It’s not just an idea – it’s the first step in a plan. And you’ll be surprised how quickly people appear to help you make your plan a reality.

Keep calm. For those of us with anxiety, Imposter Syndrome can be like quicksand — when you get into that bog of fear, it’s easy to sink lower and lower until you’re in deep and can’t fight your way out. Practicing grounding techniques can help calm you. Daisy and I have apps on our phones that help us practice mindfulness. Another easy way to ground yourself when you feel your anxiety rising is to do the 5-4-3-2-1 Check-In.

Look around you. Name:

Five things you can see.

Four things you can touch.

Three things you can hear (not your own thoughts!).

Two things you can smell.

One thing you can taste.

Always – be kind to yourself. Imposter Syndrome is exhausting. Working through it can be even more so. Forgive yourself. Be kind. Now’s the time to eat well, get out in nature, do things that lift your spirits and inspire you.

Daisy’s sorted herself out, for now. She got a role she coveted in a ballet, and with it came a boost of confidence. Her light is back.

My struggle off the rollercoaster has been harder. I haven’t been able to write in weeks. I set my novel aside and haven’t been able to look at it. Work is dwindling, and I’ve been scouring job ads, convinced I’ll never make a go of things on my on. I’ve been waking up in full panic, wondering where the joy and creativity I felt this summer has gone.

But I’m still trying.  I’m hoping that the rollercoaster is going to head back up. I have to believe it will. Because I know that sometimes, we can ride this rollercoaster, scream our heads off, tell ourselves this was a stupid decision and that we’re going to die. But the ride ends, and we find ourselves laughing and breathless, proud that we did it and eager to try it again. Other times, however, we pass up the ride and miss the ride of our lives. I don’t want to miss that ride.

I’ve been keeping these lines of my favourite poem by Marianne Williamson close to me. I recite them to my gremlin. They inspire me and reassure me that I’m not alone in feeling this way.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

Have you faced Imposter Syndrome? What helped you through it?

10 Mental Health Tips I Learned from my Cats

When I was living on the other side of the country in my early 20s, far removed from friends and family, my boyfriend gave me a little grey kitten. I named him Eeyore (the kitten, not the boyfriend). The boyfriend only lasted two more years, but Eeyore was a constant for almost 15 years. He traveled across the country with me, from British Columbia to Nova Scotia, and honestly, he never really forgave me for it.

Little Eeyore on the Prairie.

Eeyore also traveled with me on my journey to recovery from an eating disorder. Do I sound like a loser if I say Eeyore was my best friend during this time? Well, he was. He was with me in the middle of the night, giving me head butts and chin nibbles when I’d wake up in a panic. He listened to my semi-coherent ramblings as I tried to sort out feelings between (or because of) therapy appointments. He comforted without judgment when I cried or struggled to make myself eat. He was by my side as I eventually grew healthier, married, and had babies. He always looked out for me. One of my clearest memories of being in labour with my daughter is being in the bathtub, working through contractions, while Eeyore sat in the bathroom door, growling protectively and refusing to allow either my husband or the doula into the room. He’d occasionally look over his shoulder at me, making sure I was okay, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

I’ve shared my life with a succession of cats since I was eight years old: Boo Boo Kitty, Miss Toby, Eeyore, Oedipuss, Mr. Cuddles, and Scarlett O’Hairy. These days, I share my house with Ivy and Smudge (five-year-old cowcats), and Rory, a very lively five-month-old black kitten. I also have a dog, Pippa (who thinks she’s a cat, because she’s around them all the time) who is sweet and gentle and will be trained to become a therapy dog. Pippa does wonders for my son’s anxiety. When he’s feeling especially low, she’ll cuddle next to him instinctively. When he’s sad, he says hugging her makes him feel better. When he’s lonely, he tells her she’s his best friend. I know she’ll make an amazing therapy dog.

Cats are underrated as therapy animals, though. This is too bad; they’ve been a critical part of my own mental health team (sorry/not sorry to all of my therapists and health professionals who might frown on being lumped in with felines). As I’ve gone through challenges, grown, recovered and had my own career in mental health, I’ve learned these ten key mental health lessons from my cats:

  1.  Nap

Scarlett O’Hairy sharing her mad napping skills with the next generation.

For much of my life, napping felt like a waste of time. Even when mental distress led to chronic insomnia, I couldn’t nap. It felt like slacking off. So I would just push through, even though I was too exhausted to be productive or enjoy life. It usually made my physical and mental health even worse.

You’ll never see a cat too exhausted to enjoy being a cat. They know how to slow down and listen to their body’s cues. They feel no stigma about napping — it’s a critical part of their lives.  They aren’t missing out. They are recharging, in energy-saving mode, getting ready to play and do their cat stuff and live their best cat lives.

If you are too tired to enjoy being a human, have a nap. Recharge. You need energy to live your best life.

2.  Play exuberantly.

When my cats do wake up, they are a bit bananas. They run as if they’re being chased by demons. They pounce on things only they can see. They spin in circles chasing their own tails. They don’t care at all that I’m sitting and laughing at them. They don’t care if they look foolish, or if what they’re doing makes no sense to anyone else.

Watching my cats chase their tails reminds me of taking an adult ballet class: I stumbled. I wasn’t coordinated. I probably looked foolish to people who might know better. But I kept going, because I liked it.

Cats don’t worry about whether they look silly. You shouldn’t either.

Don’t worry that the things you love aren’t ‘cool’ enough or feel badly because other people look down on your passions. Don’t worry about looking clumsy or falling over now and then. Play is important. Finding things you love to do is a critical part of staying mentally healthy. If it makes you happy, do it, no matter how you look or what others think of the things you like.

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Mr. Cuddles confidently shows off his dance moves.

3.   There is always time for self-care.

When I became a mother, self-care got pushed way down my to-do list. Waaaay down. I remember once when my kids were toddlers, I cried because I’d been reminding myself to clean my makeup brushes for at least a year. Those makeup brushes mocked me every time I walked into the bathroom; they were a testament to my failure at self-care and a reminder of all the small but important things I used to do for myself but that now, with two small kids, I was sure I had no time to do.

For cats, though, there’s always time for self-care. To a cat, self-care isn’t something extra you add to a to-do list. It IS your to-do list. Watch how much time cats spend grooming. They are either exceeding vain creatures (likely) or just consider taking care of themselves to be their main job.

Why don’t humans consider taking care of ourselves to be our main job? Why is ‘important’ work something that takes place in an office? Why is it only valuable if we’re paid for it?  We only get one body and one mind. Why don’t we consider caring for them to be the most important thing we can do?

You don’t need to spend as much time grooming as a cat does (unless you’re a Kardashian), but imagine how great you could feel if you made yourself (and the things that make you feel good) a priority.  Taking care of yourself isn’t merely an add-on or something to get to if you have extra time. It’s your most important job.

Even when on duty as office cat, Smudge makes time for self-care.

4.  Claim your space.

Cats aren’t shy about taking what they want. They aren’t shy about letting you know they are there and want attention. Sure, this makes them jerks sometimes. If they want your attention, they’ll sit on your damn laptop, thank you very much. I’ve learned to back up my writing constantly to avoid the dreaded butt-delete.

As a small-sized, introverted woman in a mansplaining and manspreading world, it’s often hard for me to claim my space. I can’t just sit on a laptop to get someone’s attention. But I can be fearless about making my presence felt. I can practice letting people know I’m there, and making sure I’m noticed even when someone is trying to ignore me.

Cats are persistent. They will raise their voices and howl. Women can, too. Persist. Let your needs and your presence be known.

The bag was impenetrable. Nevertheless, Oedipuss persisted.

5.  Show affection on your own terms.

Cats are models of consent. Most of us who’ve been scratched know better than to attempt to give a cat a belly rub without permission. The cat will let you know when it’s okay to do that. And when you are permitted a cuddle, you feel honoured.

Set your boundaries, and don’t be afraid to enforce them.

A blurry photo of the first time we met Smudge, in 2013…still the only time he’s let us hold him. We respect his boundaries.

6.   Daydream.

Our society values productivity. Busy is the holy grail. But cats know better. Ivy likes to spend long periods of time staring at nothing at all. Frankly, this freaks me out. But she is clearly seeing things that I can’t. Maybe she’s daydreaming. Maybe she’s communicating with the mothership.

Ivy did not drink this wine. She likes to have a clear head for her mindfulness practice.

I am a daydreamer by nature, too. I don’t stare at the wall like Ivy, but I’ve learned the value of just sitting with my thoughts. Daydreaming and napping have proven to be a powerful combination for my creativity. The best ideas come to me when I practice mindfulness, or just allow myself to sit quietly and just be. Ideas for writing appear in my head like gifts. Answers to wicked problems become clear.

There is value in doing nothing. From our dreams come our best realities.

7.   Know the healing power of just being present for someone.

I’ve spent a lot of money on therapy over the years. And as a mental health professional myself, I am the first to say if you need professional support, get it. But as a cat lover, I can also say that at some of the lowest moments of my life, it wasn’t talking to another human being that brought me back from the dark. It was a cuddle, a purr,  a lick on the back of the hand. Cats know when you need them. They’ll find you. And because they’re so often guarded with their affection, having a little fur ball curl up next to you when you feel despair is profound. You know they wouldn’t do that unless you were very, very important to them.

They can’t talk, they can’t judge. They won’t mansplain or try to fix things. They’ll simply be with you in your struggle until you’re yourself again. They’ll like you at your lowest, and they’ll like you just the same when you’re at your best.

They’ll like you even better when you feed them.

When I spent over a week in bed with a bowel obstruction, these guys only left me a few times a day. Best nursing care I had.

8.   Embrace your body, whatever form it takes.

I have struggled with body image throughout my life. I’ve helped others work through their own struggles. At the same time, I’ve had cats of every size and shape, every colour and fur texture. They don’t care how big or small they are. They know they are beautiful.

Cats love their bodies, whether they’re slinky or voluptuous. There is no wrong shape for being a cat.

Why do we think there is a right or wrong shape for being a human?

Gotten to big to fit into your box? Helpful hint from Scarlett O’Hairy: get a bigger box.

9.   Learn to disconnect.

Working from home as a writer, it’s easy for me to sit for long hours in front of the computer. That’s not very good for my physical or mental health, though. Depending on my frame of mind, spending time on social media might make me feel really bad about myself. Fortunately, my cats let me know when I’ve had enough. Often, they’ll shut down my computer for me. Thanks, cats.

But I take their point. When a cat sits on my laptop, I take it as sign I need to get up and move around and take a break. Somedays, I take an awful lot of breaks.

Rory’s novel is better than my novel.

10.   Give zero fucks about what others think.

Cats really don’t. That’s why some people don’t like them: unlike dogs, who crave human approval, cats do not care what you think. They will be their exasperating and lovable cat selves, no matter what you think about it. They are authentic.

Do they look like they care what you think? No, human, they do not.

Now, sometimes, humans do need to care what others think. Being as insouciant as a cat is probably poor advice for getting ahead in life or living in society. But maybe if we cared a bit less about what people think of our choices, and cared a bit more about living a life that feels true to our values and spirit, we’d be happier.

Cats know there is no stigma in being a cat. If they felt stigma, they wouldn’t wash their butts in front of important company, or shamelessly get high on catnip and destroy stuff. They wouldn’t fall into the bathtub, struggle out, and indignantly wash their wet fur while you laugh hysterically at them.

Be you. Strive to live as authentically as a cat.

Breaking Up

It’s never fun, as a parent, to see your kids bullied by mean girls, or left out of social groups, or losing a friend. It’s a rotten part of parenting, but we can hope our kids have  the resilience to manage these social interactions (with our support) — to learn from them, move on, and find new places where they can belong and thrive.

That becomes a little harder when your child is dealing with mental health and neurological issues.

Puck recently spent a day with his long-time best friend — a boy he’s known since Primary, at his old school. I knew something was wrong when Puck texted me to pick him up early from the friend’s house (he’s usually begging to stay longer). He went straight to his room and shut the door.

It took him a few hours to tell me what had happened: his friend had told him he has a new best friend now.

Puck cried when he told me, and kept crying for a day. He’s still heartbroken. He has other friends, but this was his best friend, and was one of the few positive links he had to his old school.

At times like this, I don’t know the words to make it better. I can’t kiss it and make it stop hurting. I am simply a sponge: I sit with him and absorb the tears, the emotions that are still too big for him. I add them to my own big fears and upsets, and squeeze it all out when I’m alone so that the sponge is ready again when he needs it. And he needs it, often.

Rejection is such a theme for us, lately. I keep trying to help Puck find the places where he’ll belong and thrive: friends, school, activities, the mental health system. We find rejection at every corner.

The same week his best friend “broke up” with him, he got dumped by his psychologist. This was the third psychologist in the past six years to suggest it just isn’t working out. Once, it was blamed (rightly) on Puck (he was uncommunicative and resistant to therapy). The second therapist, who Puck had actually warmed to, left the city. This time, the therapist graciously bowed out after eight months,  saying some version of “It’s not you, it’s me” (except, it was clear she really felt it was about Puck, not her). We were sent on our way, with a ‘good luck’ and not much else.

Therapy, like friendship, is an intimate relationship — especially for a child like Puck, who fears opening up about his feelings after years of feeling judged and rejected. We can’t expect friends to always be there for us, perhaps. But shouldn’t we be able to expect that mental health professionals will try their hardest not to underline the feelings of rejection and inadequacy that are already in play? It’s good to admit that you aren’t the right one to help, or that you’ve taken it as far as your skills allow. But if you aren’t the right one to help…who is? Where do we go from here? How do we find what we need?

We are back at the start, with no mental health support. Alone.

Puck is not unaware that he’s been rejected, again. He’s old enough to understand what’s happened; he understands his role in it. He also understands that he needs some support in working through his emotions and developing coping strategies. He knows he’ll need to find that somewhere, and that the whole process will begin from step one. That’s an exhausting prospect for him.

Where does this leave us? Well, I can go through the listings or get recommendations from friends or professionals I know, and try to figure out who might be a good fit. Then, we’d go through the screening process again, maybe even costly psychological testing again (out of pocket, because we’ve long ago maxed out our insurance for the year). And then, we’d once again spend months in the ‘getting to know you’ phase, watching Puck bristle at having to explain to adults, once more, what he struggles to understand himself.  We would be months away from any actual constructive therapy.

The other route available to us is to call the children’s hospital and go through their mental health referral process. We’ve tried this before, and I have friends who’ve recently done it, too.

It did not go well.

It begins with a phone screening, during which the person reading from the script refers to you consistently as (you guessed it) “Mom”,  because you are obviously just a generic sketch of a parental-type person as opposed to an adult trying to hold together a family in crisis. After you have broken down in tears from frustration and their lack of empathy, you will be given an appointment with a mental health professional, anywhere from two to six months away. You’ll later receive a letter stating the time and date of the appointment. These appointments are in the middle of the work/school day, making it difficult (if not impossible) for many parents to accept them without losing work and pay. If you miss that appointment, your file is closed. If you request a change in date/time, you might be waiting another couple of months.

It’s not a system that’s friendly to financially marginalized families, or any family that doesn’t have the flexibility to get to an appointment in downtown Halifax in the middle of the day.

When months have passed and the appointment finally comes, you get asked all the same questions you’ve answered before. As a parent, you’ll be asked to fill in more questionnaires about your child’s behaviours and symptoms, and how it is affecting them and your family. A friend of mine had the awful experience of having the answers she’d written about her child (which she thought were confidential) read back, word-for-word, to the child. Not great for building trust at a time when emotions are already fraught.

At the end of the appointment, you’ll get handed some brochures and helpful websites to visit or books to read (at this point, I seriously think I’ve read every book and could redesign every website, especially since that’s the only help I can access in the months between mental health appointments).

And then comes the moment of truth: what will they do with you?

There might be some community-based resources they could refer you to — but too often, when this is requested, the professional isn’t familiar with the community resources available.

You could get sent to a psychiatrist or psychologist in the hospital’s clinic (I’ve never actually met anyone who was offered this option).

You can be referred to a phone-based family coaching program. This program is award-winning, and I personally have not taken it, so perhaps I shouldn’t comment. But I do know people who have taken it. Again, the times for the phone check-ins are not always flexible, so not helpful for shift-workers or for people with family commitments beyond this one child in crisis. Building skills and family resilience are absolutely important, but many I know who’ve taken this program came away feeling blamed; they left feeling it was their inadequate parenting skills that got them in this mess. If they just knew the right things to say, if only they behaved better, little Johnny wouldn’t have a mental illness.

(I bet they’re also referred to as “Mom” on those phone check-ins.)

You can be put on a waitlist for group support. For Puck, this would be a support group for kids with anxiety disorders (which is only about 30% of what’s actually going on with him). The group only happens a few times a year, and there is always a wait list for registration. So you’re looking at other six-12 months for that option. If Puck was offered this, by the time his place on the waitlist came up, he’d likely be placed in the group for 13+. However, he is immature for his age. He’d be better served in a group with younger kids, not teenagers. But that wouldn’t be an option. I know him — he would be intimidated by those bigger kids, and wouldn’t go. Another six-12 month of waiting, wasted.

Puck will start school in September, and his teachers will have the expectation that we’ll have conferences with his support team…which is now non-existent. I am, once again, his support team. It falls on me to be the expert in things I’ve never been an expert in. I will be the one to research possible interventions, to figure out why he is reacting a certain way, to try to find a path forward (at least I’m putting my social work degrees to good use, I suppose). We are fortunate to have a fabulous family doctor with a background and interest in mental health, so at least we aren’t entirely on our own. But realistically, we’re a good eight to 10 months away from any meaningful mental health support.

Add to that the fact that even if we managed to get psychological help, there is no holistic approach. I certainly don’t expect someone to have expertise in all the issues Puck has going on: Tourette, learning disabilities, anxiety, depression. But there should be help for parents like me to put all those puzzle pieces together and find the experts who can help, who will talk to one another, who will see kids like Puck not as one issue to be treated, but as complex individuals with lots of things going on. I am SO tired of explaining, “This is probably not the anxiety, it’s likely Tourette…”. Someone else needs to help connect these dots.

We need a Tinder for mental health professionals… swipe right for ones that work with your specific issues, have actual availability, and won’t call you Mom.

It would be nice, too, if at least one of them asked how I, as the parent who lives with these issues 24/7, is doing with all of this. (Not. One. Ever. Has.) The generic “Mom” is supposed to be some kind of super-robot, I guess, who is capable of handling all the emotion, confusion and screwed up family dynamics, while managing to work outside the home, and function as an enlightened liaison between home, professionals, and school.

Our mental health system claims to use an ecological/systems approach that considers the complex interplay between the client and their environment. I see little evidence of that. The effort to get kids through the system quickly and reduce numbers on wait lists means that kids are reduced to a single issue to be treated, not a complex mix of strengths and challenges. They are boxes to be ticked off; files to be dealt with and closed. They are widgets to be pushed through an increasingly dehumanized system, rejected out the other end, and sent back to Mom to deal with.

And ‘Mom’ has to be that super-robot, capable of providing support without any impact to her own emotions, because, too often, we’re the only mental health resource our kids have.


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Two of a Kind?

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separated at birth

Is this the go-to outfit for Baltimore’s alleged criminals?

North Baltimore’s two most notorious residents, Molly Shattuck and Bishop Heather Cook, are wearing nearly identical outfits — down to their dangling crosses — in their widely circulated head shots.

Hat tip to one of our very astute readers for noticing and passing it along!

Susan Dunn

Susan Dunn

Susan Gerardo Dunn is the founder of Baltimore Fishbowl.
Susan Dunn

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  1. Are you kidding me?!?! TWO horrible crimes and you’re joking about their outfits?? Most tasteless thing I’ve ever read on Fishbowl.

    • Dear Mr. Boring: It is astute to compare and contrast, is it not? The CHURCH LADY and the SEX POT wearing the same clothes? It’s all manipulation of an image.

  2. Neither of the crimes these people are accused of committing is the least bit amusing, but since time immemorial, public ridicule has been part and parcel of public disgrace. It IS astute and it exposes the contrast of image and character that is inherent in both of these tragic stories.

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text:
Sheila Waterfield

appearing at

The Trumpet

Bilston, West Midlands

This Gig is in the past, if you were there leave a review below

Sheila Waterfield

Jazz, Folk, Soul and Blues Vocalist

No further description available.

The Trumpet

Venue Type

Pub & Jazz Club

The Trumpet is not the proper name of the pub, but a 'nickname'. It's real name is 'The Royal Exchange'.

The Trumpet is a welcoming one room local with jazz, mainly trad, featured seven nights per week and Sunday lunchtimes.

Holden's award winning ales and the music draw in customers from around the area.

Music memorabilia of all styles and eras line the walls. A collection plate for the band is handed around when live music is being played.

It's history dates back to 1830, at which time it was a domestic house and butcher's shop until the then Duke of Wellington granted to the householder (on payment of a fee), the right to sell ale and beer from his premises. As it was a butcher's shop, it became known as 'The Butcher's Arms'.

In later years it became known as 'The Royal Exchange'.

It is almost certain that there is a pub of this name in every English town or city.

How it acquired the name 'The Trumpet' is a rather 'naughty' story and cannot be revealed in a 'family' orientated Web page, but can be read on a poster in the pub itself (you have to visit to find out !).

Jazz started here under the ownership of one 'Les Megson' in the late 50's-early 60's, who, as the pub was usually not very busy, used to play his jazz records at quite a high volume, simply because he loved jazz!.

Featuring the Sheila Waterfield Quartet

58 High Street,

West Midlands,

WV14 0EP.

01902 493 723

BarBeer GardenCask AleSmoking Area

Free Admission

Whilst every effort goes into ensuring this gig listing is accurate and up to date, always check with the venue before you travel.

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text:
True Strays

appearing at

Prince Albert Inn

Stroud, Gloucestershire

21:00 - 00:00

This Gig is in the past, if you were there leave a review below

True Strays

Rock n Roll

The True Strays. Rhythm and blues fuelled, good time vintage roots rock and roll.

True Strays started when Joe and James met in a sand pit at play group aged 3 and 4. Their paths were inextricably crossed from that point. They were reunited at secondary school playing guitar and bass in school music concerts and school night trips to see the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Biffy Clyro. By 2012, they were in a band together and haven’t looked back since. True Strays marks an attempt to create honest, liberating blues driven music with an old school feel.

Prince Albert Inn

Venue Type

Lively, stone-built Victorian pub located on the top of Walkley Hill on the Rodborough and Minchinhampton road out of Stroud. The pub manages to be simultaneously bohemian, homely and welcoming. It has an imaginative colour scheme and an eclectic mix of furniture and fittings, including chandeliers. Art exhibitions and themed nights are held including quizzes, backgammon, crib, scrabble, folk music, stand-up comedy, live bands and even political hustings.

We don’t have a kitchen but we welcome Pop Up’s!
Jamaica Inn Kitchen - in association with Sujays - are serving delicious Caribbean Food at The Prince Albert.
Friday’s 5pm – 9pm and Sundays 1pm – 4pm.

Rodborough Hill,

GL5 3SS.

01453 755 600

Dog FriendlyBarFood ServedCask AleFree Wi-FiReal Fire(s)

Free Admission

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Best things to do in Chinatown

  • Posted onJune 20th, 2014

Chinatown BangkokKnown for its manic street scenes, tight alleyways, and chaotic shop signs, Bangkok’s Chinatown isn’t just about yummy restaurants and gold shops.

This is an area rich with such an exotic mix of Thai and Chinese culture, perhaps the most unique and fascinating neighborhood of all Bangkok. Simply walking around Chinatown, soaking up the sights, sounds, and generally crazy atmosphere can be a day out itself, but there are several attractions here you won’t want to miss.

Thieves MArketThe Thieves Market

It’s actually seen its name recently changed to Nakon Kasem, but trith is, most Bangkokains still refer to it as the Thieves Market, which is a far more interesting name. Thieves Market got its name for being just that, a place where people would come to buy and sell stolen goods, though today it’s far more legal.

At the Thieves Market you’ll find a lot of second-hand goods and antiques, everything from Buddhist amulets and religious images to vintage clothes, old electronics, watches, shoes, even TV remotes, and just about everything else you can think of – all there to be bartered for, of course. You don’t need to be on the look-out for a bargain to head here, its fun enough just browsing, taking a few cool snaps, and generally soaking up the atmosphere.

Sampeng Lane BangkokSampang Lane

Similarly to the Thieves Market, Sampeng Lane is another bustling area of market stalls and shop-houses, made all the more fascinating by the narrow lanes and huge amount of stalls. It’s literally cram packed with all kinds of goods,, sellers, and shoppers, with little room for anything else.

Here you’ll also find a lot of strange items and bric-a-brac and jumble, but again, it’s not just about shopping. As with the Thieves Market the chaotic street scenes and stream of photo opportunities can be entertaining enough.

Wat TraimitWat Traimit

Finally, something other than shopping, I hear you say! As with every neighborhood of Bangkok, Chinatown has its temple attraction, though here you won’t just find any old temple;Wat Traimit is home to the largest golden Buddha in the world.

This huge icon, seated at an altar in a typically epic temple building, is something of a point of pilgrimage for many devout Buddhist, and a focus of fascination for many tourists. There isn’t a great deal to do here other than marvel over the large Buddha and temple buildings, but it’s worth doing if you’re in the area, and no doubt be a welcome change of pace from the chaos elsewhere in Chinatown.

Grand China Princess BarGrand China Princess Rooftop Bar

Though Chinatown is not known for its nightlife, the rooftop bar at the Grand Princess Hotel is one late evening attraction worth checking out. Not only does it offer some stunning and unique views of the surrounding area, but it does so in style.

The bar and restaurant slowly revolve (it takes around 2 hours for a full rotation, meaning you can enjoy a constantly changing view of the city and Chao Phraya River, while enjoying an excellent menu of Thai, European, Japanese and Chinese cuisine. It’s also pretty stylish, with servers wearing authentic, traditional uniforms, to a backdrop of live piano music. It’s also air conditioned, which can be a lifesaver after a day out on the streets below

Leave your comment for “Best things to do in Chinatown”


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Islamic Cartoon Fascismo – Source of the Problem

In the interest of fighting bad speech with more speech, rather than violence, I would like to write one huge run-on sentence to post links to blogs that are correctly pointing out that it was the ISLAMIC SOCIETY OF DENMARK that actually took the step of conducting a road show throughout the middle east which highlighted three fake cartoons which were never published in European newspapers and which were highly inflammatory, in contrast to the 12 published cartoons which were not.

I do not know the provenance of the 3 inflammatory cartoons, but the thought is that they were conjured up by the ISLAMIC SOCIETY OF DENMARK itself for the purposes of inciting the violence now occurring. I followed this link (James D. Hudnall) to this link (Gateway Pundit).

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Release: 8.8.3


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Don’t Call Us….

Personal assistant for experienced showrunner living/working in Weho. Simple duties: errands, grocery shopping, light phones. $500 a week, 5 days a week, fairly flexible hours. Showrunner will not read your writing. Send resumes to

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing in response to your advertisement on the UTA job list for a personal assistant.

I’m responsible, honest, and organized. I’m a big fan of simple duties. I love grocery shopping on the clock. I have an excellent phone manner. I have run errands large and small, late and early, forgettable and worthy of a chapter in someone’s memoirs (but not mine, since I am also very discreet, and in some cases bound by non-disclosure agreements.)

I want to be upfront, however, and let you know that I had to leave my last place of employ because my boss was obsessed with reading my writing, and could not take “no” for an answer. I have a very strict “no-reading” policy.

I’ve attached my resume, and would be happy to meet and see if we might be a good fit.

* It’s difficult, because it’s incredibly tempting to want to read the writing of someone who can navigate the Trader Joe’s with such finesse, but really, even if you beg, the answer is no.

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What Is Needful

Screw this. I see the acupuncturist tomorrow, I see my doctor on Monday. That’s what clean credit cards are for, and I keep mine that way for a reason. I can pay it off next check and I need to get all the help I can get. In the meantime, one of my Faire friends … Continue reading What Is Needful

Finding That Sweet Spot

Setbacks happen to everyone. We all have to ask ourselves each time, “is this a crushing blow, or an opportunity for growth and applied brilliance? For me, the latter wins every time. Overwhelming odds call out my Inner Pixie and really, the other alternative leads nowhere. Busking every day was one of those decisions that … Continue reading Finding That Sweet Spot


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Killjoy – Memories EP [TUM004]

.TUM004 artwork

Oi!  Hope everyone is good, yeah?

I want to bring the spotlight back to the Tumble Audio imprint today, as Monday saw the release of their 4th installment.  Killjoy (aka Core aka Ashburner) makes his return to the buttons with three original tracks, accompanied by remixes from Caski and Notion.  Killjoy put Tumble Audio on the map after writing the label’s debut release back in October of ’12 with his ‘XTC’ EP, namely (in my opinion) the track ‘Tiki’.  Killjoy brings an eclectic trio of music for 004, each tune embracing its own persona within the UK Funky format.  The 4×4 kick and pumping bassline in the title track offer up a instant party starter, while the groovy drum breaks and crafty vocal sampling of ‘Inaudible Badness’ bring things right back to the dancehall.  ‘Tangle Riddim’ is a breed of its own, sounding like some sort of brainchild of Coki’s ‘Goblin’ after a night of ketamine and Atari – a tool certain to set the energy off!  Ghost Records signee Caski puts a 140 spin on ‘Memories’, with a halfstep skeleton that leaves plenty of room for sub-bass flex and vocal intricacies.  Notion has outdone himself with his take on ‘Memories’, crafting an absolute slumper of a tune.  Infusing grime and funky to provide a track that will convulse your body through a state of boogie like no other!  It’s no surprise that such talent comes from Bristol.

Check the release below, and make sure to keep yourself locked into the Tumble Audio and Killjoy pages for future release/parties/etc.

I’ll catch you next time, heads!

– Kinman


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Rogue one prequel tv show announced

Those hoping for rogue one content may get their wish, although this one only stars cassian and possibly k2so at some point.

Personally this series excites me. The spin offs are where the empire belongs, not in the ST.

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Are you sure?

Banking association working group for municipal loans to report soon

The Hungarian Banking Association set up a working group to review the issue of municipal loans many months before and the working group will report its findings soon, Levente Kovács, secretary general of the association said on Thursday.

Speaking on the public radio Kovács said that delaying the start of principal payments of municipal loans by one year is a theoretical possibility, although it is one of several options.

Kovács made the comment after the Hungarian Association of Local Governments (MOSz) said Wednesday they were asking the prime minister to intervene with banks in the interest of achieving a one-year moratorium on repayment of debt principal because of the firming Swiss franc. The price of insuring Hungarian state debt rose to a six-month peak after the MOSz announcement on Wednesday.

Local councils' problems and their level of indebtedness vary, therefore there is no unified solution for their problems, Kovács said.

“Each local council which has a problem must sit down with its own bank for discussions. If they find a solution there is nothing more to talk about, if not than it is worth working out common principles for tackling the problems”, the association general secretary said.

MOSz chairman György Gémesi told MTI on Wednesday that Hungary's local councils have outstanding debt of HUF 1,200 billion of which about HUF 600 billion was issued in the form of bonds in 2006-2008, but mainly in 2007. Most of the bonds had 20-year runs with three-year grace periods, thus principal payments will be due on many this year. About 85% of the bonds is denominated in foreign currency, many of them in Swiss franc.


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How long have the Twins been in Minnesota? Since 50 cents would buy you a yearbook. (And OK, you smart-alecks, you’re right: They’ve never been anywhere else!)

The highfalutin diversions (Virtual Jigsaw Puzzles Division) (responsorial)
Or: Now & Then

The REF in White Bear Lake:Poet X of PDX‘s Killebrew puzzle on Jigidi reminded me to dig out the Twins’ 1961 Yearbook (cover price: just 50 cents) in anticipation of this season’s 57th Twins home opener  on April 3 this year.

“The yearbook’s a fun trip down memory lane, as the team and its established (Washington) stars are introduced to their new fan base. One could purchase upcoming game tickets by mailing vast sums of money to ‘Ticket Office, Metropolitan Stadium, Bloomington 20, Minn.’ Doesn’t say a word about service charges or handling fees!”

Our times
Including: Our livestock, ourselves

DebK of Rosemount: “Credit-card purchases tell the world too much about us. It’s making me nervous. Not that there isn’t an upside to these algorithms (a word that brings back long- and happily repressed memories of Calculus I) that track every move we make. I was quite pleased, in fact, when our credit-card company quickly detected fraudulent use of our account. Turns out that the culprit, having exhausted herself in the effort to swipe my credit-card information, felt the need for a day at a San Antonio spa. Bingo! I can almost hear the excitement in the Visa fraud office. ‘Pull the plug on that card, guys! Ol’ DebK doesn’t do spas. Or Texas.’ (Not that I mind that others do, of course.)

“The latest evidence that I’m being followed too closely has to do with the distressingly early arrival of this year’s lamb crop. Taxman and I planned carefully to have the babies arrive in late April — a week or so after tax filing deadline and well after perilous cold had departed the scene. Alas, one of last April’s boy lambs failed to consult that master plan, catapulted over the fence separating rams from ewes and . . . did the deed with every single one of our ewes, including his very close female relatives. On its face, this was a very unsavory business, but it led to worse: a nightmarish February in which Taxman (as available) and I struggled to save babies from the elements, going so far as to board tiny triplets in the mudroom, which now qualifies as a Superfund site. But back to my point: Saturday’s mail included a catalog from Premier 1 Sheep Supplies, the outfit that promptly responded to my orders for emergency lambing supplies when the ewes started delivering a couple of weeks back. This handsome publication features a mama goat and her baby (both properly confined) and the title ‘Fences That Work.'”

Month at a glance

Our customary first-of-the-monthly report from The Stillwater Scouter: “March is Mad for Plaid Month, National Kite Month, and Sing With Your Child Month.

“It also has Return The Borrowed Books Week, World Folktales & Fables Week, and American Crossword Puzzles Week.

“There is little chance someone wearing plaid will be singing with their son while flying a kite after returning a borrowed crossword puzzle book with a fable theme.

“On March 3, 1791, the U.S. Congress passed a resolution that created the U.S. Mint.

“Samuel Cole opened the first tavern in Boston, Massachusetts, on March 4, 1634.

“On March 5, 1624, the upper class was exempted from whipping by legislation in the American colony of Virginia.

“The state of New York, on March 8, 1894, enacted the first animal-control law in the U.S when it required dog licenses.

“On March 9, 1745, the first carillon was shipped from England to Boston, Massachusetts.

“On the morning of March 11, 1918, Private Albert Gitchell of the U.S. Army reported to the hospital at Fort Riley, Kansas. He had cold-like symptoms of sore throat, fever and headache. By noon, more than 100 other soldiers had joined him. The disease spread globally and was dubbed ‘The Spanish Flu,’ after 8 million deaths were reported following the initial outbreak there in May. Thirty-one thousand cases were reported in June in Great Britain. The flu would eventually kill 675,000 Americans with another 20 to 40 million around the world.

“On March 19, 1831, the first bank robbery in America was reported. The City Bank of New York City lost $245,000 in the robbery.

“New Orleans, Louisiana, suffered a fire that destroyed 856 of the city’s 1,100 structures on March 21, 1788.

“On March 23, 1839, the first recorded printed use of ‘OK’ occurred in Boston’s Morning Post. It was a joke that took hold. Young smart-alecky whippersnappers had taken to misspelling ‘all correct’ as ‘oll korrect’ and then abbreviating that. Think in terms of street slang.

“The colony Virginia passed the first American game law on March 24, 1629.

“March 25, 1911, was the day of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire in New York City. This may be worth looking up if you have an opinion on working conditions, or OSHA, or unions . . . or not.

“On March 27, 1884, the first long-distance telephone call was made from Boston to New York.*

“On March 29, 1848, Niagara Falls stopped flowing for one day because of an ice jam.

“Abigail Adams wrote to her husband, John, on March 31, 1776, to tell him that if the new Declaration of Independence failed to guarantee women their rights, women were ‘determined to foment a rebellion.’

“* Not only does The Scouter remember telephone landlines and telephone booths/pay phones, he remembers carrying rolls of quarters for long-distance pay phone calls home to his fiancée.”

The vision thing
Plus: Fun facts to know and tell (responsorial) (responsorial)

In Tuesday’s Bulletin Board, we asked our Official Geologist, Rock Doc of River Falls, Wisconsin, to weigh in on the stone Honey Bee of Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, believed to be an “omar stone,” based on Rock Doc‘s description in this past Saturday’s Bulletin Board.

Tuesday morning, we heard again from Rock Doc: “I agree that Honey Bee of Chippewa Falls has an excellent omar stone. Even though they aren’t that common, they look so odd that folks often pick them up.

“It is good that the chipmunks appreciate it, too.”

Know thyself!
Or: Could be verse!

Eos: “I DO NOT like to cook.

“I’d rather read a book,

“or hike behind a waterfall

“to get a better look.

“I’d rather climb my family tree,

“or golf, or look for rocks.

“I’d even rather wash the clothes,

“or hunt for missing socks.

“I’d rather walk through graveyards,

“camera in hand,

“or walk the beach in Florida,

“my toes dug in the sand.

“‘What’s WRONG with her?’

“I hear you say.

“‘Her sense she hath FORSOOK!’

“It’s really very simple.

“I DO NOT like to cook.”

Know thy music! Know thyself!
The One & Only Division? (responsorial)

Twitty of Como: “Poet X of PDX surmised (2/25) that his eclectic list of musicians and concerts attended — which, if I counted right, exceeded 40 in number — might be unmatched (by less than half) by others interested in such.

“I know BB isn’t a contest, but as someone with an eclectic taste in music myself, my curiosity was piqued.

“So I counted up my own list of concerts attended and was happy to see I’m in rarefied air, apparently: Not only have I seen MORE than half the names on his list; I’ve seen a good number of concerts NOT on his list!

“And I don’t even consider myself an avid concert-goer.

“Always interesting to learn something new about oneself.

“What do I win?”

BULLETIN BOARD SAYS: Self-awareness will have to suffice.

This ‘n’ that

The PaPeach: “Musical eclecticism: interesting terminology. I’ve always said it was easier to list the types of music I don’t like. That would be thrash metal: the stuff that sounds like someone is torturing a poor cat in the same room with someone throwing flatware down a garbage disposal. My eclecticism runs from Billy Joel to Billy Idol, George Winston to George Strait, Piano Guys to Pentatonix. Dan Seals (brother of Dash Seals of Seals & Crofts, another favorite) had a wonderful, smooth voice — and I agree: He left this world too soon.

“On a nature-y note: I was on my way to the grocery store this afternoon, and just a few houses down from mine I saw a streak fly across the street and land in a driveway. A hawk (don’t know which kind) had chased down and caught a cardinal! I know some birds can be cannibals (my friend has a macaw that loves chicken wings!) but it just seems wrong . . . there’s gotta be some chippies out somewhere! [Bulletin Board says: As far as we know, they’re still hibernating around here.]

“Ah, well . . . off to the wilds of Orlando tomorrow . . . so VERY glad BB is so easy to keep after now! Thank you!”

BULLETIN BOARD REQUESTS: Tell your Orlando friends about it! The more, the merrier. Thank you.

A thought for today
Or: There, but for the grace of God . . .

Kathy S. of St. Paul: “If you are having a bad day, just remember this: You had nothing to do with handling the envelopes at the Academy Awards.”

Band Name of the Day: Cannibal Birds

Website of the Day:


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The photographic memories of Spirit Lake — including those unphotographed!

Life as we know it
Pull of a Place Division

The Gram With a Thousand Rules: “Every summer, we drove my mother back to her home town of Spirit Lake, Iowa. I thought I was taking a picture of my baby daughter snuggling in her grandma’s arms, but now I know what that serene and contented look on my mom’s face really meant. She was ‘homing.’ She had arrived in her mind long before our packed van pulled into town.

“One year, I took her photo at the front door of the tiny house where, in March of 1890, she and her twin sister were born — but her favorite place to reminisce about was the big house by Lake Okoboji where she and her five siblings grew up. I have a photo of my tall and beautiful mother as she stood beside her twin sister in the middle of their ‘forest,’ which lay between their house and Lake Okoboji. As she walked among the now-sturdy oak trees with my kids, I’m sure she felt as though little crippled Bonnie was still there, right by her side.

“My mother told them about one very large tree near their house and how, when she and her twin sister were little girls, they could barely reach each other’s fingertips when they wrapped their arms around it. To her delight, that particular tree still stood, but now so mighty and wide that it took Mom and several of my kids to grasp hands around it. I was so busy enjoying the moment that, to my regret, I didn’t take a picture, but the one in my mind I can bring up without looking in my photo albums.”

Life as we know it
Pull of a Place Division (responsorial)

Hugo Woman: “I thoroughly enjoyed the story from Mounds View Swede about his trip ‘home’ to southern Sweden, in Tuesday’s (3/7) BB.

“My grandparents, too, on my father’s side, came from southern Sweden, and came to northeastern Minnesota to live. Unfortunately for me and my siblings, they both died before we ever met them, but their farm, high in the hills overlooking Lake Superior, had a gigantic lilac tree, also; I remember hiking back to their property with my mom, aunt, and cousin, when I was about 16 years old, and viewing this behemoth. The lilacs were in bloom at the time of our hike, and it seemed as if I had to look up, up, up before I saw the top of the lilacs, which on that day were swaying in the wind. The farm’s view of Lake Superior was spectacular, too — a view which, on a later hike (years later), was swallowed up by vegetation. I don’t recall seeing the lilac tree on this trip; perhaps it had died out, after what was probably a long, productive life.”

In reply to that some report, by Mounds View Swede, here’s Jimmy Still in Limbo: “Great post. My eldest (Caitlin) is coming off her first year living and working in Malmö, and despite her American and Scottish roots, she is turning Swedish. Cue the Vapors:

“Sweden is an extraordinary and confusing place. Why did so many Swedes leave for America, particularly to a more cold and frozen place? It’s still a paradox to me.”

BULLETIN BOARD SAYS: We have a hunch that false advertising played at least some role.

Then & Now (Baseball Division)
Plus: Everyone’s a (baseball announcing) critic!

The Old Hand of Oakdale: “The post on the Twins announcers sure brought back pleasant memories — back to a time when you could actually listen to the Twins on the radio; before the Pohlads decided to ‘broadcast’ the games on their radio station. Now, unless you live in the western suburbs, you have a hard time getting the station. I have a Power radio with an antenna in my house, and even with that, sometimes I lose the station. Try driving north on I-35, and you lose the station way before Hinckley. And forget about this so-called Twins Network.

“You would think that the Twins’ owners would want to have people listen to games, build up the fan base, pacify the old fan base. People listen to the Twins because they can’t see the Twins live that day for numerous reasons. Radio is not keeping fans from attending in person. I sincerely doubt if any of the fans of what passes for music on their radio station will ever become fans of baseball.

“Today the spring-training game was on cable TV. I had errands to run and figured I could listen to it on the radio. Wrong! Instead of baseball on the Pohlads’ station, all there was was that noise that passes for music.

“When the Pohlads were doing PR to get a new stadium, shortly after they tried to abolish the team, one of their key spokesman, the senior sports reporter in the Twin Cities, spoke long and loud about how important listening to the Twins on the radio is to residents of the old folks’ homes. At that time, the Twins were on a station that these folks could get on their radios. The Pohlads got their stadium and changed over to a station that most of the folks in nursing homes can’t get.

“And remember when Twins games were broadcast on free TV? Now, if you don’t have cable, you are not going to watch any Twins games. Granted, I have cable and love to watch the Twins, the Wild, the Wolves, etc., but there are a lot of old-faithful fans that either can’t afford cable or can’t get cable where they live. [Bulletin Board says: We are told that one can stream Fox Sports North via Sling TV, at a small fraction of the price of cable.]

“I love listening to baseball on the radio, even if the Twins are losing and losing and losing. I will keep trying to listen even if they are on a weak station. I love baseball! Too bad the Pohlads won’t put it on a real radio station instead of their toy station, and too bad they have allowed the team to sink the way it has. People are attending games now, in spite of the team, because of the great stadium the taxpayers built; but unless things change and a young fan base is built, in a few years nobody will be buying tickets to see their team and eat the overpriced concessions.

“When Jacobs Field in Cleveland was new, you couldn’t see an empty seat. The owner let the team go to pot, and the thrill of a new stadium waned. It became a stadium of empty seats until the team became competitive again.

“Thus said, I would like to say: I think we are really going to enjoy this year’s Twins team; even if their only off-season move was for a banjo-hitting catcher who ‘frames the pitches,’and even if we can’t hear them very well on the radio, and even if the announcers on both radio and TV are a far, far cry from the likes of Ray Scott, Herb Carneal, and Halsey.”

BULLETIN BOARD SAYS: We were a huge fan of Messrs. Scott (no one could deliver more drama to a dramatic moment), Carneal (no one called a game straighter or more definitively), and Hall (with his cigar-and-onions breath — a man who made Harry Caray seem sober!).

But we also enjoy ALL of the Twins’ current announcers — for various reasons. Messrs. Provus, Gladden, Bremer, Blyleven, Morris and Atteberry all add value to the broadcasts and the telecasts.

(We just wish we could persuade Cory Provus, who is usually so precise in his descriptions, to stop saying balls hit to the infield are “wide of first” or “wide of third” when, clearly, that’s not what he means; balls hit wide of those bases are foul. Fools us every time.)

Our pets, ourselves

Dawn West Demma: “Irish proverb: A dog owns nothing, yet is seldom dissatisfied.

“Rita is a 9-year-old Dalmatian who is always pretty and party-ready.

“Photo taken by her owner Thomas Demma of Cottage Grove, Minnesota.”

Everyone’s a copy editor!

Tuesday email from Walt of Wayzata: “From Page A2 in today’s New York Times, in an article by Susan Lehman where she describes blue-footed boobies: ‘They’re delightful, doddering temperaments make them terrific profile subjects.’

“Seems the page editors were flat-footed boobies.”

Our times — including: Our livestock, ourselves (responsorial)
Or: The Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon?

The Rivermouse’s Sister: “I can’t locate in your recent archives the post about the young fence-jumping ram who managed, under the cover of darkness, to impregnate every ewe on the property, causing a birth explosion in chilly February, as opposed to the hoped-for April lambing season.

“The post-er [DebK of Rosemount] mentioned that soon after the blessed events, a catalog advertising fences that work arrived at their home. Within 24 hours after I read this post, the identical catalog arrived at our California home. We have seven chickens, two small dogs and a vegetable garden, but we don’t have other types of farm critters.

“Is this a Baader-Meinhof, or, does it fall into the lesser categories of coincidence?”

BULLETIN BOARD RULES: We would say “other,” rather than “lesser.” Presumably, the catalogs all went out on the same day, so their receipt in various jurisdictions within a day of each other is not nearly eerie enough to warrant Baader-Meinhofhood.

See world (Photography Division) (responsorial)
And: The vision thing

Cee Cee of Mahtomedi: “Studying Mounds View Swede‘s photo of the maple leaves after the snowfall was like looking up at clouds and seeing various critters in the formations.

“The photo could have been a long-necked standard poodle or fluffy sheep. I could see a bright red designer collar, red ears, tail and nose, enhancing the animal’s beauty. Or perhaps it is Rudolph preparing for his annual flight with Santa….”

Our theater of seasons
Plus: Ask Bulletin Board

Tuesday email from Kathy S. of St. Paul: “Subject: A question for the woodworkers.

“Last night, Minnesota had its first tornado/es of the year. When I was little, I hid my Tiny Tears doll in the southwest corner of the basement, when tornadoes were forecast. I feared that I wouldn’t find it in time if we had to rush downstairs in a storm. Nowadays, I gather with neighbors in the lower levels of my apartment building during storms. (One year I was scolded for not covering up enough, given that we had an elderly priest living in our building.)

“But I have a question for woodworkers: Can the wood from trees twisted by tornadoes be used in projects? I wondered about this after a tornado ripped through Highland Park, some years back. I think it took out many trees on Highland Parkway, that year, and I saw huge trees on Snelling, etc., being cut down. I asked one of the workers at that time; he said that trees corkscrewed by storms were too weak for use.

Band Name of the Day: The Flat-Footed Boobies

Spam of the Day: “This new program that is introduced by our firm is providing window for people to perform services, earn a living and still go about their daily activities. Kindly reply if you are willing to participate”

Websites of the Day: (1) Halsey Hall (and Ray Scott) outtakes and (2) Vin Scully and Ray Scott call Game Seven of the 1965 World Series:


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GJHRR Northern Council Spirit Weekend 2018

Friday, December 14, 2018 FROM 5:30 PM - Sunday, December 16, 2018 3:00 PM

Livingston, NJ

Greater Jersey Hudson River Region

Attend This Event

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Event Details

Join us for Northern Council's annual Spirit Convention, where chapters compete against each other in a friendly rivalry throughout the weekend of skits, songs, and other fun activities, including a dance in Central Council Saturday night! This is a home housed convention hosted in the Livingston/Short Hills community. We ask members of Livingston AZA, Koach BBG, Yachad BBG, Short Hills BBG, and Short Hills AZA to please open their homes to other teens for this weekend. Busing is available from Paramus. Scholarship will only be available through November 26. Refunds will only be available through November 30, which are subject to a $36 administrative fee. After December 1, no refunds will be issued. Can't wait to see everyone there!

Cost: $150.00


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Exciting New Craft Courses – pastel drawing, stone carving, sewing and much more. Dates until end of 2017 … book now as they fill up fast!

We’ve added some exciting new crafts to our list of courses for the rest of 2017. Take a look at the list of courses, dates and prices … What’s on!

Chris Swales, Swales in the Dales Stone Mason will show you how to carve sandstone and you will leave with a carving you can use at home such as a house number.

Moraig Hewitt, The Sewing Bee, will show you sewing skills and so you can learn how to make a buttoned cushion, a lampshade and many other items.

Margaret Robinson, a well known artist from Slaidburn has created gorgeous pictures of landscapes and her specialism; farm animals. She is going to share her skill and show you how what she has learned over her years of experience.

Don’t worry all the equipment and skill will be provided and set up for you so all you have to do is arrive and have fun.

You will have a lovely day including all refreshments, one course lunch and lovely homemade cakes to finish with your new friends.


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It’s Just Not the Same Without Coleslaw

This is the just for fun section. The title originates from my friend Jill’s enthusiasm for coleslaw. Because doesn’t support two true blog pages, I’ll add new amusements to the top. If you want to share something that tickled you, leave it in the comment box, and I may include it. Politically neutral laughter-inducing items only please—I want as many people as possible to feel welcome. Disclaimer: this page may contain an excess of cat-related humor.

kitten vs. two scary thingskitten and two apples on a bed

The musical score puts this one in a league of its own. View kitten vs. two scary things video.

Three-year-old conductor

This kid is good! View three year old conducting Beethoven video.

facebook in real life

May make you reconsider friending, liking, and following. View Can I Be Your Friend video.

Two year old Tells “jack and the Beanstalk”

baby telling storyThis kid has a future on stage. View two year old telling “Jack and the Beanstalk” video. Semi-captioned.

Cat vs. Internet

Oh my god, this is my cat. Of course you know who wins. Thanks to my cousin Will for this one. For those of you who are cat people, there are more comics on this site that guarantee amusement. View cat vs. internet comic.

Hamster on a Piano

hamster lying on its back on a piano eating popcorn

Just what it says. I don’t know why it’s funny, but it is. Thanks to whoever keeps reposting it to youtube. View Hamster on a Piano video.

Funniest Dracula cartoon I’ve ever seen. Perhaps the only Dracula cartoon I’ve ever seen.

Cat v. Printer

cat batting at a printer

This cat is British, apparently. View cat v. printer video.

Getting from Here to There

Go to Google Maps, click Get Directions, start destination USA, end destination Japan. Click Get Directions. Scroll down to #31.

8 thoughts on “It’s Just Not the Same Without Coleslaw

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