insurance design

Smoking Charges Ignite

Last night, Amy took Anna, our seven-year-old, to the dress rehearsal for her 2015 dance recital. I was left in charge of Will, our nine-year-old, and Ella, our three-year-old. What follows is a litany of the kids showing me that I exist in their world as a piece of tightly-spun twine, permanently...

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Sad Child


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Car radio

Piece of Sh*t Car Reprise

When I was in high-school, a popular song named "Ode to My Car," by Adam Sandler, spun regularly on the radio. No, it didn't. All foul-mouthed teenage boys wished such happy, unfiltered radio days would appear, but that didn't stop the explicit lyrics from making an impact, even if the song's plot...

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Advertise Here

The explorer burst into the temple at a run, breathing hard from the exertion. She skidded to a stop and scanned around, willing her eyes to adjust quickly to the dim light. The ancient guardians of the temple were fast …...

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Certain messes in life are unavoidable. If you get a DUI and your hair is sufficiently mussed or you manage to jam your finger into the nearest outlet just prior to the mug-shot, chances are you'll be a big-time celebrity some day. ...

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A Reasonable Explanation

Therapist: Take me back to the beginning. Tell me how it all got started, how you eventually wound up holding the bloody knife in the aftermath of your killing spree. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation....

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That's a Mouthful

Waking up to the sounds of birds and (outside) insects is alluring, and when you have your second 10th cup of coffee and realize you are on vacation, and this auditory lovemaking is real, not the result of an ambitious-carpet-cleaning hallucination, you can finally relax, letting your bulk stress...

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Stupid Piece of ... Oh, That's Right

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Deadly Donuts

The morning started off good. Four eggs fluffed with a splash of milk, mixed with Parmesan and salt and black pepper and red pepper flakes and slathered with Cholula hot sauce; four ounces of Bob Evan's spicy Italian sausage (sorry for the smell, honey, luv ya) fried into the wonderful concoction;...

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When Did I Become a Pushover?

I've never thought of myself as the Ultimate Fighter type. As a kid, whenever the possibility of bodily harm came up, I tried to avoid confrontation. But if the issue was pressed, I could stand up and issue fake threats along with the best of them and hope that my manufactured bravado was enough to...

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As I Approach 30

I live in a small town. Colona, IL has a population of just over 5,000. As a jogger, this means I am usually only assaulted with exhaust fumes a few times whenever I decide to go outside to burn some calories. But as far as the type of people passing me on the roadside? Over this, I have no control....

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golden iced lolly

Filed Under , on May 30th, 2015

Perishable Relics

By Seth Kabala

The explorer burst into the temple at a run, breathing hard from the exertion. She skidded to a stop and scanned around, willing her eyes to adjust quickly to the dim light. The ancient guardians of the temple were fast on her heels, their heavy footballs echoing off the ancient stone, growing louder every second. Any moment now they would overtake her, reclaim their sacred relic, and kill her.

But she held the trump card: she had deciphered the scroll, the key to unlocking the invisible vault. The footfalls were now thunderous, ringing in her ears like a klaxon blast. Storing the relic would give her time for things to settle down, figure out her next move, and retrieve the relic when she had studied its uses. But there was that warning about it leaving the grasp of its new possessor too soon. What was the  exact wording? No time. She found the vault, stashed the relic, and dashed out of the temple.

A year later, she returned to the invisible vault. Inside was nothing but ash.

* * *

We’re always after our children to finish their food when they sit down to the table, or when they take said food out to the porch, down to the sidewalk, around the back of the house, over into the neighbor’s yard, and any other place it might travel at our behest. (If you have figured out a way to keep your kids at the dinner table for the whole meal without resorting to threats that would have made a Cold War Soviet general proud, please let me know.)

I’ve come to accept (have lost resolve, preferring to devote my passionate arguments to defending issues of merit, such as the supremacy of generic toaster pastries over brand-name Pop Tarts) that it is a fruitless battle to try to confine all eating to the prescribed meal and snack times. Leniency is required.

Now, this doesn’t mean I ascribe to the notion that all meals should be buffet style or shove-it-in-and-shove-on-out, as in a competitive eating contest. What it means is I’ve realized the “starving children in Africa,” “mold growth,” and, most notably, “errant, hungry falcon jetting through our dining room” arguments for motivating my kids to eat quickly and remain stationary while doing so are full of logical holes, which my kids readily identify and, to my chagrin, exploit.  Alas, the unfortunate side effects of having intelligent offspring. Tough to maintain KGB-level respect/fear when the authoritative body underlying your arguments is revealed to be the thespianic concept of Hyperbole and his oft-sighted companion Desperation, or, as Stephen King said in his novel Duma Key, your parenting prowess shows the structural re-bar skeleton of “hum a few bars and I’ll fake it.”

This produces the realization that the location of eating and duration spent therein pales in comparison to THAT eating, sufficiently nutritious and voluminous, is taking place. My kids have yet to blow away when a strong gust of wind whips across our porch. When I look up in the sky and remark on the remarkable resemblance yonder kite has to a human, and upon closer inspection, realize my child is aloft, I’ll worry about said child’s weight. But if that occurs, equally likely is the possibility that said child will solve the equation to overcome gravity, rendering any response from me unnecessary.

I still abhor the wasting of food. I’ve stopped short of requiring the grinding of couch cushion refuse into a soup base, but we can bring this back to committee discussion, if necessary. There are, however, times when food is wasted not as the result of wanton carelessness, but because of simple ignorance, hilariously so, of scientific principles coupled with the capabilities of modern appliances and the scope of their intended functions.

Case in point: a refrigerator is an inappropriate place to store an uneaten popsicle. I know this. I think it’s fairly plausible to assume that you know this. But my three-year-old daughter, Ella, is blissfully ignorant of this.

Ella didn’t finish her after-dinner popsicle, so she put it in the fridge for later. The fridge. In the morning, I found a puddle.

Take pains to keep your treasure close and enjoy its efficacy while you can.

Science (or magic) may take it away without warning.

Ash makes for a poor after-dinner snack.


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Seth Kabala

About: Seth Kabala
Seth is an entrepreneur, writer, musician, family man, and juggler of balls--big ones. He lives with his wife and three children in Portland, OR.

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