tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87878735771177562062024-03-05T11:26:07.952-07:00The Dad LifeA modern father's take on parenting in the modern world.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-64868954675537843422018-12-10T20:46:00.000-07:002018-12-10T20:46:47.624-07:00"Save One Life, and You Save the Whole World"<i>Schindler's List</i> is back for a short run at a couple of cinemas in Fort Collins. It's 25 years old, but the message of the dangers of hatred and bigotry...well, let's just say our country could use a reboot.<br />
<br />
Last night, I took my 15-year-old to see one of the most important films ever made: Steven Spielberg's opus about the efforts of one very wealthy, magnanimous man to save over a thousand Jews from certain death in extermination camps.<br />
<br />
If you've got teenagers that you think can handle this kind of thing, I strongly urge you to do the same while it's on the big screen. The future of our country could use a bit of a grisly history lesson right about now.<br />
<br />
It's gonna hurt, which it should.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
Ella has grown up "half-Jewish" and has continually expressed an interest in learning more, voluntarily enduring several hours of an orthodox Rosh Hashanah service, proudly lighting Hanukkah candles and listening to explanations of the Passover Seder plate. What makes her Jewish and Unitarian families most proud, though, is that she clearly has an innate sense of social justice.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure: I am unapologetically antagonistic toward religious rituals (of any denomination) that are dogmatic, archaic, and by their very nature, exclusive. I also, however, have a very aggressive stance on intolerance, and I fully appreciate that genocidal massacres don't just happen with one flick of a Zyklon-B gas valve.<br />
<br />
They start insidiously by sowing fear and panic, then vilifying and dehumanizing specific groups of people, and slowly normalizing hatred and absolute intolerance until even good people follow and suddenly, it's institutional and accepted.<br />
<br />
<i>Yes, it's awful but what can </i>I<i> do about it?</i><br />
<br />
<i>I'm white, so I don't have to worry about routine traffic stops.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh, those poor people. At least </i>WE<i> aren't the ones being herded into train cars.</i><br />
<br />
<i>All those illegal Mexican murderers and rapists are taking our jobs.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It's a Jewish conspiracy to rule the world. They are the cause of all your problems.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There are some good people on the Neo-Nazi side.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
What happened in Nazi Germany began in the late 1920's and it took more than a decade for the war to open people's eyes. By then, it was too late.<br />
<br />
My point is, institutional racism becomes the norm in democratic societies all the time. If we ignore history, it's our own fault.<br />
<br />
It's everyone's fault.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
Ella and I sat through <i>Schindler's List</i> with the expected discomfort. I'm not sure exactly how much detail she knew about the dehumanization, the propaganda, public humiliation, property seizing, cramped ghettos, the random point-blank killings, the "work" camps, the packed trains, the gas chambers, the piles of burning corpses (that put Ella over the edge, by the way), the crematoria, and the utter lack of control and agency millions of people had over their own existence; but she knows now.<br />
<br />
We spent a lot of time in each other's arms, tears mixing in a silent connection. The movie even managed to elicit a few laughs and smiles as the suave, Nazi-party member Oskar Schindler managed to go from inveterate playboy and businessman into principled, undaunted humanitarian savior. We talked a bit on the way home, but Ella didn't need to hear much more from me.<br />
<br />
After our tears had dried, she and Sophia joined me in lighting the candles for the final night of Hanukkah: a testament to resiliency and light for future generations of kind, tolerant souls just like the ones that currently occupy the bedrooms on the top floor of our home.<br />
<br />
My favorite line in the film is at the end when Izaak Stern, Schindler's accountant and right-hand man paraphrases the Talmud to help assuage a torn Schindler, who wishes he could have saved more people: "He who saves one life, saves the whole world."<br />
<br />
I think Ella gets it.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-83702866224968443452018-05-26T16:35:00.006-06:002018-05-27T06:18:35.077-06:00On the Road to AdulthoodSleeping through the night.<br />
<br />
Full sentences.<br />
<br />
First steps.<br />
<br />
Potty training.<br />
<br />
Making their own bowl of Sugar-Honey-Crunchy-Os without waking up Mommy at Oh-Dark-Thirty.<br />
<br />
Their first iPhone. (Lord have mercy.)<br />
<br />
Parental success is logged and charted by our children's milestone achievements. We try to enjoy each phase as it motors through, bringing with it excitement and angst and terrible selfies. We fail and succeed reciprocally, and by the time we figure out how to relax for a minute, we are thrust full bore into the next potential accomplishment. Which brings me to...<br />
<br />
Operating a Motor Vehicle.<br />
<br />
My oldest child turned 15 last week so on her birthday, of course, we took a direct vector from high school to driver's ed school, where Ella got 100% on her permit test in, like, five minutes. Then it was off to the DMV, where, with no wait time (What??!!) Ella posed for a mugshot and got her official State-Issued authorization to operate a two-ton hunk of highly flammable materials with the potential to crush lampposts, hover boards and slouching smartphone-staring pedestrians in a whip.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhW9uk-gke0NbJ2pKu49nFcuRyVuy9NoRhd3tLXkmqtRC-282O_DNhMZ4XUeVUtmjLbecB1hiLDZC3oJIqo3HDGcabXAEDBLQ2BbZG5oLi5XLlMXcsr93iloBxx20EDX8RvCAgsNtRrY/s1600/IMG_0247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhW9uk-gke0NbJ2pKu49nFcuRyVuy9NoRhd3tLXkmqtRC-282O_DNhMZ4XUeVUtmjLbecB1hiLDZC3oJIqo3HDGcabXAEDBLQ2BbZG5oLi5XLlMXcsr93iloBxx20EDX8RvCAgsNtRrY/s320/IMG_0247.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1: Ella at the drive through ATM window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Days one and two behind the wheel took us through our sedate suburban neighborhood, with its wide lanes, and lack of blind-spot-eclipsing trucks. She soon graduated to the busier multi-lane and 45-mph speed limit roads close by, complete with traffic lights, left turns into traffic and lane changes, all of which caused me tachycardia and a cramp or two on my finger muscles.<br />
<br />
Amid a bit of a lead foot on both the gas and the brake pedals and some mild righting issues out of turns, Ella soon got the hang of it. Which was more than I can say for myself.<br />
<br />
"Dad," she says with a chuckle, "you know that when you push your foot into the floor we don't slow down, right?"<br />
<br />
"Uh...yeah. Of course I know that," I say. "Habit I guess."<br />
<br />
I reiterate several times what my dad used say when I was learning, and used to roll my eyes at: "A car is a loaded weapon!"<br />
<br />
She laughs, unperturbed.<br />
<br />
I may have raised my voice slightly a time of two. "Ella! You literally just went through that stop sign!"<br />
<br />
"Oh, sorry, she says, "not sure what I was thinking, won't do that again," and continues toward one of the busiest roads in Fort Collins another hundred yards away.<br />
<br />
"Ella, you have to regularly check your right side mirror! You nearly shaved four inches off the bumper of that parked truck!"<br />
<br />
"Okay," without flinching.<br />
<br />
She even starts out driving me, her little sister and her best friend about a mile and a half to dinner in a wispy drizzle when the hail suddenly pours from the heavens like God herself had spilled the frozen peas.<br />
<br />
"I think you should drive now," Ella says, pulling over into a cul-de-sac, where we switch seats.<br />
<br />
Despite my nerves and ongoing commentary, Ella has been great at receiving constructive criticism; she's calm and is proving to be a fast learner; she knows her limitations. <br />
<br />
Seems like the latest milestone.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-46922431796506001192017-11-26T22:03:00.003-07:002017-11-26T22:03:58.251-07:00Generation GapI realize this is a conversation most parents my age have already had, in some form, with their kids. But as I sit in our hot tub on the backyard deck under the stars with Ella, my 14-year-old, I realize I have to record this momentous exchange in some way because it's simply too rich not to.<br />
<br />
Below is an almost-but-not-quite-verbatim account of our tête-à-tête.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
Ella: When did you first get a computer?<br />
<br />
Me: I think I was about 12 or 13.<br />
<br />
Ella: Oh, so about the same time most kids get their own cell phones now. (I spared her the embarrassment of correcting her. Most kids are way younger that that.) What did you do on it?<br />
<br />
Me: Mostly video games, some word processing. We did other things. You know, played outside? Games...<br />
<br />
Ella: (clearly seeing where I was going with this, but ignoring my trolls): What about the internet? You know, the World...Wide...Web? (Sassy smile.)<br />
<br />
Me: I don't remember getting on the internet till I was almost done with college. Around the mid-nineties.<br />
<br />
Ella's eyes widen, her mouth gapes to the size of an orange.<br />
<br />
Me: We did have email in my second year in college, I think, but we were given an ID number and an email address that we could only use on school computers. It was so cool to be able to email someone a message, like, "Hey! Wanna have lunch?"<br />
<br />
Ella (Unable to hide her condescension. Or maybe it was pity.): Wait. Wait a minute. You didn't...you didn't have internet on your computer at home?<br />
<br />
Me: Nope. The first time I got on the internet I was about 20 or 21, maybe. Jodi (my sister) had a computer, so I went on at her house. And I remember looking up physical therapy stuff, being fascinated at all the information I could access. The connection was slow, though. It was dial-up.<br />
<br />
Ella: What?<br />
<br />
Me (At this point, feeling like a nursing home resident recounting watching Howdy Doody for the first time on the old Zenith): You had to connect to the...what do you call it, the server? You connected through a phone line and had to wait like a minute, sometimes longer, to get online. It made a funny sound. (I imitate the sound of dial-up. Ella looks like she just inhaled a gallon of lemon juice.)<br />
<br />
Ella: How did...how...how did you do your assignments? Research?<br />
<br />
Me: I went to the library.<br />
<br />
Ella (clearly amused by my nostalgia): And...did what? Look in—<br />
<br />
Me: Yup, books.<br />
<br />
(Ella completely...not kidding here...incredulous.)<br />
<br />
Ella: I don't know if I could...even...do that. I mean, that would make me so uncomfortable. How did you...find the books you needed?<br />
<br />
Me: I guess in a catalog or something, don't quite remember.<br />
<br />
Ella (like seeing a sunrise for the first time): Oh. My. God. So you had to, like, find information in books! Okay. How did you talk to your friends?<br />
<br />
Me (laughing): Face to face. Or we called them on the home phone.<br />
<br />
Ella: What about your friends from out of town? Did you, like, have to...SEND LETTERS???!!<br />
<br />
Me: Sometimes.<br />
<br />
Ella (Basically falling over): But that could take like 6 days, and by then the information wasn't even relevant anymore!<br />
<br />
Me: (Don't want to correct her on her naive overestimation of Canada Post's efficiency so I just remain embarrassingly silent.)<br />
<br />
Ella: How did you talk to your friends if they weren't home?<br />
<br />
Me: We called their house and left them a message.<br />
<br />
Ella: (Mouth hanging like a spring had snapped)<br />
<br />
Me (ready for impending awe): On their answering machine, I guess.<br />
<br />
Ella: (Predictably, speechless. The, after she has semi-recovered): I'm curious. How did you find airplane tickets?<br />
<br />
Me: We called the airline, I guess, and bought them over the phone.<br />
<br />
Ella: You did WHAT??!!<br />
<br />
Me (awkwardly buoyed by my own rapidly progressing senescence): Yeah, and they actually sent you a ticket in the mail!<br />
<br />
Ella: I like having my boarding pass on my phone.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ella exits the hot tub and wraps herself in a towel, face framing the same electric smile I've adored since she was only a few months old. She goes inside and immediately picks up her phone, no doubt checking the dozens (hundreds?) of Snaps and texts and other vitally important data she has received in the 20 minutes we were outside.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Her mind is surely still reeling from the bombshells I've dropped. Yet before she tumbles down that unstoppable cataract of connectivity into the roiling eddy of iPhone-induced dopamine, she slides open the kitchen window and waves at me, eyes now open to the archaic past of her 43-year-old dad.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ella's evanescent soul shines countless wavelengths brighter than any blue screen ever will. And because of that, I'm certain that our connection will forever stay a half-step ahead of technology.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-28385079723632964312017-09-14T09:31:00.002-06:002017-09-14T09:37:03.232-06:00"My First Mortgage"<div>
Ella reeeaaaallly wanted—no, needed—a new phone. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"The one you have works fine," I said, bracing for impact.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It locks up! It doesn't have enough storage space! Aaargghhh."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"And it's paid in full. I'm not paying $700 for a Seven when your Five will do." <i>Breathe, Andrew. Breathe.</i> "You're 14. You don't need a new phone every two years."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A long pause. "I'll buy it myself."</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And that's when it hit me. My high school freshman is more of an adult than most adults.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What ensued over the next few days was a back and forth that taught me a lot about the kid I thought I knew so well. The discussion had all the elements of a mature tête-à-tête one might expect between two cogent, reasonable people: differing points of view, compelling arguments, hesitation, angst, frustration, and finally, compromise. Next thing I know, I'm at the AT&T shop fingering my awkward, looping John Hancock on on iPad. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And Ella's texting mom on her new iPhone 7 Plus.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The one she paid for herself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like most teenagers, Ella doesn't have $700 sitting around burning a hole in her piggy bank. She knows she's not allowed to dip into her college account or the glacially growing investment account I started for her years ago, tossing in birthday money and other scraps every few months. That's for things like maybe a car, a backpacking trip during college, or maybe even a downpayment on a home at some point.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We decided she would transfer me the exact payment—$25.34—for exactly 30 months until the phone was paid off. She would work at babysitting or whatever odd jobs she could find to make the money. She was still required, as per our prior rules, to put half of whatever she makes into her savings account. The old "pay yourself first" thing. And if she missed an installment, Collections Agent Dad would take her phone until she came up with the money.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tried to convince her to get the smaller iPhone 7 for about three bucks less a month, but she wasn't having it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tried to get her to spend a few more months putting away four or five months worth of payments for a little cushion.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But no dice. Ella had basically signed up for a mortgage, just like adults buying a home or an expensive car, fully aware of the terms and conditions. Only without the credit check or the pay stubs. Her phone is, predictably, stuck to her hand pretty much most of the day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It sounds worrisome, until you accept that this was not an impetuous decision. Ella knew the pros and cons, the requirements, the possible consequences, all the "fine print." So far, she's two payments in, right on time, and has babysitting jobs lined up for the rest of this month. Maybe I can stop worrying.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-22792700289863084562017-08-22T10:24:00.000-06:002017-08-22T10:24:01.324-06:00Back to School? Get That Head Checked!<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;">The bell
has rung: schools in Colorado and Wyoming are officially in session. Parents
are hoping that head lice don’t become part of the curriculum.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">School means daily contact
with other kids for extended periods of time, much more than during the summer
vacation months. This brings with it some, um, itching concerns. According to
FDA statistics, 6 to 12 million children are infested with head lice every
year, and 97% of cases are spread by </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/lice-facts/"><span style="font-family: Times;">head to head contact</span></a><span style="font-family: Times;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Before getting entrenched
into those busy school routines, it’s wise to have your children checked by a </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/about-us/"><span style="font-family: Times;">trained professional</span></a><span style="font-family: Times;">, says Tanya
Kensley, owner of </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/"><span style="font-family: Times;">Lice Clinics of America—Fort Collins</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, a full service lice treatment clinic.
The initial screen takes only about 15 minutes but, Kensley says, it can save
enormous costs—time, energy and money spent on ineffective over-the-counter treatments—down
the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“If you are unsure
how to do it yourself or what you’re looking for,” Kensley says, “have it done
professionally. We recommend knowing for sure that your child is starting the
school year lice-free.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">School also brings with it before- and after-school programs,
extracurricular activities, and sports, all of which increase the chance of
direct contact with another child who might have lice. And, the expert says, the
best way to treat head lice is to prevent it from happening in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; border: none windowtext 1.0pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">“Our</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/lice-clinic-solution/"><span style="background: white; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">one-treatment-and-done solution</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> is FDA approved, free of harsh chemicals,
and only takes about an hour,” says Kensley, who adds that she offers preventative
sprays, specialized combs, and a complete at-home treatment kit as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-30745768505258370712017-02-08T19:39:00.002-07:002017-06-02T12:44:42.033-06:00Lice Treatment Clinic Offers Medicaid Discount<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPAxaHx-TtIAQNsVa5AaP_yUp4FoGZLBoAac7IKoMb5T73zFlI0xgI4DXGpXtOapp28IS9Khvmk3tI0vP8yibLeM0ic-ZFGcnlfXtTpcIc0YBHarymWgVNWlAz11m4dJJgIg1OhkAdTM0/s1600/LCA-Logo-Vertical+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPAxaHx-TtIAQNsVa5AaP_yUp4FoGZLBoAac7IKoMb5T73zFlI0xgI4DXGpXtOapp28IS9Khvmk3tI0vP8yibLeM0ic-ZFGcnlfXtTpcIc0YBHarymWgVNWlAz11m4dJJgIg1OhkAdTM0/s200/LCA-Logo-Vertical+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;">New Resource for Low Income
Coloradans<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Lice Treatment Clinic Offers Medicaid
Discount<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">FORT COLLINS, CO—</span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/about-us/"><span style="font-family: "times";">Treating head lice</span></a><span style="font-family: "times";">
successfully can be a costly proposition. Believe it or not, some lower income Coloradans
affected by the itch-inducing bugs might even be forced to choose between
helping their child stop scratching and buying groceries for their families.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Tanya Kensley, owner of </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/"><span style="font-family: "times";">Lice
Clinics of America—Fort Collins</span></a><span style="font-family: "times";">, is
doing everything she can to help make that decision less agonizing for those on
a tight budget. Patrons with a valid Medicaid card can now receive nearly 50%
off the standard price tag for the </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/lice-clinic-solution/"><span style="font-family: "times";">one-time, guaranteed lice removal treatment</span></a><span style="font-family: "times";"> Kensley offers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">“I receive a lot of calls
from people who tell me they’ve already spent upwards of $100 on over the
counter products that just don’t work,” Kensley said. “A lot of families don’t
have money to waste but they desperately need a solution, especially when multiple
family members are battling lice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">With as many as six to 12
million people worldwide contracting head lice every year, according to the
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Kensley said that the stubborn
little bugs have become resistant to most over the counter products. This has led
many people to repeat potentially dangerous home chemical treatments upwards of
four times per child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">The </span><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/contact-us/"><span style="font-family: "times";">lice treatment</span></a><span style="font-family: "times";"> expert is
quick to point out, however, that lice do not discriminate based on income or
socioeconomic status. Some people, she contends, just need a bit of extra help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">“No one suffering from lice
should be priced out of an effective treatment, no matter what their income
level,” Kensley said. “Community is important to me, and I want to help my
entire community—not just those with higher disposable income—achieve peace of
mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Since initiating her discount,
Kensley said she’s treated a total of 21 people who may not have been able to
come in otherwise. One of whom, a mother of four named Catarina, was elated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">“I won’t spend one more
dollar on products that don’t work,” said the Greeley, Colorado, resident. “I’d
already spent over $50 at the drug store and it didn’t work. When I found out about
the guaranteed treatment for $99 I was so happy.”</span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">About 19 percent of Larimer
County residents and 24 percent of those living in Weld County, which includes
Greeley and Windsor, currently receive Medicaid benefits, according to the
Colorado Health Institute. And in Wyoming, 39 percent of children are enrolled
in the state’s Medicaid program, based on data from the American Academy of
Pediatrics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Such numbers are certainly cause
for concern. But Kensley is doing her part to help reduce scratch levels for
low-income families for years to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tanya
Kensley can be reached via email at </span><a href="mailto:info@liceclinicsfortcollins.com"><span style="background: white; font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">info@liceclinicsfortcollins.com</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #427fed; font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">, </span><span style="background: white; font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">or by phone at 970-233-8787.
Lice Clinics of America—Fort Collins is located at 1501 S. Lemay Ave, Suite
205, in Fort Collins, CO.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-26996437280877886602016-11-10T15:49:00.001-07:002016-11-10T15:54:39.716-07:00The French Riviera: at Half Speed<div>
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The French Riviera is more than just superstars boarding private jets and partying on yachts with the Kardashians. Toulon, our base for four gloriously calm days on the Western edge of the Côte d'Azur, is a perfect example of that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tanya and me in Saint Mandrier-sur-Mer</td></tr>
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Between waking up to a serene curtain of bougainvilleas and palm trees, the shimmering Mediterranean outside our balcony, and the continued consumption of mouth-watering French foods, this would just figure to be an extension of our glorious holiday. But it ended up being so much more.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our front door</td></tr>
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In spite of the gale force gusts, we spent a day on Île de Porquerolles, a short ferry ride from Tour Fondue, located at the tip of the peninsula extending southward from the nearby town of Hyères. And with very little searching, we found exactly what we needed: a beach and gelato. While the wind introduced a modest amount of sand into our packed lunches, we managed to enjoy a few hours in the sun, and even dipped our bodies into the freezing water. The girls' first exposure to a topless beach was interesting to watch: Sophia squirmed and giggled her way through the day as boobs of all sizes populated our immediate vicinity.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Tanya at the beach in Porquerolles</td></tr>
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Having our rental car was another convenient coup, and the rolling, meandering streets of Toulon's topography tested my driving skills. There's nothing quite like backing up a 20 degree incline in a stick-shift, four-door hatchback, or having to use every millimeter of lateral street space to allow another car to pass you in the other direction.</div>
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On one of our rainy days—ironic, as recently-flooded Paris was bone dry a week earlier—we maximized our time by heading into Toulon's surprisingly urban-looking downtown, shopping and indulging in more chocolate. The girls also used some well-positioned stealth to pick out a fondue restaurant for my birthday. As you might expect, it was phenomenal, leaving us breathless yet again the depth of culinary adventures that lurk at every turn in France, no matter where you might be.</div>
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Like in Avignon and Paris, I relished the ability to take morning strolls into town to explore the many local <i>boulangeries, patisseries </i>and <i>charcuteries</i>, and stock up on the basics for a day or two. While the taste was divine, I fully appreciate that part of the joy was factoring in where it was bought— local French shop owners, happy to meet a pleasant American that spoke French—and where it was eaten: on an open air balcony with a whiff of the sea gracing every bite.<br />
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My 42nd birthday was spent exploring glorious Saint Mandrier-sur-Mer, a fishing village on a sparsely populated outcropping southwest of Toulon. We waltzed through town past tall-masted fishing boats moored in the harbor, and enjoyed a splendid lunch of mussels, fries and, of course, more absurdly phenomenal bread. The kids and I scrambled up a precarious hiking trail etched into the side of a hill, giving us fabulous views of the gray navy ships sitting peacefully inside the bay.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Hiking in Saint Mandrier sur Mer</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Adding to my Muss-culature</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Saint Mandrier-sur-Mer</td></tr>
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We danced in the rain (literally), napped, and drank foamy hot chocolate and coffee all day long. The breeze filled our sea side condo day and night, leaving us with the perfect coda to our 11-day French sojourn: a briny taste in our mouths, the Mediterranean air tickling our skin, and enduring French memories in our hearts forever.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After dancing in the rain</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Downtown Toulon in the rain</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing boat at Ile de Porquerolles</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-27767139349697926742016-09-22T14:16:00.002-06:002016-09-24T12:50:14.777-06:00Day Tripping in Provence: The Search For SausageReleased from the urban angst of London and Paris, our TGV chugs through Central France's endless array of crop rows, farm houses and a sparse populace. We somehow traverse six centuries to land in the ancient walled city of Avignon, our gateway to four eagerly awaited days in Provence.<br />
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The region's friendly climate and powerful Rhône river has produced fertile soil and resplendent landscapes, both of which make me immensely happy. The latter because I'm a sucker for spending hours outdoors in the summer; the former because Provence is a synonym for gastronomic triumph. This blog post is, basically, an ode to the joys of both.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Palais des Papes in Avignon</td></tr>
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It must be said that even without the day trips, Avignon is a cool place in its own right, a destination to which I'd most definitely return. A couple of days simply isn't enough to explore the interior of the 30-foot high ramparts that circle the city for over two and half miles, its serpentine lanes adding archaic flair. From our spacious apartment, just steps from both the city's entrance and its <i>coeur, </i>we are well positioned to meander over the cobblestones as if we had lived there in the middle ages. I'll spare you the detailed history, but Avignon's origin dates back to about 600 BC. And for about 80 years in the 14th century, it was the seat of Roman Catholicism and the home of the Pope. Vatican Lite, if you will.<br />
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But again, Provence is a day tripper's paradise.<br />
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Over a couple of days time, and within an hour's drive in numerous directions through bucolic farm towns into the heart of the Vaucluse, we snake through roundabouts, mountainsides and nearly-purple lavender fields (alas, exactly one week too early) to visit wineries, chocolate factories and markets. No sausage or pastry shop is ignored, whisking my taste buds into a nonstop frenzy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AzGbe4bfESRUpuDC4dNgwT3HNaVrzkgVK-cihztr4eUq-dck8mUMbi12TFAaIkUlhbEgJHuTlhVRH8hjeKLLSK1XLu-yBH_-AREWitGCONzPieDO7kED-47gpjSFcGquqDY7-U850_w/s1600/thumb_IMG_0625_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AzGbe4bfESRUpuDC4dNgwT3HNaVrzkgVK-cihztr4eUq-dck8mUMbi12TFAaIkUlhbEgJHuTlhVRH8hjeKLLSK1XLu-yBH_-AREWitGCONzPieDO7kED-47gpjSFcGquqDY7-U850_w/s320/thumb_IMG_0625_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophia browsing at Carpentras</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53-KqDzUZ4BInktKb3nGfWg0RMumopjpC-KcHlJuLNTC_2VBYaWSZTn2iqVBIClZ0tx8FxpsJK4WRX0hig38mDZjJmNott0B0MVG8Wx2MDIdyX9gMeu_m7ImLGmoCgnu2wgzKSwEDsgk/s1600/thumb_IMG_0629_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53-KqDzUZ4BInktKb3nGfWg0RMumopjpC-KcHlJuLNTC_2VBYaWSZTn2iqVBIClZ0tx8FxpsJK4WRX0hig38mDZjJmNott0B0MVG8Wx2MDIdyX9gMeu_m7ImLGmoCgnu2wgzKSwEDsgk/s200/thumb_IMG_0629_1024.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The olive bar at Carpentras</td></tr>
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The market at Carpentras, about 45 minutes east of Avignon, is a perfect place to begin. Occupying a couple of city blocks and offering everything from wallets to soaps to shoes to all manner of culinary delicacies, this might be considered the "Walmart of Provence" (maybe minus the Trump followers and tube tops), an exquisite amalgam of anything one might ever need.<br />
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I may or may not leave puddles of saliva as I peruse longingly the tables offering olives, cured meats, nuts and bread. We stock up on snacks and produce, chat with the locals and return to our Airbnb palace sated on multiple fronts.<br />
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In Châteauneuf-du-Pape we pop into a couple of family-owned wineries and line up tastings on the fly. No lines, no pretense; just a few sips of delicious Rhône Valley varietals in a sparse yet elegant tasting room and a couple of bottles to go<i>.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEkqjjtNd1_4CzbWjQoNBeHzWYtlzLqSmrFachP2gL0_U-TJFBh60AILfwY8yKQu1Ynws1DbvFQytnTwSizyKOH1LyejWqY53TuxftVhs6Z2EXWL128i9rqj1ho3unr-skFfmNvq9m-8/s1600/thumb_IMG_0649_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEkqjjtNd1_4CzbWjQoNBeHzWYtlzLqSmrFachP2gL0_U-TJFBh60AILfwY8yKQu1Ynws1DbvFQytnTwSizyKOH1LyejWqY53TuxftVhs6Z2EXWL128i9rqj1ho3unr-skFfmNvq9m-8/s320/thumb_IMG_0649_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clos St. Michel tasting</td></tr>
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The "salted breakfast" in Gordes is precisely that (and, as expected, delicious), its shops pricey yet welcoming. As we return up the hill to our car, the Catholic church service lets out its well dressed attendees, and its bells echo with Sunday joy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7urJpt-QEDeUU-Qw_D5HqGPqp4MbFzxPPnX2eM7ggS2V71l6B1cRstFOhrKSV5AUMzeU2mp9AJlEsKPkg7udNetJ12aiQ6Fw0uZ6imZgMi9FO5BYXD256qXuxfaeI6aaEUnBuSGhwIN8/s1600/thumb_IMG_0775_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7urJpt-QEDeUU-Qw_D5HqGPqp4MbFzxPPnX2eM7ggS2V71l6B1cRstFOhrKSV5AUMzeU2mp9AJlEsKPkg7udNetJ12aiQ6Fw0uZ6imZgMi9FO5BYXD256qXuxfaeI6aaEUnBuSGhwIN8/s320/thumb_IMG_0775_1024.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Café in Gordes</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW919ENT1LKiFf3m8qAE8QfXK3lfenfJ0vvXPu1h0yerv9Ny-9x2wwMbKm8z8m7VM4bsNi_bw-vqphw1opYV3ghRZRJUhWfcDdgr40uhKIXySeVo95TviujfEhWgmNIlVu6gPtpqfXk0Y/s1600/thumb_IMG_0776_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW919ENT1LKiFf3m8qAE8QfXK3lfenfJ0vvXPu1h0yerv9Ny-9x2wwMbKm8z8m7VM4bsNi_bw-vqphw1opYV3ghRZRJUhWfcDdgr40uhKIXySeVo95TviujfEhWgmNIlVu6gPtpqfXk0Y/s320/thumb_IMG_0776_1024.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gordes street signs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxb5Rgbuz02Xm9p5niKbrTe7_H_aVi_2X1vw3yK44J3WQ8u30bg-tuDnBKRC1-9LQs1hYl9Hf-hyucE_-ipAWDNKUoTEzhF7vCoFZs7VShue7foHH8OBO4skyd26dD2QziwRK2krUStA/s1600/thumb_IMG_0817_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxb5Rgbuz02Xm9p5niKbrTe7_H_aVi_2X1vw3yK44J3WQ8u30bg-tuDnBKRC1-9LQs1hYl9Hf-hyucE_-ipAWDNKUoTEzhF7vCoFZs7VShue7foHH8OBO4skyd26dD2QziwRK2krUStA/s320/thumb_IMG_0817_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking the valley in Sault</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1MIeiz2Hq8VbWs-1YruuomQvzQ3Fc0o4Vmy2eA-G120pJtuZ8K2F4XjZnBoF68MoZqoHJJlU9ic-yDQbFb0JkKgmpdkeo8dAATqYhhjrmzibC-TE2KCl5Bq5k_E9EbHMXFyLwAEaF5o/s1600/thumb_IMG_0804_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1MIeiz2Hq8VbWs-1YruuomQvzQ3Fc0o4Vmy2eA-G120pJtuZ8K2F4XjZnBoF68MoZqoHJJlU9ic-yDQbFb0JkKgmpdkeo8dAATqYhhjrmzibC-TE2KCl5Bq5k_E9EbHMXFyLwAEaF5o/s200/thumb_IMG_0804_1024.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lavender shop in Sault</td></tr>
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Sault's lavender shops make our noses hum. The community antique sale in its town center, calmly hawking technology, dolls and dinnerware thrust straight from the 70s gives us the idea that this sleepy town is unconcerned with appearances.<br />
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Both hillside hamlets are content to bask in the sensory ecstasy of their pastel storefronts and unpredictable alleyways, and the ease with which pedestrians, cyclists and compact cars alike negotiate the day with about as much stress as a field of blooming sunflowers.<br />
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And that, it seems, is Provence's essence. Ride in, browse, have a beverage and a bite in the sun, breathe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRZ397iw-L39BGGIy-G1QAUZ_Pc9Ni1LYhal7ohwre5vSX6kYxbXJoBKUY1i0FiDfEfDRgGHkS7wU_AuK14MBw8DGes5hvM1wfOvSIooA-vnykVzAKPdOQPouSKBSiPb5GP2c8_D_5qo/s1600/thumb_IMG_0607_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRZ397iw-L39BGGIy-G1QAUZ_Pc9Ni1LYhal7ohwre5vSX6kYxbXJoBKUY1i0FiDfEfDRgGHkS7wU_AuK14MBw8DGes5hvM1wfOvSIooA-vnykVzAKPdOQPouSKBSiPb5GP2c8_D_5qo/s320/thumb_IMG_0607_1024.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avignon apartment</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Avignon avenue</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uWy9cFl58CI662If_idl34jYI5fmClh2ux-mDuFUI3sscjrhRrCqZ3CryBWwqv3UYefFpgXzGI2twwIq_VcuHxb-P2o7TBJd4kYUy2kpYU8InUpN5X07p4VwOLr1chpkEHpC3isvvzk/s1600/thumb_IMG_0600_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uWy9cFl58CI662If_idl34jYI5fmClh2ux-mDuFUI3sscjrhRrCqZ3CryBWwqv3UYefFpgXzGI2twwIq_VcuHxb-P2o7TBJd4kYUy2kpYU8InUpN5X07p4VwOLr1chpkEHpC3isvvzk/s320/thumb_IMG_0600_1024.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clowning outside the Avignon walls</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFKzMbotFZwQXBLrJGJtMYNVBTzDDQCaEZS2mdcitzJ3KuFLzHyJU68QU_LuvqLMCy1ZMELVM0OWU81olUYLFe9UmHHO3EMKYG_vy2CsIrrFG743c4HYHT-jFxTL9QVz97iFvZd5Oxgw/s1600/thumb_IMG_0656_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFKzMbotFZwQXBLrJGJtMYNVBTzDDQCaEZS2mdcitzJ3KuFLzHyJU68QU_LuvqLMCy1ZMELVM0OWU81olUYLFe9UmHHO3EMKYG_vy2CsIrrFG743c4HYHT-jFxTL9QVz97iFvZd5Oxgw/s320/thumb_IMG_0656_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Veeling Vine in Chateauneuf-du-Pape</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahvj-0gL2yxRLAJcIO-ZnSdwGFCyNm-wyKftnge8bTC46gvWmqwn8tJYrv_ga-xzoLl0LS7ulCvlIFZGT5I1pTNwUzjYbypy9zWzLR5ph9qLm81WcJcnqHda6WA2J5Te17AynsGn4um8/s1600/thumb_IMG_0664_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahvj-0gL2yxRLAJcIO-ZnSdwGFCyNm-wyKftnge8bTC46gvWmqwn8tJYrv_ga-xzoLl0LS7ulCvlIFZGT5I1pTNwUzjYbypy9zWzLR5ph9qLm81WcJcnqHda6WA2J5Te17AynsGn4um8/s320/thumb_IMG_0664_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On t'aime aussi, Provence</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-45066613764676653962016-08-24T12:36:00.002-06:002016-08-24T17:26:10.863-06:00The Dream of a Lice Time<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , serif;">Nothing wrong with a little self-promotion, especially when it comes to one's hard working wife. So in the interest of search engine optimization and helping spread the word further, here's the press release I wrote for Tanya's new business. If you click on the links it'll help us get more traffic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , serif;">Thanks!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpamVPLrfrS__CMpHrlp_ptRUa71SGu7ao8NpxwrDLRWwmQU9hlwst0nPT9uAforaSc2TpbG-apzIiJDOpAsxvd-5Sgm5Z3xz8JlM8TlZsOUdQ5gIc73WPFzyPKnnE5VqJ1NI0S7ex-o/s1600/LCA-Logo-Vertical+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpamVPLrfrS__CMpHrlp_ptRUa71SGu7ao8NpxwrDLRWwmQU9hlwst0nPT9uAforaSc2TpbG-apzIiJDOpAsxvd-5Sgm5Z3xz8JlM8TlZsOUdQ5gIc73WPFzyPKnnE5VqJ1NI0S7ex-o/s320/LCA-Logo-Vertical+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lice Removal Icon</td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"><a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/">Lice Treatment Arrives in Fort Collins, Colorado</a></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Guaranteed Results for Treating Head Lice in
One Hour<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Every day thousands of Americans
from all walks of life take strides to actualize a dream of running their own business.
They begin with an idea for a useful product or service, invest a few bucks, and
work hard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">For Tanya Kensley, that dream
involved killing head lice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">On August 1, 2016, Kensley officially
opened a<b> <a href="http://liceclinicsfortcollins.com/lice-clinic-solution/">lice
treatment clinic in Fort Collins</a> </b>to serve the rapidly growing regional population
from Longmont, CO, about 30 miles north of Denver, all the way up to southern
Wyoming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">As the owner of Northern
Colorado’s only branch of Salt Lake City-based </span><a href="http://liceclinicsofamerica.com/landing/fort-collins/"><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><b>Lice Clinics of America</b></span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">,</span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> Kensley hopes to provide her community with not
just a one-time, science-based treatment for head lice, but something even more
valuable: peace of mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“I saw that lice was a real
problem for families with children in my community, and that the current
products on the market were not working,” Kensley said. “People were losing
work and school time trying to treat this, and I wanted to help.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">After guiding clients through
a deep breath and a head check, Kensley and her fellow certified operators of
the FDA-approved AirAllé ™ device provide a 30-minute treatment which kills
99.2 percent of live lice and nits, according to a </span><a href="http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/118/5/1962?sso=1&sso_redirect_count=1&nfstatus=401&nftoken=00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000&nfstatusdescription=ERROR%3a+No+local+token"><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><b>research study</b></span></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> published in the medical journal <i>Pediatrics</i>. The next steps are a
thorough comb out and the application of a specially formulated rinse, allowing
clients to leave bug—and stress—free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“When my daughter had lice
for the first time,” Kensley said, “I saw the effort it took to thoroughly get
rid of it. I had to sit her down for 30 minutes every night for two weeks. It
caused a lot of anxiety for both of us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">In addition to the AirAllé,
Kensley offers products like shampoo, preventative spray and specialized combs
for clients to maintain a lice-free household. She cautions that lice do not
discriminate, so prevention is crucial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Take a deep breath, and know
that this is a head infestation, not a house infestation,” said Kensley, a
physical therapist with 25 years of experience caring for patients and their
families. “Hand over your worries and concerns to a professional. Then take
steps so this doesn’t happen again.”</span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Lice+Clinics+of+America+Fort+Collins/@40.5675823,-105.0597917,16.09z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x87694b1fb18aad77:0xb99806677cec84ce!8m2!3d40.567936!4d-105.058296"><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><b>Lice Clinics of America—Fort Collins</b></span></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">, located at 1501 South Lemay Ave., Suite 205, in
Fort Collins, Colorado, is open from 9:00 am-8:00 pm seven days a week by
appointment. Call 970-233-8787 for more information.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-73384183446762063142016-07-21T20:52:00.002-06:002016-07-22T06:12:41.213-06:00Paris: Not What it Used to BeI'll see your romantic moonlit strolls, ambient accordion music, and charming street mimes and raise you...<br />
<br />
...a bountiful, chaotic street market, dodging motorcycles and honking Renaults with our bikes (sans helmets) on busy city streets, and enough baguettes to build another tower.<br />
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<br /></div>
From the moment we arrived at Gare du Nord (via Eurostar from London), Paris' essence smacked us in the face: the humidity, from a week of endless rains and the Seine eclipsing its banks; the intensity and urgency of the transit hub; the sour smell of urban life. Like any highly-populated cosmopolitan city, there were well-heeled professionals, transients, and a wonderfully multi-ethnic stew of humanity, each piece going about its business at considerable speed. Sophia immediately recognized that she had escaped her comfort zone.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMr4SBamYZKycbHcRAAYt-qnlh34tcOq3pM3Wib0QWZ9d6ZHC64p6A1PBTMmn3VpLHAStEwXrwEwic2glV4RGnvqSP2IAbfoV8xqFux1_WEZ-g9tOkxId4Zn4za39lLffMntiyg7Wnj8M/s1600/IMG_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMr4SBamYZKycbHcRAAYt-qnlh34tcOq3pM3Wib0QWZ9d6ZHC64p6A1PBTMmn3VpLHAStEwXrwEwic2glV4RGnvqSP2IAbfoV8xqFux1_WEZ-g9tOkxId4Zn4za39lLffMntiyg7Wnj8M/s200/IMG_0319.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Triomph-ant Parents</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I vigilantly scanned my surroundings inside and outside the train station ("See Something Say Something"...right?) it occurred to me that I couldn't ignore last November's coordinated terrorist attacks at six different locales across Paris and its suburbs. While I relished my Clark Griswold-ian role of <i>We're gonna have so much fuckin' fun we're gonna need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles!</i> I understood, too, that the Paris we would come to know was not the mythical city my kids had imagined it would be.<br />
<br />
Our spacious 5th floor flat, with its narrow, winding stairwell, was located in an alleyway in a melting pot neighborhood, with storefront signage in many languages beside French and comprising mostly Middle Eastern and East Asian populations. This was far from Lilly-White Fort Collins. But if I've learned anything from all my years of travel, it's that discomfort is the greatest catalyst of personal growth—if you let it be.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOogANI2a2gp4zv61RNzePWB2at-eZA-1HccWe-Og2g1AuGSqIP2NJMQlRzxlb011kkj-qveycxTdotuq2TSZg8MpFpE0wUBz0AMD8cj7sAVRXGQBzgQ27M6k2a7o2PRkQ9i_VfO9pYbg/s1600/IMG_0445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOogANI2a2gp4zv61RNzePWB2at-eZA-1HccWe-Og2g1AuGSqIP2NJMQlRzxlb011kkj-qveycxTdotuq2TSZg8MpFpE0wUBz0AMD8cj7sAVRXGQBzgQ27M6k2a7o2PRkQ9i_VfO9pYbg/s320/IMG_0445.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rue Denoyez, home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Day One led us via Metro and on foot to hilly, serpentine Montmartre and the iconic Sacré-Coeur church. With its ornate architecture and sweeping views overlooking the hazy cityscape, it was a perfect jumping-off point for our visit. We gawked at l'Arc de Triomphe and walked down the Champs Elysées. We dined on duck and beef tartare and pasta and ridiculously delicious bread at a wonderful (yet smoky) outdoor café. Our fear had begun to dissipate. We were going to be okay.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuK4L1CmrPbMkfNuneCY2JIyDn0BNWYda0L3je2DhK9OG2jbeIUcDHAHyEPsEmvFLM3Yoek2TCu7lGXiq5O9Ugke3P750Yc8XRPCAJ1v8IIJXR5hPkLrQZhHRhp6Mpc-PrsnX8I0yBX8/s1600/IMG_0510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuK4L1CmrPbMkfNuneCY2JIyDn0BNWYda0L3je2DhK9OG2jbeIUcDHAHyEPsEmvFLM3Yoek2TCu7lGXiq5O9Ugke3P750Yc8XRPCAJ1v8IIJXR5hPkLrQZhHRhp6Mpc-PrsnX8I0yBX8/s320/IMG_0510.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Louvre girls</td></tr>
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By day two, we had shed even more of our unease, in spite of a 90-minute delay brought on by what we'll call "impaired key-lock association" and "the art of French detective work". (Ask me about the story later.) We finally made our way to that famous wrought iron tower in the 7e arrondissement, enduring silliness instigated by Tanya and Ella's Fitbit step competitions under sunny skies and inside Metro stations. The Eiffel Tower is everything it is supposed to be: the views, the feeling, the tourists. Very worth it.<br />
<br />
Much of the remainder of our stay in Paris involved renting bikes, cruising past tourist sites and crossing the Seine's bridges, seeing Ms. Lisa at the Louvre, and a fantastically delicious picnic in a park in the shadow of Notre Dame cathedral on Ile de la Cité. It also included stops for souvenirs and gifts, and, naturally, meats and cheeses and sandwiches and beverages and macarons and that quintessentially Parisian delicacy, secondhand smoke.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRthKGBrrCSkBCq43U7OBCCZZ_LiA0Z21fotuyvDyJCBi48-ZLWFVUT0VdKltWOaSpWXjly_dWT9M44LljjmOK1HTuwMRNAC-7sXytbDbSuawrh7MXoLSOcKHoQ1En9BL4UFQwumhrQuI/s1600/IMG_0488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRthKGBrrCSkBCq43U7OBCCZZ_LiA0Z21fotuyvDyJCBi48-ZLWFVUT0VdKltWOaSpWXjly_dWT9M44LljjmOK1HTuwMRNAC-7sXytbDbSuawrh7MXoLSOcKHoQ1En9BL4UFQwumhrQuI/s200/IMG_0488.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Our awesome picnic supplies. Yum!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On our second night, Sophia and I stopped by the bustling Tunisian bakery down the street for a pastry. I watched her thoughtful face as she tried to pick out just the right dessert from behind the glass, listening intently to the lively Arabic chatter, slightly concerned. We held hands and I reassured her that we were okay. These were all regular people like us. Most people, no matter where they live, I said, are NOT terrorists.<br />
<br />
I found out while writing this post that our fantastic apartment was actually less than 1 kilometer from one of the bars targeted in the November attacks, and about 2 km from the Bataclan theatre. Tanya said: "I'm glad I didn't know that before." Honestly, so am I.<br />
<br />
Yet we repeatedly walked the same streets alongside so many people who had surely been closer than we were to the terror, and made it; we purchased baguettes and patisseries and café-au-laits from the same peaceful vendors who feared for their own safety on that November night, yet would never think of perpetrating such an act themselves. We slept soundly for three nights in an urban, gritty and polyglot enclave without incident. If anything, we were buoyed by the fact that the vast majority of us strive for the same things: love, comfort, and peace.<br />
<br />
Yes, terrorism is a real fear these days, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't uncomfortable sojourning in Europe knowing what I know. But as I reflect now on our life-changing holiday, I choose to cling to a different memory:<br />
<br />
On our last night in Paris after a busy day of touring, walking back to our apartment in the early evening, the balding, gregarious proprietor of the quaint Turkish café 10 steps from our front door ran up to my 10-year-old, baying "Sophia! Sophia! Ma belle Sophia!" and eager to give her a hug. He had remembered her from our 30-minute sit down there for fries and cokes the previous afternoon. At that moment, it wasn't her lightning smile that made me happiest, it was that she reciprocated the man's heartfelt embrace, and happily let go of my hand to do it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-51763175471700185512016-07-01T22:35:00.002-06:002016-07-02T15:02:53.173-06:00London: The Kensley BrentranceWedged into our seats clutching roller bags and backpacks, we are overtired yet buoyed by the promise of three weeks away from home and the mysteries of a new continent. I scan the Tube and my fellow passengers who solemnly head to work and wherever else, enduring brief pauses at quintessentially British-sounding locales like Hounslow East, South Ealing and Hammersmith. This is what I live for.<br />
<br />
Under a typical gunmetal gray sky—at least before we go Underground—we pass working cranes, red brick apartment buildings and graffitied walls. Minding both the gap and their own business, passengers board and exit our train car, smoothly connecting to District, Circle, and Victoria lines and to the busy streets above. So London.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTXh8mkdLaDW5Y1IAUK2q9OVAre6XNAaDCBP-R1SAK34LGSdJQZP4vPUoUjB64-we0uyLDAC2MZ38Zgu0N0rrhf_i2xGT3jCUHTwbWOeLJbYHIrVla8_6tIjzfakR8F_l-z3_T95jWfk/s1600/IMG_0109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTXh8mkdLaDW5Y1IAUK2q9OVAre6XNAaDCBP-R1SAK34LGSdJQZP4vPUoUjB64-we0uyLDAC2MZ38Zgu0N0rrhf_i2xGT3jCUHTwbWOeLJbYHIrVla8_6tIjzfakR8F_l-z3_T95jWfk/s200/IMG_0109.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ella going Tube-ing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a transfer at Leicester Square, the four or us lug our suitcases up the stairs to connect to the Northern Line and exit at Camden Town. From there, all that remains is a 15-minute walk through the London borough of Camden, known for its funky market, lively arts scene, and what Sophia, my 10-year-old, will soon refer to as "Freaky People." Across narrow sidewalks and scaffolded construction sites, past residential buildings, hair salons and kebab stands, I sense that, drunk from one hour of stilted airplane sleep, I'm enjoying this a little too much.<br />
<br />
Sure, it's only a couple of hours into our vacation, but I'm already salivating at not only the prospects of a late night kebab and four days of Tube-ing, but the reality that comes with piercing London's gritty streets alongside the people that frequent them every day.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Like I told my wife before we left: I don't do guided tours. Europe, and London in particular (this is my third visit to Britain's capital) is about more than churches and museums and hop-on-hop-off bus tours. Here with my family for the first time, I want to surrender myself to London's history, its timeless architecture, its multiculturalism, and its commuter sensibility. I want us to live London, not just exist inside of it.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgCHO_LsbLUlB1__muW0X3V4nWzB2MeO_A_Ol74vG04T9CTaxQNNfzkywBuZvzq1LXE7cPX4ftEvnd3Z-MyTW92oYyGNmDaGVD90fqccSKJHvIBP7M2TQRJO08u1uqqVvwG_Eqal44P8/s1600/IMG_0075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgCHO_LsbLUlB1__muW0X3V4nWzB2MeO_A_Ol74vG04T9CTaxQNNfzkywBuZvzq1LXE7cPX4ftEvnd3Z-MyTW92oYyGNmDaGVD90fqccSKJHvIBP7M2TQRJO08u1uqqVvwG_Eqal44P8/s200/IMG_0075.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tanya, Ella and Sophia at the Tower of London</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lBNFqtok8jNhL8594osx-MQed2vCqLd7fpr84uw4oOdmxffM4prCa1XrSdrOBEk9D5WYoSAlGka1dr_J7IBaKQ4lVdqRgqioLjyqOW1tv1ORJxY6T83kBaEOyzvVj-PG9cGTFTC9wMM/s1600/IMG_0050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lBNFqtok8jNhL8594osx-MQed2vCqLd7fpr84uw4oOdmxffM4prCa1XrSdrOBEk9D5WYoSAlGka1dr_J7IBaKQ4lVdqRgqioLjyqOW1tv1ORJxY6T83kBaEOyzvVj-PG9cGTFTC9wMM/s200/IMG_0050.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Tower Bridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yes, we visited the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge (fascinating); strolled from Trafalgar Square up the Mall to Buckingham Palace (a nice walk along St. James Park, and decorated in anticipation of the Queen's birthday celebration); rode the Eye (great views but skippable); saw the Parliament Buildings and Big Ben; had lunch at a pub by Covent Garden (think Boston's Faneuil Hall with an accent); toured the British Museum (enjoyable for the whole family); rode in a black cab (meh); had delicious dim sum in Chinatown and got half-price tickets to a fabulous West End show (a must for both).<br />
<br />
But the essence of our four packed days in London can be filtered down to the fun we have browsing and gawking in Camden Market (made even more fun by doing it with our Londoner friends, Robert and Fiona, whom we met in Mexico in 2012), and the walks to and from our compact but comfortable flat a few minutes away, alongside the "freaky people" that perhaps just looked the part.<br />
<br />
Within two days we become London public transport experts: deciphering maps, braving crowds, and topping off Oyster Cards at machines in the Tube stations. We eat and walk and stare and buy like tourists, but feel like locals. Camden Lock, the canal, the train rumbling through every 30 minutes, the sirens in the distance; we own them all.<br />
<br />
And most importantly, I got that late night kebab.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnptRI7lfSflJ_aR9yK6onTLzyQWk6b5KIGfFh6Xsufsc7WZ_qBPDRa-PgE3-yOzb4euL_x-qn9E9XxivoZ3fqHRWcHKbU4FM0sX3jOjKcJJU1qNQCFvMXhyphenhyphen2IHTAekvSMzEFUBxJA91o/s1600/IMG_0042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnptRI7lfSflJ_aR9yK6onTLzyQWk6b5KIGfFh6Xsufsc7WZ_qBPDRa-PgE3-yOzb4euL_x-qn9E9XxivoZ3fqHRWcHKbU4FM0sX3jOjKcJJU1qNQCFvMXhyphenhyphen2IHTAekvSMzEFUBxJA91o/s320/IMG_0042.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A busy Bobby at Camden Market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXE9KcWczOyQLxBar9FpbzEdZtSSma2UHcDXmo8tckdpKGKba5OcsU8vGt9DqVMmvLznA3xS6yGKEX8mvPi6225X7HaD3InZ6aGyVzXofqnNV6DhZ5XjJu5QerzPTMK29L0cWsYUML7Y/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXE9KcWczOyQLxBar9FpbzEdZtSSma2UHcDXmo8tckdpKGKba5OcsU8vGt9DqVMmvLznA3xS6yGKEX8mvPi6225X7HaD3InZ6aGyVzXofqnNV6DhZ5XjJu5QerzPTMK29L0cWsYUML7Y/s320/IMG_0038.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camden Funkiness</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIUq6zH7L5F33aF64oKgC2RNxEs7OZrvTuyzPJ9dIuwcHOa8SiC_Ly8U4HoK1w7DNNtiwaSwQw9tfjAJmtFVb4pGr045hXIijZtb0eH-FJZ-sRAWz9sjUrIjctb1BmQ_9xMTfuO7GpH5c/s1600/IMG_1277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIUq6zH7L5F33aF64oKgC2RNxEs7OZrvTuyzPJ9dIuwcHOa8SiC_Ly8U4HoK1w7DNNtiwaSwQw9tfjAJmtFVb4pGr045hXIijZtb0eH-FJZ-sRAWz9sjUrIjctb1BmQ_9xMTfuO7GpH5c/s320/IMG_1277.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Freaky People"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-85548026732423688402016-03-04T07:39:00.001-07:002016-03-05T07:38:23.819-07:00A Raucous CaucusFor my first major act of U.S. citizen-ness, on Super Tuesday I caucused. And had a ball. At this caucus.<br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
And let me say, in a moment of Donald Trump-like arrogance and complete lack of emotional intelligence, I am damn proud of myself for single handedly making America great again.<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe my mere presence didn't have quite that effect. But ever since I dipped into the required reading for potential naturalized citizens last spring, I've been fascinated by the process involved in running a successful democracy. Republic. Whatever.<br />
<br />
The parking lot was totally full, forcing all those excitable registered democrats to wedge their Priuses and 1998 Subaru Outbacks with Thule roof racks into the spots between parking space margins and just inside the peripheral wire fencing. The lines stretched down the street and around the block. Old, young (many people brought their kids), millenials, a CNN crew, baby blue Bernie shirts, Hilary shirts (not as many), dreadlocks, Birkenstocks, baseball caps, wheelchairs, head scarves, all shades of skin tones...what you'd expect from a group of excitable democrats, and unquestionably a fire code violation. No one noticed.<br />
<br />
Once things gets organized (so to speak), everyone gets a thin blue strip of paper and is asked to raise it up in favor of each of either "Republican Public Enemy Number One (with <i>The Donald</i>, it seems, lately, coming in a close second)" or "Feel the Bern." I was still undecided. So I asked supporters from the two candidates to woo me to their side. Each gave an impassioned speech directly to my face, which made me feel like I was speed-dating.<br />
<br />
I was deeply affected by the idea that so many people—regular folks, all with the same goals of living a peaceful, fulfilled life—came to express themselves. It was true grass roots, people toting their opinions and passion and feeling part of something. If you were there, you felt like your voice needed to be heard. And it was.<br />
<br />
No one was afraid of being oppressed for speaking their mind, or of having their feelings invalidated by a thug on a dais, or of being sent away to a work camp or prison because of their beliefs or opinions. The excitement, the angst, the tension, and the joy that filled every crack and cranny; all were quite palpable. This group was empowered. And empowerment brings with it the capability of greatness.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBYc3-jNus1xLf0vHqmktESeAKcE4JFtlvy3k4R_xzRGTveG6nEoA4X7gFXsBDjUUif2eONT-lgyos_RKU9nLhs4ooQHOtCyAZr3i5UglCNaHuwxDRIxL_7xeGL9JVtskgn-lio5DRc0/s1600/IMG_1046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBYc3-jNus1xLf0vHqmktESeAKcE4JFtlvy3k4R_xzRGTveG6nEoA4X7gFXsBDjUUif2eONT-lgyos_RKU9nLhs4ooQHOtCyAZr3i5UglCNaHuwxDRIxL_7xeGL9JVtskgn-lio5DRc0/s320/IMG_1046.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caucus Crowd at Rocky Mountain High School</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We complain endlessly about our politicians and our system and how the country is going to shit. But I kept imagining a person from North Korea or Saudi Arabia, or a child-soldier from war-torn Sierra Leone, or a Syrian refugee with nothing but the clothes they were wearing, walking into such a place and being told: "Go ahead, say what you want. Use your voice. Be who you are." I pictured them crying with joy at this privilege, and the sense of self-determinism that would result.<br />
<br />
Kind of makes a congressional filibuster look like what it really is—a preschool temper tantrum.<br />
<br />
The raucous caucus, for all its quaintness and desperate need to be updated with the times (hello, primaries with their easy-peasy mail-in ballots), is clear evidence that people simply want to be heard. We want to emote and be driven to something greater.<br />
<br />
It's that kind of empowerment—not border walls or repeated, empty rhetoric and sophomoric attacks on anyone who dares criticize us—that makes America great.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpbhGmT2PFrOcI7n9TEIBUpAL_PPXgc1ho1XXUP5HnDG6Os0vy5n1X7102YrlQA2-gxZrj32PP2fC3EC9FPD9AJCDY6wysA34EQrRapbKolZQYvydHGXcxmcNia21NJISpCvrI9Tu_kSQ/s1600/IMG_1047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpbhGmT2PFrOcI7n9TEIBUpAL_PPXgc1ho1XXUP5HnDG6Os0vy5n1X7102YrlQA2-gxZrj32PP2fC3EC9FPD9AJCDY6wysA34EQrRapbKolZQYvydHGXcxmcNia21NJISpCvrI9Tu_kSQ/s320/IMG_1047.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The overwhelming majority</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-71761260826339179372015-12-17T12:48:00.000-07:002015-12-17T12:54:09.786-07:00Down Here...Up There...Where Are We???Where is Stephen Hawking when you need him?<br />
<br />
Last week Sophia asked me how the Earth started. I took a few deep breaths and before you knew it, I was dipping my toes into that soul-cleansing pool of unanswerable questions that turns even the most intelligent and well-read adults into stammering idiots.<br />
<br />
<i>How old is the Earth? How old is the universe? How are we here? Why are we here? How can people get to Mars? Why don't we fall off into space?</i><br />
<br />
Our one-hour tête-a-tête over dinner turned out to be one of the most illuminating conversations I've ever had. I loved that my curious 9-year-old was questioning the complex machinations of our universe. Even more importantly, I was elated that Sophia, whose brain is like that of most kids— trafficking primarily in concrete facts—was entering the wondrous and shapeless territory of abstraction.<br />
<br />
The question that took me forever to reconcile with my decidedly non-astrophysical mind was this: "How is Earth up there (pointing to the ceiling) and we're down here?" It took me a while to figure out that her image of Earth—our iconic blue spheroid, complete with continents and swirling clouds, a living ball of mass surrounded by the infinite blackness of the solar system—had been carved from what she'd seen in books and the internet, and that she couldn't figure out why we didn't see that same image from our street. How, she thought, could we possibly be <i>on</i> the planet yet not <i>see</i> it?<br />
<br />
We spent a good hour trying to quell our twin frustrations; hers in comprehension and mine in explanation. I employed every prop I could think of, including ourselves ("You're the sun and I'm the Earth," I said as I spun around in place while also circling dizzily around Sophia and calling out "It's day, now night, now day...winter, now it's spring, summer, fall, winter, spring...") and some random objects around the house. We talked gravity and the elements and Big Bangs and God and orbits and space-time until I realized how much I simultaneously know and don't know.<br />
<br />
So, so cool.<br />
<br />
It was also strangely empowering to try to explain things that are not easy to explain, and to know that my kid expects me to know all this stuff. And it didn't matter what I knew or didn't. I came away feeling refreshed and exhilarated by Sophia's instinct to ask hard questions and her willingness to stretch to understand the complicated answers.<br />
<br />
And at this time in our history, where technological advances, destruction of resources and the constant threat of terror conspire to drag us down, I would argue that self-awareness, compassion and tolerance—what truly makes us so freaking awesome as a species—are likely to remain our most potent antidotes against self-extinction. By questioning and wondering and listening and processing, Sophia has taken the first step on that incredible journey toward understanding what it truly means to be human. The possibilities of such growth are as endless and exciting as the universe itself.<br />
<br />
And you don't have to be Stephen Hawking to appreciate how cool that really is.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-75678205295766737112015-11-21T07:43:00.001-07:002015-11-23T12:17:38.694-07:00It's Complicated...No matter how much we try to shield our young children from the evils of terrorism and the continual onslaught of extremist violence, we can't. Might as well talk about it.<br />
<br />
I was in Montreal last week when the November 13th attacks happened in Paris. Understandably, the topic came up a few times amongst my dad and mom, brother in law, and aunt and uncle, and cousins with whom I spent a lot of time over four days. My kids and my nieces were generally doing what kids do, having tons of fun, but these kinds of serious discussions filter down and I know my kids heard it.<br />
<br />
Tanya and I decided long ago that we would try to be as honest as we could with our children when it came to introducing them to the these kinds of topics, keeping in mind the appropriate intellectual level to try to explain the horrors perpetrated by the "bad guys." So it came as no shock to me when Sophia, my sensitive 9-year-old, starting poking around.<br />
<br />
"What happened in Paris?"<br />
<br />
"Terrorists killed people," I answered. "A lot of innocent people died. It was terrible."<br />
<br />
The discussion didn't last too long, but I knew Sophia heard me. Like most kids, her idea of right and wrong is monochromatic. And while real life is made up mostly of gray areas, I envy the simplicity that governs her developing brain. Being an adult—especially a parent—requires so much more.<br />
<br />
At the airport on the way home, while I was picking up my final smoked meat sandwich before boarding, Sophia brought it up again. News channels tend to overreport these things on airport TVs, you know.<br />
<br />
"Why do people blow up stadiums and kill all these innocent people?" she asked.<br />
<br />
I thought for a few moments. "Terrorists try to make everyone afraid by killing whoever they want."<br />
<br />
"Did they blow up the Eiffel Tower?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"No," I chuckled.<br />
<br />
"Why don't we just kill these people before they have a chance to do it again?"<br />
<br />
"It's complicated. I think we should but...these things are complicated."<br />
<br />
Her face was serious. "We're going to Paris next summer."<br />
<br />
"Yes we are," I said. Suddenly, my sweet, innocent, giggly and silly fourth-grader was a different person. Fearful, anxious. "And we're going to have a great time! Mom and I REFUSE to live in fear. Okay? Our family will not live our lives in fear. If we do, that means the terrorists win."<br />
<br />
I've been thinking about our discussion ever since. Life can be so complicated.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-89281170404897718722015-09-23T20:08:00.001-06:002015-09-24T07:06:03.044-06:00The First FastLast week, with the Jewish high holidays around the corner, Ella asked me about Yom Kippur. I explained to my curious 12-year-old what the most solemn day in the Jewish religion was really about. And fasting was the day's "signature event."<br />
<br />
The Day of Atonement, I explained, took place 10 days after the new year and signified the day when Jews are forgiven for all of their sins over the previous 365 days, and thus get inscribed into God's "good" book for another year.<br />
<br />
(For my gentile friends: Think of Santa's "nice" list, but instead you have to suffer through dehydration and hunger headaches while spending most of your day stuck in synagogue. And the reward is not presents but leftover brisket from Rosh Hashanah. So, just like Christmas but...totally not.)<br />
<div>
<br />
Despite my distaste for observing arcane and outdated religious customs just because someone else told me to, my parents will be proud to know that 12 years of private Jewish education were not wasted. Translation: I understand the reasoning behind many of the traditions celebrated by what I like to call, "Christmas-Easter Jews." As such, I can make sense of them, and choose to follow the ones that actually mean something to me. This one, unlike the milk and meat thing, or the lack of bacon thing, or the let's-equate-electricity-with-work-on-the-Sabbath-thing (really, guys?), for some reason, I actually get.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No offense to Catholicism (especially with refreshingly "lefty" Pope Francis hanging out on the East Coast this week), but Yom Kippur is about much more than hopping into a confession booth, admitting a sin to some guy you can't see, being told to recite some phrases and voilà...forgiven!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No, Yom Kippur is meant to be the culmination of many days of reflection and prayer, including a concerted effort to right wrongs. (Not that I did all that this year.) Depriving oneself of food, drink and other creature comforts (archaic, but kind of cool, in a minimalist/environmentalist sort of way) is more than just a formality; it's a metaphor for improvement, in that it requires introspection to help us not only figure out why we did certain things, but to cleanse our palate of them before they can be officially erased. There's an element of rebirth in there, like an exorcism without the spinning heads.<br />
<br />
It seems that the religious scholars of days past felt like in order to really gain a fresh start and demonstrate one's willingness to atone for misdeeds, one must not only suffer a bit, but also rid the body of whatever remnants of the past year's bad juju still remain. For us medical folks, Yom Kippur's basic premise might be likened to a colonoscopy for the soul: you can't really examine one's innards until the old stuff is gone. Bring on the bowel prep, baby.<br />
<br />
I had made it very clear to Ella that fasting or not was to be entirely her choice, with the only requirement that she knew WHY she was doing it. If she chose to try, I offered to even do it with her. (I am obsessed with food, so this is a BIG deal for me, FYI.)<br />
<br />
She did, and I did. Ella even texted me at lunch, asking if she could have a chocolate milk. I texted back that she could have whatever she wanted. Around 3:30 she texted again saying she had decided to forego the drink. I was impressed. She had clearly thought about it.<br />
<br />
I was very proud of my middle schooler, not because she withstood the temptation of eating and drinking for an entire day at school. For that, I don't really care either way. As I said, I'm not into the Jewish thing much anymore. What I am into, is trying to teach my kids to think for themselves. No atonement necessary for that one.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-66384939206892743822015-09-15T09:22:00.002-06:002015-09-15T09:23:48.554-06:00"I love you." "Well, duh..."<br />
All relationships are filled with subtle games and ongoing unconscious conversational tête-à-tête. For example: We all say things like "How was your day?" and "Did you sleep well?" without actually thinking about what they mean, or even awaiting an answer. In our family, one of the most frequently uttered is the "I love you—I love you, too" exchange.<br />
<br />
I often take for granted those snippets of banter. But yesterday, as I was driving Ella to volleyball practice, something happened that made me think about it a little more.<br />
<br />
Out of the blue, Ella says: "Dad, I love you."<br />
<br />
"Of course you do!" I reply. "I'm awesome!!!"<br />
<br />
"Uh," she says, with prototypical tween-dramatic-annoyance inflection, "not the response I was looking for but...okkaaayyy."<br />
<br />
I laughed as she squirmed for a bit before reciprocating her sentiment, and also waited with breath held to see if I had really hurt her feelings. Thankfully, Ella is fully aware of my penchant for silliness and sarcasm, and is also quite adept at flinging it back to me. Nevertheless, I started thinking about what it might mean to a child to have his or her overt, unprompted volleys of love and affection returned in kind. Or not.<br />
<br />
From what I've read and observed first hand with my own kids and others I have spent some time with, those little psyches can be fragile. Yes, it's important for them to become self-reliant and able to deal with adversity, but I think it's more important for them to first feel secure and develop a high level of self-worth. These values need to be constantly reinforced, at least until they start to navigate the world on their own.<br />
<br />
I don't think that telling a kid we love them on a regular basis amounts to overly coddling or infantilizing them. On the contrary, it continually reinforces that Mom and/or Dad (or Mom and Mom, or Dad and Dad, whatever the case may be) thinks they are worthy of their place in the universe. Better to be loved too much—is that even possible?—than not enough. My parents did it to me and my sister, and while I admit that at the time I thought I HATED it, I realized once I hit my early 20s and then again once I had my own kids that all that annoyance and irritation was not only a genuine expression of love, but also might have been part of a carefully thought-out plan.<br />
<br />
Of course, my little joke with Ella and her reaction brought to mind the possibility that their plan backfired, in the form of my absurdly overinflated sense of self-worth. (Inflategate, anyone?) But I doubt it. I'm probably just that awesome, and of course Ella would love me.<br />
<br />
But I sure do love her, too, and she definitely knows it.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://www.imagechef.com/r/GBJEz" style="background-color: white; border: none; color: #014b97; display: block; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="Meme Maker" src="http://cdn-users1.imagechef.com/ic/stored/2/150915/meme37e4a36e7c789fd8.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-3305000087369241092015-08-12T14:08:00.004-06:002015-08-12T14:11:03.788-06:00The ContractI think I may have a future lawyer living in the Kensley house.<br />
<br />
On our way home from camping this morning, the girls informed me that Ella had agreed to be Sophia's slave-slash-servant. As with most of their proclamations, I had no illusions that this grandiose situation would turn out to be any more than the usual short-lived play scenario.<br />
<br />
Until Sophia insisted on a contract.<br />
<br />
During our stop at Picnic Rock, a peaceful, popular play spot along the Poudre river as it snakes through the the tail end of the Poudre Canyon outside of Fort Collins, Sophia, who is 9, would have her older sister by 3 years, Ella, do something for her (get a towel, sunscreen her back, etc) and then turn to me with a toothy grin and mouth, "This is awesome!"<br />
<br />
The 30-minute drive home was filled with discussion of contract terms, salary, and the like. I'm still not sure how this whole agreement came to be—other than the fact that Ella is happy to work for some extra cash—but I couldn't help being amazed at the ingenuity of it all. And so far, in the first couple of hours, they are taking it very seriously.<br />
<br />
Once we got home, Sophia drew up a contract on Ella's laptop, complete with space for initials and signatures and a witness signature, and asked me to be the third party to ensure that the contract signing was legit and to help mediate so all parties were satisfied. Truly, this is the meat and potatoes of parenting that I LOVE.<br />
<br />
Of course, Colorado Bar Association rules prohibit me from making this private arrangement public (and also, I think my kids might kill me if they knew about this blog post. If you see them, don't tell them you know...) but I would love to share a few of the stipulations, some of which are quite thoughtful:<br />
<ul>
<li>Ella gets a 30-45 minute lunch break and 2 15-minutes breaks, one each in the AM and PM (I helped tweak this one; the original draft didn't include lunch. I said that amounted to slave labor)</li>
<li>Ella cannot be Sophia's servant while babysitting her</li>
<li>If Mom or Dad ask Sophia to do something, she is not allowed to transfer responsibility to Ella</li>
<li>And this is my favorite: "You can quit, but I can also fire you."</li>
</ul>
<div>
There is more, but I'm hesitant to share too much for fear of retribution from either party, even though I've clearly proven that I'm not above embarrassing either of them. And also, I'm worried they might really lawyer up and sue the shit out of me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, and as I finish typing this blog post, I hear Sophia from upstairs saying, "Ella, your break is over," right on time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Move over Johnnie Cochran.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-90135531533208227962015-05-18T10:34:00.003-06:002015-05-18T10:37:06.596-06:00Life Isn't PG-13While we were returning from lunch one day at work last week, a friend gathered all the parents around the office. "I need your opinions," she said.<br />
<br />
Her 12-year-old daughter attended a sleepover birthday party where the invitation had promised going out for breakfast and then "watching movies." But when my friend's daughter got home, she informed her mom that the birthday girl's mother had taken the group to the theater to see "Pitch Perfect 2." You know the one: where the billboard slogan tastefully advertises "We're Back, Pitches." For a taste, click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBwOYQd21TY">here</a> for the trailer.<br />
<br />
My friend was upset for two reasons. First, she was not comfortable with exposing her daughter to the crude and raunchy themes portrayed at various times in Pitch Perfect 2. But the more egregious issue was that her friend didn't bother to ask permission of her or any other parents to take their 12-year-olds to a PG-13 rated movie. "I watched the trailer," my friend said, "and I was like, what? You didn't even ask me?!"<br />
<br />
My friend takes her role as a parent seriously and her angst was palpable. We all nodded in solidarity with her and agreed that the "responsible" parent should have cleared this decision with all the others prior to their little field trip into "Sophomoric Humor, Political Incorrectness and Oversexualized Culture 101." It's just basic protocol to ensure that plans are okayed by friends' parents <i>before</i> actually going. But for me, there was another issue:<br />
<br />
Tanya and I took Ella—our 12-year-old—to see that very same movie the previous day.<br />
<br />
The fact that I had seen the film allowed me to truly feel my friend's pain, knowing her daughter was watching numerous scenes obviously not geared for 12-year-olds, all without her consent. Some of the themes and lines even made me uncomfortable, knowing that my wholesome, innocent (so far, anyway) 6th grader was sitting right next to me while I nearly choked laughing. Yet aside from the movie-mom's lack of common sense, there's a greater discussion here.<br />
<br />
Everyday we are forced to make choices for our kids, just as they are forced to make their own. Both parties rationalize and justify and hopefully learn from our experiences. Sometimes we get it right and sometimes we get it wrong, but one thing remains certain: we can't avoid making these choices. Our best weapons are to think them through and own our decisions, regardless of the result, and move forward.<br />
<br />
Unlike the physical sciences, where facts and data can prove or disprove certain decisions and offer a high certainty that what we've done is reasonable, parenting avails itself of no such science. The results of our choices can take years to evince themselves, and even then, they've been blended with hundreds of other circumstances, so that determining cause and effect is like isolating sugar from the cake after it's been baked. In essence, though, I believe that one decision rarely makes or breaks a life. Still, we try our best, as if our every action determines the fate of the world.<br />
<br />
Like it or not, sex and materialism and pathological consumerism are impossible—I REPEAT: IMPOSSIBLE—to avoid. Tanya has expressed many times—so very wisely—that there's only so much we can isolate our children from, so we might as well jump on board and take the wild ride with them. We can help navigate, educate, and explain so at least the discussion happens with people who understand and are willing to take the time to clarify challenging concepts. Hopefully, when the time comes for our youngsters to make their own decisions, our trust in them emboldens them with the confidence and wisdom to come out ahead most of the time.<br />
<br />
For the record, I'm still peeved at the mom who didn't ask permission. I'd have been just as upset if another parent made a decision like that for me, and I respect my friend's conviction as a responsible, dedicated parent who's trying to do what she feels best.<br />
<br />
But as I watch my kids grow up in a society where pop radio plays songs with lyrics that were banned by the FCC 20 years ago, and where the ubiquity of sex and overindulgence is the norm rather than the exception, I keep reminding myself that life doesn't carry a rating. But with some flexible PG, our kids might make it past 13 better equipped for the future. That might be as close to perfect as we can get.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-59890045288100219732015-03-18T22:20:00.002-06:002015-03-18T22:29:16.769-06:00A Soul-Binding ExperienceTanya and I caught Sophia in a couple of lies. Nothing major, but enough to warrant attention.<br />
<br />
Like any normal kid, my 9-year-old played the Bill Clinton/Mark McGwire denial card for a while, but eventually caved when there was no more room to skate. Tanya explained very clearly, calmly and compassionately that lying will not be tolerated in our house. As one would expect, Sophia was embarrassed. There were some tears shed, some frowning, some running away, and some time taken to get over it all. Eventually hugs were exchanged to wash the incident away. We felt good.<br />
<br />
While I was cuddling in bed with her afterward, she was still clearly shaken by the fallout. "It seems like you and Mom never do anything wrong," she said. "It seems like you guys always do everything perfect."<br />
<br />
In nearly 12 years of parenting, including writing a regular newspaper column in the Fort Collins Coloradoan for four years chronicling the things my kids have said, nothing had punched a hole in my heart more than that line. Truly, I felt like an absolute failure.<br />
<br />
I paused for a few seconds to gather my thoughts, and got started mending this fence. I explained to Sophia that she, like me and Tanya and Ella, is like every human being on the planet: she has made mistakes and will make plenty more, and the only negative would be not learning from them. I told her it's better to admit the mistake early and be done with it, rather than try to perpetuate it. We talked about how Tanya and I love her no matter what she does or says to us or anyone else, no matter how she behaves. There is nothing she could do to make us not love her.<br />
<br />
I dug deep into the archives to tell her about forging my mother's signature on a detention slip in third grade (she found out and I got in some serious shit); throwing a baseball through a window at school in 5th grade; spending every penny in my piggy bank on hockey cards in the 6th grade without telling my mom; dating a girl my parents hated for a year and a half (I hated her too...not sure what I was thinking) and being significantly less than polite on many occasions when they called me on it; making mistakes at work, having to rewrite articles I submitted because they were terrible; saying thoughtless things to my friends over the years...the list goes on and on.<br />
<br />
I found myself hugging Sophia tighter and tighter as I told her how I felt a true kinship with her. We both set our personal expectations too high, then tend to worry and internalize our feelings and get stressed out when things don't turn out as perfectly as we want them to. I've intuitively felt this way for quite some time, I told her, but only started realizing it in my thirties, and she was lucky to begin to understand it now. We are both sensitive to how others see us and depend too much on positive feedback. We're both a bit silly and don't shy from the center of attention, and we both need to be physically active to keep our minds sane. She doubted my sincerity initially, but I think she got the picture.<br />
<br />
The whole experience—stroking her head and holding her tightly and listing all the ways we are connected—was mind-blowing. We do quite a bit of expressing our feelings in our house, and we're not shy to get emotional. But this was different. This was a soul-binding moment that I had never felt before with anyone but Tanya, the moment I realized I was mind-meltingly in love with her.<br />
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It's the rare moments like these that make me realize that no feeling on Earth could ever compare to being a parent.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-28154301402082166232015-01-28T16:18:00.002-07:002015-01-29T14:24:33.922-07:00But really...who's counting?Sophia signed up for basketball this winter. Aside from making her hoops-crazy dad very happy, the benefits are numerous: regular physical activity with two hour-long practices and one game every week for six weeks, learning the fundamentals at a young age, and being introduced to the essence of sportsmanship and competition.<br />
<br />
Uh, hold on a second for that last one.<br />
<br />
At the last practice before their first game, Sophia's coach informed the team that per City of Fort Collins youth sports program rules, they would not be keeping score during the games. Before you go all Fox-News-The-World-is-Ending on me, keep in mind that this rule only applies to 2nd and 3rd grade games. The goals of this measure are, presumably, to encourage in the youngest cadre of prospective Lebrons and Durants the importance of skill development, sportsmanship, and having fun, not to turn us into a nation of soft-serve ice cream cones.<br />
<br />
Behold the double-edged sword of competition and sportsmanship in youth sports in today's America.<br />
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I'm on board with focusing on skill development and getting the rules down, especially when getting on SportsCenter with windmill dunks and long-distance 3s isn't an option (yet). But isn't a large part of sports the fact that one team wins and another loses?<br />
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For the sake of this post, please disregard soccer.<br />
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In general, I'm not a fan of the "everybody-gets-a-ribbon" thing. I will say, however, having witnessed the stress created in young kids by the constant pressure to win at all costs (from coaches and parents alike), I am not in favor of promoting that ethos, either. The outcome matters, but physical and emotional health should always be the most important goals. Most people don't end up making a living at athletics so winning a game in elementary school doesn't affect our lives that much.<br />
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Basketball, being a team game, can be quite nuanced. It's not enough to learn the basics and think one will be successful in game situations. Keeping score is crucial in learning offensive and defensive strategy, and in grasping the concept of "team" first. It can take kids a long time to learn that your teammates' points are also your points, and that playing defense, sacrificing yourself to get the ball, pulling down a rebound to secure possession, or making an assist are just as important to success as hitting a long jumper. Score is important because it reflects the triumph of the team over the individual. If you don't believe me, watch highlights of the 2014 San Antonio Spurs or the 1986 Boston Celtics.<br />
<br />
Competitive also sports teach us the ability to learn how to deal with success and failure gracefully, knowing that the outcome of a singular event should not define a life's value. When I was a young basketball player, our team was terrible and I barely played the entire season (because I, too, was terrible). I was forced to practice more. It worked because in the following four years I became a much better player and earned my way off of splinterville. Losing, on a personal and team level, drove me to do what was necessary to feel good about my game and, by extension, myself. Hard work is the only way to get better, and that's a lesson I learned as much from sports as anywhere else in life. Therein lies the key element of the zero-sum arena of competitive sports: keeping score incentivizes bettering oneself. And who doesn't want to do that?<br />
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At the 2nd and 3rd grade level, I guess it's not really a big deal. But I found it interesting that in immediate response to the coach's announcement, the team—remember, 7- and 8-year old girls wearing fluorescent shorts and pink t-shirts with flowers and cats on them—groaned uniformly and said, "Then how will we know who wins?"<br />
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Maybe the league should have asked the kids first.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-84402869901061415312014-12-08T14:50:00.000-07:002014-12-08T19:16:47.066-07:00The Emperor of EuphonyLast Friday, Sophia participated in her school spelling bee. The top two spellers in each third, fourth and fifth grade class were invited to participate in the competition that crowns the top speller from each school, presumably to be anointed as the Head Honcho of Homonyms, the Emperor of Euphony, the Overlord of Orthography.<br />
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The champion goes on to district, then state, then all the way to Washington, D.C., for the Scripps National Spelling Bee. You know the one, where a bunch of awkward, anxious elementary schoolers fidget and obsess and recite calming mantras before the immense pressure to spell synecdoche and pusillanimous and spondylitis. And then we get to watch them cry when they say "i" instead of "e" or commit some other egregious spelling mishap in front of thousands, maybe more.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophia Beeing cool</td></tr>
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I went in late to work so I could witness my 8-year-old's certain victory in the contest pitting her against the rest of the mere mortals with mussed up hair, ketchup-stained shirts and untied shoelaces that attend her school. "This is in the bag," I said to myself. I am, after all, a speller of considerable noteworthiness. And we practiced. Hard. Like, 10 minutes a day over breakfast, with the Sugarhill Gang channel blasting on Pandora, and in between sick dance moves across the kitchen floor. (Me, not her.)<br />
<br />
Sophia breezes through the first two rounds with patio and sitcom. She's on a roll, strutting to the mike like a gangsta with sagging pants and spitting letters (in the correct order, suckaz!) like Eminem in a rap battle. Quite a few of the 24 competitors go out in the first two rounds, and I truly feel bad for them. I mean, those words were, like, so easy to spell. Maybe they should have studied more.<br />
<br />
After the first round, Mr. Lynch, the fifth grade teacher and emcee looks at Sophia, resplendent in her purple leggings and fluorescent yellow sweater that screams, <i>Look at me, losers, I'm all that and a bag of chizz-aps! </i>He wipes his brow and says, "Man, I am getting nervous!" He looks at Sophia and says, "Kensley, you nervous?" And my kid, arm resting on the table next to her like Don Corleone after a successful hit, smiles and says, "Nope."<br />
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She is John Elway on The Drive. Pre-fire hydrant Tiger Woods on the 18th tee on Sunday at Augusta.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No pressure<br />
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Third round, less than half the kids remaining. You could cut the tension with a plastic butter knife from the school lunch room.<br />
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<i>Your word is "Knead." This word is a homonym, it is a verb, and its definition is to work or mix something using the hands.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i>
We practiced this one, I remember, over eggs and toast, Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock in the background. My palms and feet are sweaty. I hear my heart beating inside my ears. You got this, kid. K. K. Remember the K.<br />
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"N-E-I-D."<br />
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Shit. Shit. Shit. Nooooo!!!!! Damn that friggin K!!!<br />
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<i>That is incorrect.</i><br />
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I breathe for the first time in a few seconds. Sophia lopes back to her seat, removes the number from around her neck and sits calmly through the rest of the affair. I watch for signs of disappointment, maybe some nerves, shame, embarrassment, trembling, tears, fear of reprisal, severe depression.... But there's nothing. That's because she's a cold-blooded competitor, the Black Mamba of the miniature circuit, ready to learn from failure and train harder—HARDER!!!—to become the greatest speller of all time. You can bet I'll be taking a page from the Tiger Mom and Tiger Woods' dad and setting some serious guidelines for the next few years. No playtime, no sports, no vacations. Just spelling all day and night. Winning is all that matters now.</div>
<br />
Later Sophia tells me she was proud to have made it into the competition at all. I tell her second place is the first loser. (No, I didn't...but I could have.)<br />
<br />
As a bit of consolation, our neighbor, Lily, and one of Sophia's best friends, won it on "meager." At least the trophy lives on our street.<br />
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We'll be making bread everyday for the next week as a punishment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ewe Goh Gurl!!!</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-25785256607301785092014-11-13T15:22:00.005-07:002014-11-13T15:25:49.080-07:00TheatricsOver the past month, Ella and Sophia took their first foray into show business. Along with their three neighbor friends from down the street, Lilly, Lucy and Sally, they wrote, directed, produced, and starred in their first play. Yup, a real, live, actual play, complete with scene changes, sound effects, costumes, props, songs, and even audience participation. The show, called SWANG (the main character's name was Celia, but her nickname was Swang, because of her love for <i>swang</i> dancing), had two performances, put on at the park behind our house. I'm not sure they got an entertainment permit from the City of Fort Collins, but, whatever.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Promo flier</td></tr>
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Every day after school and on most of their free weekend days, the five girls collaborated on putting together the performance. They posted fliers around the neighborhood mailboxes and told everyone they knew about it. They charged admission (parents of the performers were, graciously, allowed in free) and a small fee for other items, and each of my kids ended up making $7.50 each.</div>
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<br />
The first show began at 4:30 pm on Saturday, November 8, and the second one was scheduled for the same time on November 9 but the producers smartly moved it to 3:00 to avoid the twin plagues of darkness and cold. The production team, however, was prepared: they provided chairs, blankets, flashlights and snacks. The kids ate most of the food, chips, fruit punch and mints—purchased with their own money at the dollar store—but there was plenty for everyone.<br />
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In addition to Tanya and me and the neighbor girls' parents, a few other neighbors and friends came to the performance, having seen the signs and heard the chatter within the local arts scene (aka, our street). Even a high school junior who lives four houses down came by for the second showing. Tanya's mom attended on Sunday, and stayed for the post-production party in our kitchen, which got a tad rowdy. To my knowledge, nobody arranged for bottle service, got drunk on Cristal or tweeted racy photos. And I have no idea if TMZ was hiding in our pantry.<br />
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Had there been media there, I'm sure this would be a likely sampler their reviews:<br />
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<i>"A five-star performance! I wanted to SWANG from the rafters!" —</i>the Fort Collins Coloradoan.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"A breathtaking, wonderful and heartwarming debut performance! I laughed, cried...and shivered." </i>—the Denver Post.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Jump up and applaud for SWANG! Bravo!" </i>—the Colorado Spring Gazette.<br />
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SWANG was part musical, part comedy, and part tragedy. Ella described it as, "An Adventure in Magical-ness," which seemed about right. The actors were both serious and improvisational, and when they messed up their lines, they didn't panic. They were, at times, hilarious, especially when they didn't mean to be. Each of the five actors had significant roles, including "backstage" jobs. I was also particularly impressed with the singing voices (especially Lucy's) in addition to a distinct lack of fear in the spotlight from all five of the players.</div>
<div>
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As one would expect of 5- to 11-year-olds, the plot was a bit hard to follow at times (something about fairies in the woods, dancing and a lurking evil something-or-other). But that really wasn't important. What impressed me most was the organization and dedication it took to make the show happen. They devoted themselves to a creative task and saw it through to completion. Each one of them branched out, put aside fear of embarrassment or failure, and surely discovered something about themselves they never knew, while having a lot of fun doing it.<br />
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That alone deserves rave reviews.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-879740140427833952014-10-01T07:46:00.001-06:002014-10-01T13:05:50.172-06:00What's the Problem?I've entered a new phase of my writing life.<br />
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It's called relaxing. I just wish I was good at it.<br />
<br />
Since May 30, 2014, when I self-published my first novel, Seeking Blue (as always, available on <a href="http://amazon.com/">Amazon.com</a> and other local booksellers), things have changed. I'm still writing articles for UCHealth and Mind+Body, and I've contributed another essay to Fort Collins Magazine, keeping my second career very much active. I'm continuing to learn about journalism and writing, meeting new and interesting people, and making a few extra bucks in the process.<br />
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I also received my first not-so-fantastic review on Amazon the other day. Granted, I sought it out and appreciate the reviewer's honesty, but I've been reminded that literature is subjective, and that humility is necessary for all artists.<br />
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I've had a book launch party, done a couple of readings, stocked Seeking Blue in the bookstore at our family vacation spot, Star Island in New Hampshire, and had a book signing at an indie bookshop here in Fort Collins. I've sold 35 hard copies (so far) between those two shops, which, I'm told, is pretty good for an unknown self-published author in the first four months of publication. In fact, the woman at Old Firehouse Books in Fort Collins told me that my "local author" book signing was the most successful they've had this year.<br />
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I sold 7 copies that day. Essentially all of those copies have sold because of specific efforts to market and promote my novel using word of mouth, posting fliers and sending emails. Basically, bugging the heck out of people.<br />
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I've also scheduled three separate talks about writing within the Fort Collins community, at independent living and senior-type facilities. This makes me happy because I get to combine two of my passions: writing and hanging out with older folks. All while helping to promote the brand that is Andrew Kensley, Author.<br />
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Things are going well. I work three days a week at a job that I enjoy and that pays the bills; I get to work a second job that I love doing and helps pay more bills and also thickens the "Vegas" envelope, all while still having time to do house projects, spend a lot of time with my family, exercise, and get some much needed time in the mountains.<br />
<br />
So what is the problem?<br />
<br />
Exactly. There isn't one. I've decided that instead of getting upset about slow sales, worrying about whether Seeking Blue will ever hit the big time and what my next book will be, taxing endless self-promotion, and spending every waking minute trying to figure out how to sell more books and get an agent and a publisher and hit the big time, I'm going to take a mental break and just enjoy what I've accomplished.<br />
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I deserve it.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-63331301695983003942014-08-26T21:00:00.000-06:002014-08-26T21:00:09.477-06:00Ice Bucket ChallengeI got challenged on that subtle social media site—you may have heard of it, it's called something like The Book of Faces—by my friend from Plymouth, MA, Jeff Pickel to perform the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. As luck would have it, Ella and Sophia have been planning on introducing me to the Jack Dawson school of frigidity for some time now and tonight, after dinner, I noticed them not-so-stealthily filling a bucket with ice and water on the deck and acting suspicious. Having been nominated just two days ago, (and to cushion the inevitable surprise blow that probably awaited anyway), I volunteered myself for the deed. <br />
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In keeping with the program, I nominated four other friends who may or may not have already done it.<br />
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Mark Lonergan<br />
Dafyd Jones<br />
David Itzkovits<br />
Eric Kligman<br />
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Tomorrow, I'll be donating some cash to help cure this terrible disease. I've worked firsthand with patients suffering from it at various stages. And let me tell you, it's not pretty. ALS can strike anyone, and most people die within five years. I hope that we can get together as a population to do more fundraising of this nature for every disease that's out there. If everyone gave $10 to 5 different charities, the world would surely be a better place.<br />
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To paraphrase one of my favorite sayings: No one ever got poor by giving to charity. Go to www.alsa.org to give or get informed.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8787873577117756206.post-87781940997066026792014-07-23T21:22:00.003-06:002014-07-23T21:27:18.224-06:00Website up and Running!I've taken another positive step toward respectability in the modern world.<br />
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And it's about damn time.<br />
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Today, I finished setting up the website devoted to my writing career. <a href="http://andrewkensley.com/">Andrewkensley.com</a> is up and running and ready to be browsed, linked, perused, publicized, searched, and shared. It took me a few days to figure out how to set one up from scratch. And much like my book self-publishing experience on Createspace, I went through quite a bit of a trial and error process getting things done. But I understand it's part of the deal, and I'm fine with it.<br />
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Those who know me well might say I'm a bit on the cheap side. Not untrue, I admit, but I actually entered into this little endeavor with the realization that I would have to pay to do this right. This year has been educational as far as the publishing world goes, and one important thing I've learned is that running a business—make no mistake, Andrew Kensley, Author/Freelance Writer is a business, albeit a crude and immature one thus far—requires a financial investment.<br />
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Since I started doing my own taxes a few years ago and with the gradual increase in writing income over the past couple of years, I've already begun saying fun things like "I'll get the check, it's a write-off" and "we talked about my book over those beers, burgers and onion rings and during commercials of the game, I can write off this guys night." But this is different: the prime reason for spending money on publicity, advertising, promotion and marketing is not for tax purposes. My goal is to sell some books. If I have to spend a reasonable sum to do that, I'm fine with it.<br />
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Consequently, my first internet searches on "how to build a website" involved clicking ONLY on the ones that required a monthly or yearly fee. I spent almost 10 hours setting up trials and familiarizing myself with the cool terminology—favicon, SEO, keyword density and meta tags are some of my favorites—and after much eye-burning screen time, I realized that none of the really cool looking website builders really had what I wanted. So I went another route.<br />
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I stumbled upon Wix.com, advertised as a free website builder, and found exactly the template I wanted. I tweaked it considerably over a few days, changing fonts and moving text, inserting photos and aligning icons, etc etc etc, and after a couple of minor paid upgrades (still cheaper than the other sites, but perfect for my purposes), I built <a href="http://andrewkensley.com/">Andrewkensley.com</a> to my exact specifications.<br />
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Check it out and let me know what you think. And of course, thanks in advance for spreading the word.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02007187706178874190noreply@blogger.com0