My Lego Babies

When I was about 3, I had imaginary friends. Except unlike other children who had imaginary friends as companions, my imaginary friends lived in my tummy.
I’d always talk about my babies in my tummy. They were named “Crowdy” and “Chairclean”.
Some of my earliest memories of life were of family discussions around Crowdy and Chairclean. In my imagination, they looked like Lego people and lived beside my belly button.
I don’t ever recall an issue with swallowing Lego people which could be a logical explanation for their existence, but just that Crowdy (the first baby) and Chairclean (the second one) were fully manifestations of a 3-year old imagination.
My sisters used to ask me what my babies names were, and I’d respond “Cwowdy” and “Chaiwcwean” in my little baby voice. “Where are they?”, they’d ask, “In my tummy,” I’d say matter-0f-factly.
One day I must have just forgotten about the Lego babies that lived in my tummy. It’s been almost 35 years since I was mother to Crowdy and Chairclean.
My sister who works in hospitality said that whenever she is cleaning chairs in her job, she always thinks about “Chairclean” and will laugh out loud.
While I don’t think I’ll have any real babies in my “tummy” in this life, I will forever get a chuckle about the one time I thought I was bearing Lego babies when I was 3 years old.

The Day I Saw a Sea Monster

1995, Lake Champlain, Vermont
Imagine three pre-teen girls in a boat, enjoying the freedom of getting away from their families at their “boring” Vermont cottages, to be able to sit in a boat in the middle of Lake Champlain.
They were the grand-daughters of my grandmother’s cottage neighbors. After a few weeks of boredom and black and white TV, I was so relieved to have someone my age to hang out with.
I’d heard about Champ my whole life having a family cottage in Vermont.
In the previous summers, my Dad would take me out on our rowboat into the middle of the mirky, and seaweedy Lake Champlain that the cottage that had been in my family for decades had been on, and he’d tell me stories.
He’d tell me about “Cloak Island” which was an island off in the distance from our cottage, where a man had gone to look for his lost love, but disappeared, only to have his cloak left behind, giving the small island its namesake.
Then there were the stories about Champ.
I’d squirm with discomfort and fascination as he told me about the Lake Champlain Sea Monster. Apparently, Samuel de Champlain had first recorded seeing the “20-foot serpent with the horse shaped head and a body the size of a keg” upon “discovering” the lake that would later bear his name.
I’d try to forget about Champ whenever we’d go into the paddle boat, but of course, he was always top of mind.
That hot summer’s day with those two fellow- 12 year olds, we were ambitious and decided to paddle the boat as far away from the cottages as possible with our new found independence.
In the middle of the lake, we talked about what girls of that age talked about. Shaving our legs, boys, and all those awkward things in that super awkward stage of life between 12 and 13. I can remember that whole summer being just strange and transitional, like the ones you’d read about in a Wally Lamb book or see in a movie like “Now and Then”.
All of the sudden, I saw something approaching underneath us.
“No,” I whispered under my breath, “It can’t be.”
“What?” the girls innocently asked, seeing my face go white and my eyes grow wide.
The girls looked down wide-eyed and saw what I was seeing, as a large, white-ish-grey-ish-green-ish mass of sea creature swooshed under our boat. It never came up close to the surface, but the size, the color, told me all I needed to know.
“CHAAAAAAAMMMMMPPPPPP!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “The sea monster!”
The girls and I stood up and for some reason began stamping our feet on the bottom of the boat. The three of us screamed, the shrillest kind of pre-teen girl scream you could ever hear coming from a paddle boat from the otherwise tranquil Lake Champlain.
Our parents who had congregated at the shore for relaxing cottage time said all they could hear was screams as we paddled back to our cottage docks so fast we basically hydro-planed our way there.
“We saw CHAMP!” we all screamed to our parents when we arrived, tired, scared, and kind of excited too.
I don’t know what they were trying to do, whether they just wanted to calm us down, or just thought we were being silly kids, but they tried to convince us that all we had seen were snapping turtles.
I am a bit of a realist in my adult age, but no matter what new evidence comes out, or no matter how my memory fades, for life I’ll consider that day in 1995 as the day I saw a bona fide sea monster.
(Photo is from the 1970s of a photo of Champ himself.)

Only You Can Prevent Coat Closet Fires: A 1970s Vignette

Montreal, early 1970s

He was a well-put-together businessman, having achieved what he wanted in his education, career, now building a family. It was a cold, dreary Friday night in Montreal. The kind of late-winter night that puts a chill in your bones, and if you’re not diligent, the dirty, wet slush from what once was white snow will seep into your shoes and make your socks uncomfortably wet.

He wore the common attire of the early-1970s, businessman as he went about the city meeting colleagues, having dinners, and enjoying the spoils of a corporate expense account. His long light grey trench coat was similar to those of other men his age, with deep pockets, perfect for storing things like his tobacco pipe, wallet, and change. He wore those rubber shoe covers that were common for businessmen. They’d pull the thick rubber that was made to look like business loafers over their real loafers, preventing that sock soak and thinking no one was any the wiser about their rubber shoes.

As he approached the restaurant where he’d be meeting some business colleagues, he heard the squish-squish under his rubber-clad loafered feet, as the half-crunch, half slosh of the fading winter snow melted under him. He stood for a moment, breathed in the cool, late-Winter air and pulled in the sweet tobacco from the wood pipe that he loved to carry with him. He preferred cherry-flavoured tobacco, as it tasted good, and he often found people would stand in his midst to get a whiff of the sweet smoke.

Knowing his dinner party was waiting inside, he took in his last haul of cherry smoke and put out his pipe by tapping the pipe containing the lit tobacco on his rubber shoe, being sure to watch the lit cherry of the tobacco fall into the wet, slushy snow. As he watched the burning cherry fade to black slushy oblivion, he opened the door to the restaurant, tossed his pipe in the trusty deep pockets of his trench coat and hung up his coat in the communal coat closet.

Happy to see his colleagues, he sat down, greeted his friends, and settled into the menu, eager to get himself a drink after a hard day’s work. He noticed the server coming towards him and felt that familiar excitement of your first beer on a Friday night.
“Um, excuse me, sir?”, the server asked him, a bit of an unsure quiver in his voice. Getting ready to place his order for his beer, the server interrupted him, “Are you the owner of the grey trench coat in the coat closet?” A little confused, he responded, “Yeah, I guess that’s my coat, why?”

“Sir, I regret to inform you that your trench coat is on fire in the coat closet.”

He rushed to the coat closet, and saw that his actually still-lit pipe had burned a giant hole in his coat pocket, that had now been covered in water in an effort to save the restaurant from disaster. The restaurant’s coat closet reeked of burnt material and stale cherry tobacco, with the Maître D looking less than impressed as he held a pitcher of water, with the remnants of his impromptu firefighting dripping to his feet.

After that day, he was sure to carry pipe cleaners, before eventually deciding to give up the habit altogether.

If He Says He’ll Change, He Won’t

“I promise it won’t be like before,” he said as he held my hand, looked into my eyes, and had me convinced that he’d stop hurting me.
“Losing you was the biggest mistake of my life. I understand where I went wrong. I spent years wishing I hadn’t treated you the way I did. I promise, this time will be different.”
I believed him.
For a while things were different. He went the extra mile to show he “cared”. Would do cute things and remind me how special I was to him. He made me a mug of all our photos together over the years, and one for himself as well. Because we were “meant to be”.
When asked WHY I’d go back to him, I would justify all his previous actions by blaming myself, believing I must have done something wrong, and forgiving him for the hell he put me through — I must have triggered him to act that way, after all. If I just changed myself, he’d change too, right?
Then the same patterns started again: the manipulation, the secretiveness, the cheating, the lying, playing tricks on me knowing I’d be upset, the emotional unavailability.
Still, I convinced myself “he’d changed” as I grasped at straws because I couldn’t bear to hear, “I told you so” from the folks that had warned me against him.
I began the process of moving in with him, and then something clicked. I recognized that I needed to save myself and told him I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it to myself.
He went back to his old self that night: he was abusive, he told me lies and then proceeded to treat me like I was trash — his reign of terror lasted a few months – within the evening, he was back at his ex-girlfriend’s house begging for her back. I was angry, but more so thankful that my gut had saved me from him before my first moving box hit the floor of his house.
Never again.
I had a really nice time smashing the mug he’d given me of our photo – I would break it just like he broke me.
This story isn’t about ME – it’s about the girls who I know who I see go through these patterns over and over. It’s about knowing that THIS doesn’t have to be the way a girl is loved – it’s POSSIBLE to feel love without hurt. If you think he’s going to change, HE WON’T, and if you think you need to change so that he’s a bit less awful to you, YOU DON’T.
Love NEVER hurts, and I know that now.

The Day I Became a True Feminist

I remember it like it was yesterday, mostly because it caused my hair to stand up on the back of my neck, and it forever changed me as a professional, and a feminist.

At that point in my life, and in the professional role I held, I saw myself as the young, female employee within an otherwise male power structure. At that point in my life, I hadn’t yet recognized that it was okay to call out the power structures that are otherwise glaringly oppressive.

It all started over a difference of opinion. Tensions had been building within this professional group for a long time – different backgrounds, perspectives, and ideas of power caused the two male leaders to disagree on a fundamental issue.

Something was said that one man didn’t like, and the other responded with a loud verbal outburst, yelling not just a raised voice, followed by a loud slam of his outstretched hand on the board room table. It was like not only was there an elephant in the room, but the elephant had trampled us.

I owe the breaking of the tension in the room to the one female colleague who became my force, and my ally, in claiming our spot within that situation. “I’ll acknowledge that your behaviours have turned this into an unsafe space, and we can’t go on in this meeting like this.”

At this point, the “instigator” explained that he, too, would not tolerate that kind of behaviour and acknowledged the unsafe space. One man, the most experienced of the professional group, remained silent. Another turned his whole chair around to make a statement of having his back to the group while the tensions ebbed and flowed.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in a professional setting in my life.

Following this, the one who had turned his back on the group went on a campaign of what I’ve learned to understand as gaslighting. He one by one met with or called each member of the team, to shame us for judging someone’s emotions. He told us that we had showed a lack of compassion for what he was going through in his life by expressing that we did not feel safe with his emotional outburst. He said that we had humiliated him by reacting to his behavior and that we owed him an apology.

My female colleagues and I didn’t buy it, and then I got my courage.

Sitting across from a table in Starbucks, I explained to this male colleague that I would have to approach the situation as a feminist and call out the blatant abuse of power and that there is no place for the use of violence and force in a professional boardroom.

He pushed his glasses up, sat up in his chair, and crossed his arms, looking peering down at me as though he was about to educate me. “Women have to understand that men will always be in positions of power in the workplace. At this point, it’s something they have to accept and find ways work around.”

My eyes just about fell out of my head.

“I wholeheartedly disagree with you.” I respectfully told this man who believed he was in a position of power over me. “This is 2016, and to think that women will passively accept being dominated and intimidated in business, you have a lot to learn.” At that moment, I found my voice, and he listened.

Through the female colleague who had called out the elephant in the room during the incident, I found out we had similar gaslighting experiences – and we were able to build our woman power together as we commiserated over coffee and vowed to each other that we’d firmly, and proudly, take our place. The one man who stood up for us during that incident has become a strong professional connection and my definition of a male ally in the workplace.

The guy who had turned his back and tried to whittle us down? I’m not sure where he has landed now, but I do know that he’s no longer in a position of power.

10 Ways My Lifestyle Has Drastically Changed By Moving to Costa Rica


Simply, my lifestyle is wonderful in Costa Rica. I work hard. I work probably more hours than I used to in my old work, but it’s different. It’s all different – because life is on my terms.

The journey over our more than a year of being here has been quite the crazy one, where we’ve had to settle in to some pretty big realities of living here, while adapting ourselves to match the lifestyle we came for.

Thinking about it – I haven’t changed much – but I’ve changed the life around me. It’s been a hoot! Here’s the top 10 ways my lifestyle has drastically changed in Costa Rica.


From having a reliable vehicle to only the back of a motorcycle or my own two feet (in the heat!)


From bras and dress codes, to “free the boobies” more days than not and wearing as little material as possible to keep cool, while looking somewhat respectable

Personal Grooming

Blow drying and heat styling to don’t even think about it; I’m fine that I develop a rat’s nest on my head each week; From full face makeup to lashes only most days


From corporate driver to passionate entrepreneur; enough said. My time is my own.



From pretty homogenous groups of people (no matter how much I claimed “diversity” in my previous circles) to meeting and working and living amongst people I would have never had the chance of encountering back home

Home Economics

From having predatory credit always available to credit not being an option; if you don’t have the cash for it, don’t buy it


From forcing myself to sleep before 11pm, with alarm at 7:00am to sleeping when I’m tired and waking up with the sun; From endless fatigue to endless energy (and there’s always naps!)


From always having stores and debit, credit, etc to not really having places to shop for non-novelty items… or a lot of other items you want or “need”.

Work Habits

From working when my hours schedule me to working when my creativity is at its finest… and being involved in the hustle (there’s always a way you can make money!)


From mediocre dining to taste explosions in my mouth that I can’t even handle every night because we spoil ourselves in culinary splendors.


Life is good in Costa Rica!

Anam Cara: The Shared Tattoo in my Family

If you look on any of the arms of the 4 Fischer ladies, you’ll see “anam cara” tattooed and for good reason.

Anam Cara, “soul friend” in Irish, has been a family “saying” for many years. We all have a particular love for Ireland, a country where each of the “original 5” Fischers have visited at certain points over the decades. My short-term home once in my life. It was the place that my father got to personally explore “anam cara” during the opportunity to meet with his revered Irish Spiritualist, the late John O’Donohue after a chance encounter in an Irish pub.

“Anam Cara” was what my father named his boat, the boat that he loved and got so much joy from and as we embraced the special term within our Fischer family, it began to mean different things to each of us. For my Mom and Dad, who shared so many loving memories on that boat, it’s representative of their relationship and endless love for each other. After the boat was sold, when my Dad knew his cancer was fatal, the stained glass window with the celtic knot and “Anam Cara” was placed in the window of the house, where it’ll remain with my mom as a special treasure.

For me, “anam cara” meant first being my own “soul friend”. To learn to love myself, learn from my experiences, and stand on my own two feet before finding another version of my anam cara. I got the tattoo at 30, the year that I did a lot of introspection on what I truly wanted out of my life. For myself. Through that special care and attention to being my own anam cara, my path brought me to my anam cara in Levi, who is my soul friend in every way that term should imply.

Every time I look down to my arm and see those beautiful words, all I feel is connection – to my Dad, to myself, to those I love intensely as my soul friends.

I hope you have an anam cara in yourself and in your life. ❤


10 Pieces of Wisdom for Those Thinking of Moving Abroad

People often tell me that they wish I had the courage that I did to just pack up my life and move abroad to start fresh in a different country. I’m not going to lie, moving to Costa Rica was the biggest change in my life thus far, and it did take a lot of guts, gumption and a bit of throwing caution to the wind.

I keep telling people that it really isn’t that difficult to do so, and I’ve thought of writing big long “how to” posts about the secrets to moving your life to a different country, but instead, I’ll choose conciseness as my way.

Here are 10 pieces of wisdom I can offer for those thinking of moving abroad:

  1. Don’t ever think you’re “stuck” where you are. If you believe that, you will truly become stuck and unable to uproot yourself.
  2. If your possessions are one of the first things you think about when considering moving abroad, that may mean that your possessions own you rather than you owning them.
  3. Find and nurture what sets you apart from others in your life, both personally and professionally. When you hone what you’ve got, and can build upon the gifts that you’ve been given, you can write your own ticket to professional freedom.
  4. Just because you’ve always been told to do something one way doesn’t mean it’s the only way to do something.
  5. Those who criticize are usually jealous, or regretful of something in their own life. It’s not about you.
  6. There really is no such thing as luck. You make your own luck, and it’s true that luck occurs when opportunity meets preparation.
  7. If you don’t take the risk, or make that leap of faith to do something you’ve always wished you could do, you will regret it. Don’t live with regrets. They hurt your soul.
  8. Even though you may love your job, your coworkers, your salary, and the comfort that your job provides you, don’t pour more energy into it than it provides you in return. Your job won’t be there on your death bed, but your experiences and relationships will.
  9. A child’s education is not best found only in the four walls of a classroom. When you blend your child’s education between formal settings and the world at large, you will give your child the greatest gift you can ever give them.
  10. You only have one life, and you only have one you. Make yourself your most important person, and from that, you’ll find the path in life that makes you the best version of yourself for those who are important to you.

Be the master of your own ship. Pura vida!

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“Sure you can! Welcome to Amsterdam!”

We’d just come off a red-eye flight from Kigali, Rwanda and were ready for a quick layover in Amsterdam before it was time to get back to our normal lives. It was 7:00am and we had just put our luggage into storage at Schipol Airport and we had the town ahead of us.

We arrived into the middle of town on a train and thought it was so early that at least we could find breakfast somewhere.

Sure enough, there was a “Coffee Shop”. We knew what Coffee Shops in Amsterdam were, but surely we couldn’t get any “libations” that early. Sure enough as we ordered cappuccinos, we saw another menu in our view. A menu that made my eyes grow VERY wide.

Very new to this whole “legal weed” thing, we bought 1 gram of a sativa and were treated to some complimentary rolling papers. We went upstairs to the sitting area, and sure enough, 7:30am by now, there were about half a dozen young people drinking coffee, each with a cone-sized marijuana cigarette hanging out each of their mouths. No sharing, no passing, just a cone joint to themselves.

Levi and I rolled our little baby joint, and proceeded to have a little shared puff with our coffees, smiling to each other that we knew we weren’t in “Kansas” anymore.

All of the sudden, some commotion, and a bunch of the cone-smoking coffee-drinking young people ran downstairs and out onto the street. There was a street brawl.

Finishing our coffee, we put the remainder of our purchase in our pockets, and proceeded outside. We watched as youngin’s brawled before we meant to go on our way, chalking it all down to young guys after a night out getting rowdy after their weed.

But we noticed something.

People were walking the streets with these cone marijuana cigarettes, out in the open, like it was no big deal. Surely you can’t just smoke on the streets, we thought.

We saw one of the girls who had been in the Coffee Shop standing by as her mates brawled. “Can you smoke on the street here?” we asked her, all star eyed and bright-faced.

She chuckled. “Sure you can! Welcome to Amsterdam!”

Needless to say, we visited more than a few Coffee Shops over 36-hour layover. We figure Anne Frank’s house will still be there next time we visit.


What Do You Do When Your English Teacher KILLS Shakespeare?

I used to LOVE Shakespeare. The stories, the characters, the LANGUAGE… I was a true and bona fide Shakespeare junkie.

Until I went to university.

I pursued an English & History Double Major because WHY NOT study Shakespeare and all the history surrounding it like it was my JOB?

I can remember stepping into my first university Shakespeare course. Shakespearean Tragedies. Oh wow, this would be good. How lucky was I that I’d get to study Shakespeare under a Shakespearean scholar? This would be BLISS!

We were just about to do our reading of King Lear in the classroom. How exciting. I sat in my wooden desk eagerly as I looked up at the Shakespearean scholar to WOW me with her reading skills that she had surely honed over her work.

As soon as she opened her mouth. I lost my love for Shakespeare.

I suffered through that class. It was terrible. The monotony of the teacher’s readings of the texts. The absence of inflections, expression, gestures, or any embellishment of the words made me think I was being read the phone book. And I was supposed to like the texts enough to write thousands word essays on them?

There was no attempt to bring the text to life, or to even give it the slightest justice in its classroom-based performance. My soul broke a bit.

Was this what it was like to STUDY Shakespeare? To have a scholar treat the sacred texts like nothing special? My heart hurt.

I knew I needed to find my love for Shakespeare again. It wouldn’t be found in the university lecture hall within the voice of the monotonous teacher who didn’t rise to the obligations of her job.

I took a 1 week trip to England over Reading Week. London with a little dip into Stratford-Upon-Avon. I went on a Shakespeare tour. I remember telling the tour guide that I had fallen out of love with Shakespeare and I was desperate to get my love back.

We went to The Globe (reconstruction) in London, and I got to see how his plays were performed. We drove to Stratford-Upon-Avon, and I saw where he was born, where he slept, and how he lived his life. I saw his grave, and the grave of his beloved. I heard some readings of his texts, but ENGLISH people, which brought some of the texts to life again for me. I learned fun facts about Shakespeare’s life that I wouldn’t have learned in school. It was refreshing!

Did I love Shakespeare anymore after that trip? No. But I did learn a big lesson about literature that it shouldn’t have taken me a trip over the pond to learn.

Literature, and reading, is a very PERSONAL experience. The relationship between words on a page and your experience with them is your own, which no one, even monotonous English teachers, can influence. It was wrong for me to let my English teacher take away my love for Shakespeare, because I gave her the power to take my imagination.

From time to time, I find myself using lines of Shakespeare in my communications. He has a really good way of giving you nice lines to make a good point. I even used a term from the Merchant of Venice in a communication to my bank (those who know the play can only imagine which term was used!)

To thine own self be true.

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