Scooby Poo

We got a dog. At least I’m told it’s a dog.

The dog, or canis lupus familiaris (Latin for large, eating, pooping machine which, if properly provoked, can bite off your leg) is a domesticated subspecies of the Gray Wolf. As such, a true “dog” cannot be carried around in one’s coat pocket, nor shuttled about the house in a baby carriage. A “dog” doesn’t go to the beauty parlor. Nor does a “dog” deserve equal privilege when it comes to familial membership or affairs of state. (“Who should we vote for?” “Let’s ask the dog!”)

The acquisition of our “dog” was the result of my nine-year-old’s insistence that if she didn’t get one, she would run away to join the circus. I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, wished her good luck growing a beard, and sent her on her way.

My wife, on the other hand, is one of those sensitive, nurturing types who actually cares what the children think. As a result, our house is now home not only to four humans, but two hamsters, two parakeets, several fish, a few tadpoles, a guinea pig (the other white meat), and Taffy, the “dog.”

All the aforementioned are females (except the tadpoles and me who are of no discernable gender) and each possessed of far greater social and sentimental stature within our tribe than their adult caregivers. (Egyptian pharaohs had less elaborate funerals than those routinely conducted by our daughters for an expired goldfish.)

Don’t get me wrong; I like dogs. What’s more, most dogs like me – no doubt because at some fundamental level, I’m made of meat. Even so, I have been accused throughout this ordeal of not being a “dog person.”

I disagree. Wet nose and floppy ears notwithstanding, I am a dog person. I nonetheless feel compelled to help my misinformed family understand that Taffy is not a dog – or at least no mutation of the species I’ve ever encountered – as she simply does not meet the classic definition of “dog.”

The mere ability to bark and growl is not sufficient proof of one’s dog-ness, as our neighbor’s cat does both. Authentic dogs live idyllic existences of unfettered leisure. They spend their days sleeping, eating, chasing the occasional stick, offering a perfunctory “woof” as the ice cream truck drives off with the neighbor’s kid. What’s more, they’re known to be brave, resilient, and of rollicking good humor. (See “Lassie,” “Rin Tin Tin,” “Scooby Doo.”)

Taffy is nothing like this. Pampered, spoiled, and aloof, she despises getting wet, refusing to go outside in the rain. She spends her days comatose on one of the girls’ beds, or preening herself on the back of the couch as she gazes sleepily out the window, no doubt plotting her escape from captivity.

At night she shakes off the fatigue from her day to prowl the dark recess of our neighborhood, skulking around corners, twitching nervously at every sound, and poking about in the shrubbery. If the veterinarian hadn’t convinced us otherwise, I might have believed she was a large house cat, Paris Hilton, or a US Congressman.

Clinically speaking, Taffy is a Yorkie-Poo, an apparent eponymous appellation based on the breed’s ability to detect the intoxicating aroma of other creatures’ filth from miles away, and likewise their insatiable appetite for the stuff.

Scientists say a dog’s nose is 10,000 times more powerful than a human’s, which explains why Taffy’s primary skill appears to be sniffing. According to my wife, just because she is wont to spend half an hour walking in circles searching for a worthy patch of earth to defile with excrement* is no reason to consider her unusual. (*Unless she’s indoors in which case any old Persian rug will do.)

Of course owning a dog does have certain advantages. Not only are my toes always clean, but in terms of home security, a dog has no equal.

Her keen senses ever tuned to the many dangers which threaten our safety, we have come to depend on Taffy to warn us of squirrels trespassing in our yard, robins lurking in the garden – that the guinea pig is awake, or the goldfish swimming – along with countless other admonitions vital to the well being of our family.

She’s also been a terrific learning experience for the girls. Not only has caring for Taffy taught them responsibility, but owing to their gratitude for finally getting a “dog” (and recent news reports of a nearby cougar siting), I no longer need threaten to smear Taffy with bacon grease and chain her out back at night to get them to behave.

Our experiment with dog ownership is a work in progress. And although I don’t consider Taffy a “dog” in the strict sense of the word, I am learning to accept her. For the benefit of the kids, I’ve even been teaching her a few simple commands like “heel,” “sit,” “baa like a lamb,” and “taste like chicken.” It seems she gets a little better (and more plump and juicy) every day

GM Got Game

DETROIT – In a move industry analysts say could salvage the beleaguered US automobile manufacturer from the brink of financial disaster, General Motors announced plans this week to merge with iconic US toy and game manufacturer, Hasbro, as an integral first step in their bid to build the first Nerf automobile.

GM CEO Dick Wagoner believes it’s a perfect example of the sort of “outside the box” thinking GM is known for.

“You take two somewhat antiquated, market-worn concepts and bring them together to create something altogether new and revolutionary – like the Saturn, for instance.”

Reached during GM’s quarterly shareholder meeting at a Denny’s restaurant in suburban Detroit, Robert Lutz, head of GM Global Product Development, agreed.

“It’s kind of like combining peanut butter and chocolate, or pig and human DNA.”

Brian Goldner, President and CEO of Hasbro, and current custodian of such powerful brand names as Tonka, G.I. Joe, Monopoly, Transformers, and Mr. Potato Head, offered his own perspective.

“We saw it as an opportunity to branch out from toys and games into safe, reliable, low cost transportation – and to get our hands on a boatload of primo real estate for next to nothing.”

The GM Bounce will feature a lightweight aluminum frame surrounded by high density foam rubber. Like the VW Beetle, it will be marketed in dozens of pastel shades, or for an added fee, in popular NFL and college team colors.

Hasbro was initially attracted to the many “green” aspects of the idea including outstanding fuel economy, insignificant greenhouse emissions, a first class safety rating, and dramatically lower insurance premiums for the American consumer.

According to State Farm agent Jayson Buckwilde, “Sure, a six year old can tip it over, but guess what? No damage. It’s a Nerf!”

Auto industry experts say the move will finally allow GM to compete on the global stage where safety and fuel economy are established must-haves.

GM President Frederick Henderson couldn’t agree more. “With a little luck, we hope to post a profit for the first time since 1976.”

As an added benefit, the new “sponge on wheels” is expected to dramatically reduce US dependence on foreign oil. Since the vehicle will weigh next to nothing, the energy required to operate it will be negligible.

“Our engineers are already working to adapt the low voltage electric motor we use in Kota The Triceratops,” said Goldner, adding, “Nobody else in the business offers a car powered by six D cell batteries.” [Not included.]

Until the all-electric version of the vehicle becomes available, GM will substitute gas powered 2-cycle chainsaw engines in an effort to bring the product to market as early as next year. GM believes this strategy will also help ease the transition-to-electric for their many loyal customers who aren’t quite ready to give up on dirty, noisy, internal combustion.

CEO Goldner admits the idea came to him as a result of a Ray Romano stand-up comedy routine during which the popular comic suggested the idea of a Nerf automobile.

“A good idea is a good idea regardless where it comes from,” echoed Wagoner, speaking by megaphone from a retired Goodyear blimp the company now uses as its corporate aircraft. “Look! There’s my house!”

Donald Crashmore of the National Transportation Safety Board believes the Nerf car will also be a lifesaver. “It’s brilliant when you think about it. A perfect fit for the next generation of drivers who will be far more distracted than drivers of today.”

Crashmore refers to recent NTSB study which predicts a 122% increase in vehicular collisions by 2012 owing to emerging electronic technologies that will allow motorists to simultaneously talk, text, surf the web, and watch TV on their mobile phones.

While the exact cost of Hasbro’s acquisition of GM stock was not disclosed, it is believed to run in the tens of thousands.

This announcement comes on the heels of GM’s recent use of federal bailout funds to acquire Chrysler Motor Corporation, thereby expanding GM’s branding to include Buick, Cadillac, GMC, Chevrolet, Hummer, Pontiac, Saab, Saturn, Chrysler, Dodge, Plymouth, and Jeep.

Said Wagoner, “Competition is good for the marketplace, even if we are competing against ourselves.”

As a personal favor to Wagoner, Hasbro has agreed to launch a line of corporate action figures bearing his likeness. The product will be marketed under the brand “CEO Joe.”

© 2009 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

Amanda's Revenge 2008

I always knew it was a mistake to teach Amanda to read. This ability has not only allowed her to unmask clandestine, spelled conversations between parents, but also provided her access to the tawdry world of print, including our annual Christmas letter, in which we have been known to parody the oft humorous circumstances of her life (along with those of the less interesting members of her family). Last year, she took verbal umbrage over fun poked at her expense. This year, she took revenge.

A full text of her unexpergated work is included below. Keep in mind these are the thoughts of a nine year old -- the same nine year old who is wont to sit down at her desk and crank out fifteen, double-sided, letter size pages (complete with dialogue) on the fictional adventures of her friends, family, and/or Scooby Doo.

Seems it's time for the real writer in the family to stand up and be heard.

Dear Dad,
This year I am going to write YOU a Christmas letter and get revenge. Now let’s talk hair. You really don’t need that stuff anyway. Now you know, some bald men are very attractive to women that have just got out of jail or are mentally confused , but your lucky you got mom because you would have NEVER stand a chance. Christmas is the subject, so let’s get to it. This year your spending your Christmas Eve down stairs, because one, you have so much work to do that you can’t even move your butt upstairs and two, moms horrible snoring keeps you up all night so you go down there to sleep. Then you sleep late. (good job mom). From sleeping down stairs you say you got a sinus infection. Well I say you have it because you take TOO MANY VITAMINS! What about all those pills! You take so many of those that you could turn into one. (moms says that you are already one and not me). Allyson feels super bad about the whole thing, sort of , kind of, not really, nope, sorry and my favorite-man falling off of a cliff,Nooooooooooooooooo boom. Well that raps up this master piece. So, next year, Christmas time and see ya! Oh! Almost forgot that this MASTER PIECE is written(typed) by


AMANDA!!!

P.S. you don’t stand a chance to me next year!

2008 Layne Family Christmas Letter

It seems like yesterday we sat gazing upon the carnage of last Christmas, listening to the kids squeal with delight as they played amongst the heaps of boxes, bows, and diabolically impossible to open packaging, having lost interest in the contents of said parcels long before breakfast.

The Layne family spent the past year working to reduce their carbon footprint, while simultaneously increasing their Hannah Montana footprint, having spent close to the gross national product of Ecuador on every licensed Hannah Montana product in existence including HM cereal, underwear, toilet paper, floor wax, and motor oil – not to mention advance booking a week long stay in the yet-to-be-constructed Best of Both Worlds Resort at Disney World where every guest will be greeted with a blond wig upon arrival. Mark is looking forward to spending his first week since high school with hair.

Of the more significant events of 2008 was our temporary acquisition of a six week old Wheaton Terror named Daisy. The product of two years of incessant begging and whining on the part of Amanda, Daisy was with us for ten remarkable days during which she taught us all the meaning of the word “animal.” No one will ever forget returning home that first night after Daisy’s departure to a quiet, virtually excrement-free house.

In other scatological news, Karen tricked Mark into briefly joining a bowling league. An accomplished bowler herself, Karen felt compelled to explore her inner cheese head. Conversely Mark is to bowling as what cataracts are to a neurosurgeon. His sole contribution to the effort was to give his team a name – Bowl Movement – and, as it turns out, its identity.

Not unlike the intrepid American pioneers who braved harsh conditions and an unforgiving land to expand the frontiers of this great country, the Laynes piled into their air conditioned, video-screen-equipped minivan this past July and fought their way west to the renowned Black Hills of South Dakota. There they celebrated the birth of our nation beneath the mocking gaze of our forefathers who stand in proud, silent testament to the subjugation of native peoples and the desecration of their most sacred places. Afterward, they went out for ice cream. Much like National Lampoon’s Vacation, the kids most enjoyed the free dinosaur park, fighting at Wall Drug, and the ice-cold, insect-encrusted pit that passed for the resort swimming pool.

In September, Allyson began kindergarten. As with all things, she approached the experience with grave determination and sobriety. At Amanda’s urging to loosen up and have some fun, Ally cautiously abandoned her place in line to join the rest of her class on the playground, and promptly broke her right arm. The first ensuing days were pure anguish as Karen, Mark, and a team of psychiatrists worked round the clock to comfort and console their agonizing daughter. Amanda eventually recovered, able to accept the accident wasn’t her fault. Ally never skipped a beat, quickly adapting to her one-armed existence, rather enjoying her new fiberglass appendage and the damage it could inflict upon her sister.

Amanda continues to be the gasoline to Allyson’s fire. Earlier this year, Allyson began channeling deceased actor and comedian, Sam Kinneson, responding to requests such as get dressed, brush your teeth, get out of the street, and stop gouging your sister’s eye, with a resounding, “Ah-h-h! Ah-h-h-h-h!” In sporting news, Ally was fortunate to have her father co-coach her U6 soccer team (team motto: Come for the Game, Stay for the Snack). Mark was able to impart unto the team his wealth of soccer knowledge including useful tips on “kicking,” “passing,” how to achieve a “first down” and successful implementation of the “Tampa Bay Cover 2 Defense.” They didn’t win many games, but all enjoyed the camaraderie and tackling drills. When not practicing her penmanship – which she does indiscriminately, tagging the Layne household like a New York City subway platform – Ally continues to enjoy her after school opera lessons.

Amanda was invited to join a competitive dance team which has the family traveling to far off venues to watch her perform a hip-hop number featuring a complex series of twists, kicks, gyrations and twirls. When not competing, Amanda practices – incessantly wherever she happens to be, causing passers-by to stop, afraid she is having a seizure. The teachers at Amanda’s school are working hard to keep Amanda challenged. Next year she will be teaching eighth grade. Outside of dancing, Amanda enjoys finding new ways to make her sister cry, watching age-inappropriate television programs, and writing – her latest project translating classical literature into Sanskrit.

The extended Layne family gathered in Door County, WI, this year for Thanksgiving (since all the nearby indoor pools were booked). Still stinging from the turkey tar tare incident of several years previous, the group opted for the restaurant buffet. It was good to see Leslie and Jayson; the girls enjoyed having their cousin there to fight with.

Not much different in the lives of K & M. Karen spends her free time perfecting a whole-house Febreeze system (similar to a restaurant fire suppression system), while Mark continues his job as a high priced call girl.

In keeping with last year’s theme, as Aristotle once observed, “Melancholy men, of all others, are the most witty.”


Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Good Eats at Zoo

BROOKFIELD, IL – Dusti the giraffe is dead.

In a sad but true story, the eleven year fixture of the Chicago Zoological Park located in Brookfield, Illinois, somehow hanged himself in the ropes and rigging used to suspend baskets of food at mouth-height inside his enclosure.

Perhaps more troubling than the leggy creature’s demise, however, is the reaction of zoo staff to this unfortunate event.

My initial thoughts upon hearing this tragic news were, “Do you think it was a suicide?” and then, “Wonder what they’ll do with the meat?”

In his article, “Giraffe Recipes Reshelved Over Lack of Ingredients,” Chicago Tribune columnist John Kass posed just such a question to horrified zoo employees who expressed outrage at what they considered an impertinent – nay, sacrilegious question – as if John had suggested they were all baby-stealing, cat-torturing gypsies.

I don’t get it. If 3,000 pounds of choice meat fell out of the sky onto my dinner table, I’d mutter a quick prayer of thanks, then fire up the grill.

Say, for instance, a prize Angus steer wandered into your yard and died of a heart attack (no doubt from eating too much red meat). The last thing I would be inclined to do is tie it to my lawn tractor and drag it to the curb for garbage day. Angus beef? That’s good eatin’. And while
I don’t know whether giraffe meat is fit for the human palate, I must imagine any of the zoo’s many carnivores would find its tasty goodness reminiscent of home on the range.

Yet the zoo, a not-for-profit institution which relies heavily on charitable contributions, public patronage, and sales of $4.00 boxes of popcorn, to support its research, sought fit to cremate Dusti rather than do him the dishonor of returning him to “the circle of life” (quoting a bit of Disney dime-store philosophy), thereby reducing his existence to nothing more than fertilizer for next summer’s butterfly garden.

Shame on you, Brookfield Zoo! Since when did zoo animals become pets? And why is it suddenly more about the feelings of the milk-toast, overly sentimental zoo staff than the enrichment of the zoo’s paying customers? Last I checked, the zoo was a place where local folk could come to experience glimpses of life in other parts of the world – to learn about exotic creatures and distant habitats – without ever leaving the quaint confines of Cook County. Take away the patrons, and what is a zoo but Riker’s Island for animals?

Yet here we are, crying alongside the poor zoo workers whose pet giraffe just died. Never mind that Dusti could have fed all of the zoo’s meat eaters for at least one day, thereby ensuring he didn’t die stupidly and without purpose.

Somebody needs to consider the welfare of the animals. You think the animals – especially the big predators – want to lie around all day in a tiny enclosure waiting for someone to toss them a chunk of horse meat? Hell no! They want to roam, hunt, mate – all those things animals do when their kids aren’t watching.

I offer proof of this claim by way of an anecdote from my own experience. Before we had kids, my wife and I lived in Brookfield. Owing to convenience, we used to visit the zoo regularly. One fall day we were standing at the viewing window outside the lion enclosure watching a male lion sleeping against the glass. Just then, a slight, three or four year old girl walked up with her mother and pushed her way to the front. Realizing a one inch tempered pane was all that separated her from the king of beasts, she retreated to her mother’s leg.

“Does he bite, Mommy?” she asked.

A zoo veteran, wise in the ways of all deadly creatures, I interjected, in my most avuncular, condescending, know-it-all manner, that the animal had been in captivity so long, it was probably tame as a house cat.

No sooner had the words left my pursed lips when a Canada Goose perched high on the enclosure’s rocky back wall, made an ill-conceived decision to glide down from its safe roost into the center of the enclosure where lay a chunk of soft pretzel tossed by a misinformed onlooker who believed he was at the seagull exhibit.

Before the foundering foul’s second foot lit upon the ground, the comatose lion had sprung to life, closed the twenty or so feet between the window and the center of the enclosure in a single bound, and swiped the landing bird from the air, and dragged its now limp form into his cave.

As the folks on the open side of the enclosure cheered the gander’s demise with rousing applause, I looked down at the terrified little girl and said, “Don’t believe everything grownups tell you.”

Though shocking, I was intrigued by the spectacle.

It seems we’ve become a society of special- interest-touting activists. Animal rights. Children’s rights. Convicted criminal’s rights. Vegetable’s rights. You can hardly do anything nowadays without offending someone, somewhere.

That being said, would it be so bad to add a little circus to the zoo? For example, what would be the harm in turning a few tigers loose in the Okapi enclosure, or a boa in the rodent house, or a perhaps a snow leopard in the Children’s Zoo?

Given the popularity of television programs like Wild Discovery, where on any given night you can see a cheetah take down and devour an Ibex in all its gore, I have to believe people would flock to see the same sort of thing live, up-close, and in person.

The US has already been accused of following in the footsteps of the Roman Empire. Why not embrace our destiny and have a little fun in the process? Not only would we be providing an enriching, affirming experience for the animals, but think of all the $4.00 boxes of popcorn they’d sell!

Animals will be animals. It’s not their fault (or ours) they taste good.


© 2008 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

Packaging Industry Alive and Well

Thankfully, another Christmas has passed. All that remains to remind us of the gluttony of giving that befalls our household each year is the stack of forgotten, yet unopened toys in the corner of the living room, many of which will be re-gifted – some to our own children – in the months and weeks to come. That and my bloody knuckles, of course.

When I was a child, toys came in a box. The box was typically made of cardboard which, except in rare instances, had a photograph of its contents plastered on the lid.

This was a convenient and effective packaging system. In the first place, our parents had it made in that boxes of the day were usually square or rectangular, which made wrapping them a breeze, even for a blind person missing two fingers on each hand.

To frantic children overcome by the spirit of receiving, it was also ideal in that once the thin veneer of gaudy paper was stripped from the box, we were able to tell exactly what was inside merely by looking at the photo pasted on the lid. It was rare, for example, to open a box with a photo of GI Joe on the lid only to discover Prom Queen Barbie lurking inside. What’s more, a quick shake and the lid would slide off, providing full and almost immediate access to the contents.

Today’s product manufacturers have decided that mere photographs aren’t good enough. No – people just won’t buy a product unless they can see the actual product encased inside a clear, hermetically sealed plastic vessel impenetrable even by Navy Seals demolition experts.

And I’m not talking just about toys. The same packaging philosophy appears to apply to electronics (lest we attempt to test them to see if they work), light bulbs (lest we mistakenly buy the wrong color), baseballs, paper clips, shoes, apples, puppies, etc. Want to protect something from damage, theft, or occasional use? Have it packaged by a modern-day product manufacturer. Idea: send the Hope Diamond to Mattel. No one will ever be able to steal it.

As a result, like most parents, I spent Christmas morning surrounded by hopping, squirming, whining kids, each desperate to actually touch the glimmering items smiling at them from inside their plastic prisons. So, after hacking four Hannah Montanas free of their acrylic sarcophagi with a utility knife, tin snips, and a blowtorch, and shredding my knuckles on the razor sharp edges in the process, the children were finally able to play with their toys, right?

Wrong!

In their infinite marketing wisdom, toy manufacturers have decided that not only must we see the toy, but it must be arranged in “play” mode so children – who are known to have little in the way of imaginations – can visualize how they might use it. “Look! We can pretend that he can fly.”

In order to create a more compelling illusion of “action,” each toy is then contorted and/or arranged into an exciting action pose or clever diorama via the use of thousands of tiny wires, strings, and nearly invisible rubber bands, the workable ends of which are sandwiched between layers of cardboard sealed at the edges with unbreakable clear plastic tape, thereby rendering the toy inaccessible to any child not skilled in the use of a hacksaw. And that’s just the feature item.

When we were kids, the small accessory parts (aka “choking hazards”) were contained in a plastic baggie tucked safely into a corner of the cardboard box. Not so anymore. In order to protect our children from certain death by insuring that these items can never be played with, each miniature thingamajig is sealed in plastic and glued (using the same adhesive NASA uses to attach heat resistant tiles to the space shuttle) onto a colorful cardboard backdrop depicting some clever use for the toy. “Look, Dolly can play with her rubber ducky in the bathtub!” or “Oh, I see – she wears the shoes on her feet!”

In that it is impossible to extract these smaller items without destroying them, we usually send them out to the recycling bin with the rest of the seven metric tons of plastic and cardboard that holidays of this magnitude generate.

Of course it’s all worth the hassle to be able to sit back and watch the little ones enjoy playing with the big cardboard box from my new television.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to try and get this blood stain out of Cinderella’s dress.


© 2007 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

2007 Family Christmas Letter

As Andy Williams reminds us, it is once again “…the most wonderful time of the year.” Of course, Andy is referring to football season. It is also that magical time of year when the thoughts and hopes of all young children turn to toys, presents, and that long awaited visit by a jolly old elf in a soot-tarnished red suit – except in the Layne household, that is, where ghouls, witches, vampires, and mummies cast an orange-and-black shadow over this otherwise festive, red-and-green season.

It would seem around here that the penultimate annual commemoration of our savior’s birth has taken a back seat to the ancient druid celebration of the harvest. Amanda and Ally begin discussing their Halloween costumes on November 1st, changing their minds 364 times up until the afternoon of October 31st, at which point they give up and go as whatever they were the previous year. This year, Ally was pink Jasmine (as opposed to last year’s green version), and Amanda went as Myanmar. Barely ten minutes after trick-or-treating ended, plans were set into motion for the following year. As of this writing, Ally wants to be purple Jasmine, and Amanda, petulance.

Amanda is a tall-and-spindly, creative, high maintenance creature who is drawn to the arts and depends upon her parents to keep her alive by reminding her to eat, sleep, and breathe. Ally, on the other hand, is a tough, self-sustaining sort who takes guff from no one and can forage for a full day’s nutrition right in her own nose. Having given up all attempts to tame Ally’s fearsome temper, K & M have instead elected to put her pugilistic tendencies to constructive use by enrolling her in the kick-boxing program at the local YMCA. Known as “Ally-Kazam” and her sidekick “Blankie,” she strikes fear into the hearts of the other Medinah Park District preschoolers.

This past spring, the Layne troupe made their first pilgrimage to Orlando to visit Disney’s Wonderful World of Licensed Merchandise. Karen was ecstatic, having been inculcated into the Disney cult as a child. Amanda and Ally were excited about seeing their friends, Courtney and Stephanie, who came down from New Jersey following Bon Jovi on the southern leg of their 2007 tour. Mark was the only one not necessarily looking forward to the trip, owing to his pronounced distaste for crowds, hot weather, children, and fun of any sort. Thanks in large part to the hospitality of the Elliots – cousins Brad and Sheryl in particular – he managed to have a delightful time, except for the four days he spent in bed with 104 degree fever.

As everyone knows, Disney is all about getting kids to watch television. As such, Ally nearly fainted from the thrill of meeting her idols Jasmine and Aladdin. Amanda spent the week searching each theme park for Zack, Cody, Hannah, and the brothers Jonas, who Karen and Mark assume must be characters in some new Disney western. In the end, all the expense and hassle of travel was worth it in that to this day, whenever the subject of Disney World is mentioned, Amanda and Ally’s eyes light up and their rosy cheeks crease with smiles as they recall the glorious times they had at the hotel pool.

During summer, Illinois got a taste of life in a hurricane prone state when the most severe thunderstorms in history swept through the Chicago area, uprooting trees, flooding basements, and knocking out power to over half a million people, causing local ratings of Deal or No Deal to plummet. Karen and Mark discovered that living for three days without electricity and water is a lot like camping in a really expensive tent. It was a terrific learning experience for the kids, however, who got a taste of what life was like for the early pioneers by cooking over an open fire, reading by lamplight, making potty in a bucket and tossing it out the window, trapping beavers, etc.

For Thanksgiving, the gang made the trek down to drought-plagued Atlanta to visit Leslie, Anthony, and Jayson, and to celebrate Amanda’s eighth birthday. As it turns out, showering without water isn’t half as bad as it sounds. The kids had a blast rolling around on the bottom of the empty hotel pool and playing at the local Jump Zone (until Ally bloodied the nose of an eleven-year-old boy because she didn’t like how he was looking at her sister).

Sadly, the days of the annual X-mas letter may be numbered. As it happens, kids don’t enjoy their parents making fun of them. Who knew? K&M aren’t too worried about Amanda who has a relatively evolved sense of humor – even though after reading last year’s installation she demanded stuffed animals as compensation for being libeled and abused for the past seven years. It’s Allyson who will have her parents watching their backs.

In closing, never has the underlying melancholy of the Christmas season been captured more aptly than in “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” one of many idiomatic masterpieces by author Charles M. Schultz, who also once said, “I love mankind; it’s people I can’t stand.”

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, and Ally