Floats Like a Butterfly, Stings Like a Giant Hornet

I don’t know about you, but the most disturbing news I’ve heard recently – other than that Kanye and Kim have reproduced – concerns the attack of the giant Asian hornets.

 

As reported last December by Michael Caldwell in The Allegiant, these cartoonishly large insects, which can grow to the size of Air Force One, have recently attacked over 1,600 people in the Shaanxi province of China, resulting in 41 confirmed deaths. 
 

The Asian Giant Hornet, or vespa mandarinia, is the largest species of wasp in the world.  Known for their aggression, they prey mostly on honeybees, but also eat wasps and other hornets, Praying Mantises (or is it Manti?), and beetles, typically of the Volkswagen variety.  These formidable creatures can grow to be two inches long, thick as a human thumb, and feature a wide orange-yellow head, large eyes, and distinct yellow-orange/brownish-black bands on its body.

 

Though indigenous to Eastern Asia, they are most commonly found in the mountains of Japan – the very same mountains which brought us the likes of Godzilla, Rodan, Gamera, and the Sobijin -- twin fairies whose shrill song not only summoned Mothra, but inspired Yoko Ono to record her own cat-like voice.

Unlike the poorly dubbed Japanese horror films of the 1950’s, however, these monsters are real. 
 

Armed with a stinger the size of a javelin, Asian Giant Hornet venom packs a complex punch featuring eight different chemicals which can cause breathing complications, skin degeneration, and anaphylaxis, not to mention full body paralysis just from seeing one fly past. As an added bonus, their venom is laced with pheromones which incite the rest of the colony to attack and sting the same victim multiple times.

Does it hurt?  Depends if you consider the sensation of a red-hot eight-penny finishing nail piercing your flesh painful.  And while the pain from the sting of a yellow jacket last about four minutes, the pain of an Asian Giant Hornet sting last about four hours and is often accompanied by intense swelling and never ending nightmares.

No worries.  See one coming, and you’ll just run away, right?

Think again.

Though not nearly as fast as the other Super Hornet – that being the F/A-18 carrier-based tactical fighter employed by the US Navy – these equally lethal war birds can achieve an astounding top speed of 25 mph and have been known to travel 60 miles in pursuit of prey. So unless you’re Usain Bolt, better come up with another plan.

Amazingly, the Asian Giant Hornet is considered a delicacy in many Asian cultures, proving once and for all that the term “delicacy” is contextual, and that people deprived of McDonald’s will eat just about anything.  As a result of hungry hordes of Asians streaming out into the jungles in search of this gruesome and deadly snack, the hornets have migrated into more populous areas, adapting themselves to urban life. Thanks a lot, hungry Asians!

If you’re like me, you’re probably asking yourself, “But why should I worry about some mutant insect killing folks halfway around the world?”  Because as recent as July, 2012, at least one of these deadly invaders was spotted in Arlington Heights, Illinois, with additional sightings in 19 other US states.  Nineteen!  We’re talking nearly half of the contiguous 48! 

The Midwest is renowned as a bastion of the ordinary, commonplace, and dull – not some modern day Mysterious Island.  And while these hornets are not the first menace sent by Asia to plague my native state of Illinois, they are certainly the most terrifying. 

I remember when our biggest worry around here was Zebra Mussels clogging the water intakes of our nuclear power plants.  Then came their Asian long-horned beetles which preyed upon and eventually decimated our Ash tree population. 

 

And though I don’t recall reading of Asian Carp leaping from the water and latching onto the throats of passersby, they do seem to be giving the folks at our Department of Natural Resources headaches.  These hornets, however, can not only fly, but seem to hate humans, attacking in swarms with the relentlessness of a personal injury attorney.

They say Asia will one day rule the world.  Is this how it happens?  Wearing down our national resolve one debilitating pestilence at a time?

The only good news to come out of the article is that destruction of the hornet’s natural habitat by humans may result in their extinction. Thank goodness!  This is one Asian export that needs to be returned to sender.  As Winston Churchill stated, “…we shall fight on the beaches… we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills…”

I, for one, intend to be prepared.  Look for me in my yard next summer.  I'll be the guy mowing the lawn in a beekeeper's suit holding a flamethrower.

 

 



 

Million Dollar Morons

My kids are weird.  Whereas most children their age spend their uncommitted time engaged in such useful pursuits as texting, playing video games, or listening to music, mine watch television.  Which doesn’t seem so weird unless you consider what they’re watching. 

 

Normal kids between roughly six and fourteen years of age tend to gravitate toward the panoply of programming offered by Disney and Nickelodeon – your typical mindless drivel which appeals to the automobile restricted segment of the kid population and includes such favorites as Austin and Ally, iCarly, and Big Time Rush.

 

Conversely, I routinely find my two daughters raptly engaged in the various reality-based programs featured on the Food Network and HGTV.  As a concerned parent, I want to know what my children are watching.  After all, I don’t want them exposed to unhealthy, age-inappropriate ideas concerning home décor, or worse, have them begin making food choices ill-suited to my wife’s culinary skills.  As a consequence, I often find myself watching these shows along with them. 

The cooking programs aren’t of great concern in that my daughters have such blasé, unadventurous palettes that they are disinclined to sample any dish which doesn’t contain their two favorite ingredients – peanut butter and jelly.  And while many of the home improvement and real estate oriented programs are benign, I do have concerns about certain of the HGTV offerings such as Million Dollar Rooms, Amazing Water Homes, and Extreme Homes. 

 

Each of these tends to feature an insanely wealthy couple searching for their own personal Shangri-La.  Less intriguing to me than the bizarre dwellings, however, are the equally odd couples who own or want to buy them.  The duos often feature a troll of a man who has used his extraordinary wealth to attract a much younger woman way out of his league on the attractiveness scale.  For the most part, the women have the intellect of an eggplant and are doing all they can to spend their much older husband’s fortune before he dies and the prenuptial agreement kicks in.

 

 

These men will do almost anything to keep their partners happy because they know they have no other shot at an intimate relationship with a woman of equal caliber or such a high social security number.  As a result, they get towed around by the nose, looking as clever as cardboard, while their women commiserate with the real estate agent over the insufficient size of the indoor pool, the ill-conceived heliport, and the awkward position of the afternoon sun as it strikes the life-size statue of Zeus. 

 

It’s no wonder these unlikely bedfellows are attracted to homes matching their quirks in that most of the featured dwellings seem to have been designed by eccentric lunatics with no budgetary constraints and certainly no sense of proportion or style.  Can we truly consider a person sane who is desirous of living on an island, has enough money to buy Guam, but instead chooses to build his dream home on a flat patch of dirt in Oklahoma City which he then surrounds with a moat?

Enough is enough!  I’m left with no choice but to insist that my kids start watching SpongeBob, Finneas and Ferb, or Alien Surf Girls – anything that won’t warp their suggestible minds and distort their expectations of normalcy.  In the meantime, I’m off to catch the new episode of Dog with a Blog.  Pets are so brilliant these days!

 

Are You Ready to Get Sweaty?

A Health Club Survival Guide

In this era of Obamacare and rising healthcare costs, many employers are offering employees discounted health club memberships as a proactive means to reduce claims for preventable illnesses.  As a result, record numbers of folks are flocking to gyms after a long time away, or perhaps for the first time ever. 

If you are one of the multitude who have resisted taking that first step due to fear of the unknown, what follows is a primer to aid you in acclimating to the modern fitness world and thus assimilate yourself into the social milieu of health club regulars.



photo courtesy lifed.com

A health club is like no other place on Earth or in space.  It’s an intergalactic amalgamation of body types, nationalities, ages, insecurities, and neuroses rarely assembled in one location at the same time, all boldly displayed on a noisy, sweaty stage for all to see and enjoy.  Here are some of the different archetypal characters you can expect to encounter on your first visit.

Meatheads: Every club has a few – both male and female – with muscle mass in inverse proportion to brains.  They tend to be fixtures at their favored club, not unlike a squat rack, weight bench, or building support column.  Often you will hear them before you see them owing to their obnoxious vocalizations, which are not necessarily a consequence of their efforts or their desperate need for attention, but because grunting is the sole means by which they communicate.  The reason meatheads are so massively endowed is they spend all day, every day working out.  This is not a result of their commitment to fitness, but in most cases because they’re too dumb to find the exit, arriving by special bus in the morning and placed out at the curb by staff when the club closes at night.  Although they appear large and fearsome, don’t be intimidated as they are slow witted and easy to fool.  (Think of the fully grown mountain troll from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.)  If you find their presence uncomfortable, just say loudly enough for one to hear, “Somebody left some performance enhancing drugs on a bench in the locker room,” and they will scurry after each other like rogue Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons, not to return before you complete your workout due to the long odds against them finding their way back from the locker room. 
 

Athletes: These are the hopelessly young and fit persons who have no business working out, but because of their one dimensional, sports-focused, health-consumed lives, have no other interests or hobbies and therefore no place else to go.  You don’t have to worry about them.  They will not approach you because they hate you, repulsed as they are by your imperfect body and lack of willpower.  Usually found in groups of two or more owing to their inability to socialize with non-athletes, athletes would just as soon kill themselves as live to 35 if it meant an end to running marathons, competing in triathalons, and consuming flavorless, high protein, scientifically engineered food substitutes. Nor should you let them make you feel inferior.  While they are more fit and conditioned than you could ever hope to become, at 50 you will still be able to move about on your own accord, whereas they will be confined to walkers and/or wheelchairs as a result of their artificial knees and hips and surgically fused vertebrae.

Non-Athletes: These are your scrawny, clueless, pointy-headed males mostly of third world origin who have never seen fitness equipment let alone used it.  This is not their fault.  In their countries, exercise is the unfortunate byproduct of manual labors like hand digging tunnels, assembling massive stone temples using crude, prehistoric tools, and walking in circles chained to a large, spoked wheel.  You will see them wandering around aimlessly, dressed in loafers, black socks, and jeans, poking and tugging at various apparati as they attempt to ascribe some purpose to each.  After several hours of exploration and emboldened by their incorrect interpretation of a particular device’s function, they will fire off several jerky, awkward reps, often facing the wrong direction with their feet in the handholds.  WARNING!  Stay away from these people for they are extremely dangerous.  It is likely that at some point during a workout, one of them will become entangled in a cable and get flung across the room, wiping out everyone in their path before becoming impaled on one of their countrymen’s bullet-shaped heads.

The Morbidly Obese: These people are only at the club as a condition of further employment by their companies or by court order.  Because they resent having to be there and are without hope of losing enough weight to avoid burial in a piano crate, they are typically in a foul mood.  You most often find them watching the Food Network while trudging mournfully on a T.V. equipped treadmill at the slowest possible speed.  After ten or fifteen minutes of Cupcake Wars, they will waddle exhausted and famished to a quiet corner of the club and fall asleep in an expanding pool of their own perspiration and/or vomit.  A word of advice: do not befriend these folks unless you enjoy testifying at coroner’s inquests.

photo courtesy newsroom.uni.edu

Prom Queens: It’s rare to encounter one of these expensively coiffed, silicone enhanced beauties in the club’s main venue as they typically prefer to attend group classes comprised primarily of women older and less attractive than themselves.  The prom queen’s purpose is not so much to sweat, which could prove disastrous to her makeup and hair, but to show off her sculpted body and $500 Dolce & Gabbana thong leotard in an effort to motivate and inspire the rest of the class by providing an ideal to which the others might aspire.  Make no mistake: the prom queen did not acquire her Victoria’s Secret body by working out, but instead at the hands of her skilled personal surgeon.  Pity her, ladies, for while most of you will return home to your husbands, children, and/or pets, all she has to look forward to at home is her bald, round-bellied, cigar-puffing sugar daddy awaiting his daily sponge bath.

Creepy Old Dudes: A warning for men: while in the club’s locker room, look straight ahead, and make eye contact with no one, especially kindly old men who attempt to draw you into conversation.  I’m speaking particularly about guys typically of European descent who are on the downhill side of seventy and confine their fitness activities to the locker room where they enjoy hanging out with other men their age discussing horse racing, their medical conditions, and Florida.  When I say “hanging,” I mean literally in that these congresses typically occur in the nude with the participants clustered around the ring leader’s locker, some sitting, others standing with one foot up on the bench, their dangling junk scraping the shoulders of their cohorts while they argue the merits of Marco Island versus St. Pete’s.

So there you have it.  You are now fully equipped to embark upon your personal adventure into fitness.  Best of luck, Godspeed, and if you stop to chat with me in the locker room, please be wearing pants.

2013 Layne Family Christmas Letter

The leaves are gone, the skies are cold and gray, and the Sunday paper is eighteen inches thick.  Must mean it’s time for the pagan celebration of Sol Invictus once again.  Oh – and Christmas.

Except for Hawks winning the Cup, the Bears hiring a new head coach then firing their defense, and the Illini proving themselves worthy of a berth in the high school badminton playoffs, 2013 will go down as the most uninspiring and uninteresting year in recent history.

This will be our first Christmas without Don.  Not one to fall prey to maudlin sentimentality, Don was never a willing participant in the holidays, but more a victim of the season’s unreasonable expectations of joy, peace on earth, and goodwill toward men.  In an ironic Dickensian twist, the La-Z-Boy in front of the fireplace will be without its usual occupant this year – his one eye trained on a football game, the other feigning interest in the children opening gifts, and the other asleep – as a roaring fire fills the house with smoke.  Never again will he regale us with his very special version of Here Comes Fatty with His Sack of [Excrement], nor remind us that the true meaning of Christmas is humbug.  And who to tell and retell the same off-color jokes, over-mix the drinks, or snore through dessert?  In spite of himself, he will be missed. (For more on Don, visit thelaynebrain.blogspot.com.)

In an example of life imitating 1970’s network television, Amanda and Allyson have evolved into the Odd Couple.  Amanda (aka Felix) is convinced she contracted the flu, typhoid fever, and polio, along with one as yet undiscovered disease this year, the symptoms of which include itchy scalp, a foul temper, and pronounced narcissism.  Conversely, Allyson (aka Oscar) is altogether unconcerned with both domestic and personal hygiene, leaving in her wake a trail of grime and chocolate that keeps Karen following close behind with a sponge and 55 gallon drum of Pine-Sol. 

 

Now a fully armed and operational teenager, Amanda continues to both impress and irritate in equal measure.  What she lacks in good sense she makes up for in volume and hysteria, preferring to communicate only via text and shouting.  She has been working hard at her three dance classes – which she practices nonstop while doing homework, during meals, and while sleeping – but also at spending all of her parents money on boots she refuses to wear, opting to walk barefoot between indoor venues lest they become soiled.  Her straight A’s almost make up for the fact she’s late for everything, and we are all looking forward to high school next year where she’ll have new people to yell at.

 

According to her coaches, Ally is to fastpitch what “chopped” is to “liver.”  Having now transitioned to travel ball, Allyson intends to be the first pitcher ever to play Division I softball without first attending middle school.  Likewise, nephew Jayson is again the talk of his Pee Wee football team, no doubt because he is larger than all of the varsity players on the local Hoover HS team and many of the Auburn University offensive linemen. 

 

The clan crammed into the car and traveled south this summer visiting the Carolinas and Savannah, GA.  Moved by lessons of the Civil War, Amanda and Allyson spent most of the trip fighting over issues on which they both agree.  Inspired by their visit to the Biltmore Estate, the girls formed new opinions of how a modern middle class suburban family should live, leaving Karen to contemplate which of the seven rooms in her home she might convert into a library, solarium, and stables.

 

The family devoted one full day in Charleston to touring the USS Yorktown.  Initially disappointed to discover Yorktown wasn’t a shopping mall, Amanda and Ally wound up enjoying themselves, marking the first time they willingly spent an entire day inside a place of any historical significance that didn’t feature a shoe store or food court.  And yes, Paula Deen does fry everything she serves at her restaurant in butter, including muffins, pizza, and coleslaw.

 

Upon turning 50, Karen intensified clearing the clutter from her life to the point the family is convinced she’s accepting bribes from the local waste hauler.  It’s degenerated to where if you can’t find something important, look in the trash.  Thank goodness for the Apple Find My Phone app.  No one has seen Mark in weeks.

 

Taffy continues to challenge the neighborhood skunk population to regular duels.  Skunks 4; Taffy 0.

 

To say Mark has enjoyed his new career choice would be an insult to joy.  Of course the insurance has proved beneficial to pay for his broken finger, rebuilt shoulder, and breast implants.

 

If nothing else, Christmas provides a much anticipated interruption in the humdrum drudgery of daily existence.  As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe noted, “A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days.”

 

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Taffy

 

 

Ode to My Dad

Donald J. Layne, 1929-2013
 

I lost my father recently.  He was a hard man to lose.  Not merely because of his size (he struggled with weight for most of his adult life), but more so because of who he was to the world.

My dad was a man of the people, for the people, from the people.  He knew everyone.  I guess that happens when you hang around for almost 84 years.  

In his classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, Frank Capra showed us how one life can impact many. 

My dad didn’t build houses or kiss babies or cross swords with an evil slumlord, but he did teach kids.  Lots of them.  Nearly three generations during his forty-odd year career as a classroom teacher, coach, and principal.  And then for twenty more years post-retirement as a member of the school board and the dozens of community organizations, councils, and commissions for which he volunteered.

It also explains why his memorial service was moved from the local funeral home to city hall.  Even then the visitation line wound Disney-esque fashion through the rotunda, out the door, and around the building.  All that was missing was a theme-based gift shop at the end.  And a bowl of soup.

I’m certain my dad was watching, irritated nobody had thought to charge admission.

One stooped, gray-haired, gentleman towing a wheeled oxygen bottle claimed he was only twenty three when he got in line.  My dad would have liked him; probably asked him out for a drink after. 

My mother, sister, and I met them all.  Hundreds upon hundreds.  For four hours we stood shaking hands and listening to their stories.  Most everyone had a story.  Many involved careers my dad helped launch, rescue, or both. 

There was one about a kid whose front teeth Dad knocked out during football practice while demonstrating a defensive technique designed to knock out the teeth of opposing players.  The mishap resulted in a Watergate-like cover-up wherein the complicit victim kept mum until his graduation.  From college.  (That kid went on to become athletic director of a major state university; he and my father remained great friends until the end.)  Or the time a police liaison officer’s blank-loaded firearm was discharged in my dad’s office in an effective yet misguided scared-straight tactic. 

Many of the tales recalled my father’s highly evolved sense of mischief, such as when he convinced the school maintenance man to slump over the wheel of his tractor near a girl’s archery class, a fake arrow protruding from both sides of his head.  Or certain questionable Letterman’s Club initiation rites involving bricks and strings and male body parts.  

My dad also taught Driver’s education.  I think it was mostly to take advantage of the free, taxpayer provided transportation.  During those years he was never without a new car.  He would select a different one from the motor pool each night, and drive it to work the next day, sometimes on family vacations.  The neighbors were impressed.

It seems my dad taught at least half the folks who showed up that day to drive.  Most are no longer incarcerated.  Some still have licenses.  All could find their way to every donut and coffee shop in town blindfolded.  One told us how my dad had him drive to the local Tastee-Freeze where my dad purchased a root beer float which he placed on the dashboard, telling the student if it spilled, he failed.  Or the time a nervous young lady’s premature left turn left the driver’s education car suspended on railroad tracks.  Fortunately, the morning express had already passed.

It was also no surprise the mourners included a number of bartenders and waitresses whose children no doubt owed their college educations to my father’s generosity (and unquenchable thirst for vodka).  Even a few folks who harbored age-old resentments came to pay their respects, including several former faculty my dad tried to run down while crossing the picket line during a teacher’s strike.  In spite of their differences, they considered my dad a great man.

My dad loved being an educator.  He loved kids.  Because my dad belonged to the world, his own kids (and wife) were mere bystanders to his greatness. 

The only thing my dad loved more than teaching kids was coaching them.  The home I grew up in was selected because it backed to the high school football fields.  My dad said it was so he could walk to work.  Of course he never did what with the free car and all.      

Of all the sports Dad coached, football was his passion.  On the second Monday of August, he would leave the house at six AM for the start of double sessions and return well after 7:30 PM in mid-November.  During those months, he prodded, threatened, teased, and abused his players, imparting unto them his high ideals of discipline, respect, sacrifice, and what it meant to be a member of a team. 

By the conclusion of each season, he had managed to transform a gang of awkward, undisciplined, pimply-faced boys into a team of proud, confident, pimply-faced young men.  A lot of those young men, now gray around the temples, came to pay their respects to the man many considered the single greatest influence in their lives. 

I was truly astounded by the sheer number of people my dad touched during his life.  I was not, however, surprised by the impact he had.  My dad was expert at getting the best out of people – students and teachers alike.  He had an uncanny ability of making them realize what they were capable of… that their only limitations were self-imposed.  Fear has a way of doing that.

Without question, my dad was a dinosaur.  He hailed from a time before lawyers ruled the world – before this hypersensitive age in which people have lost the courage to voice their opinions.  My dad was never afraid to speak his mind.  He always had a reasoned point which he made without regard for tact or political correctitude.  I’m told there were occasions when he raised his hand during a meeting without making people cringe.  I suspect those occasions were rare. 

Make no mistake – my father wasn’t perfect.  He drank too much, exercised too little, and ate like a teenage boy with a tapeworm.  A self-proclaimed bigot, racist, and chauvinist who proudly espoused his oft inappropriate world view to anyone within earshot, he was prone to leave considerable wreckage in his wake. 

I guess greatness is a relative thing.

Not one for introspection, my dad never had much interest in evolving as a parent, husband, or grandfather.  My sister’s marriage to a black man put us all through some changes.  We took turns shoving socks into Dad’s pie hole.  True to form, my dad held his ground.  It was what he knew.  It worked for him.  He was what he was without apology.

My unfortunate mother bore the brunt of my father’s caustic wit and antiquated ideals.  It was all he could do to keep her in what he considered a woman’s proper place.  It didn’t work.  My mom is too clever for that.  Even so, on each of their wedding anniversaries past fifty, he would proudly announce they were celebrating 25 years of marital bliss.  It always made me laugh.  Once at a school event, I had an allergic reaction to some pineapple which rendered me temporarily unable to speak.  He immediately offered the fruit tray to my mother.

In his later years, Dad and I shared office space.  It afforded me the opportunity to see him almost daily.  At least once a week, I would pry him from the important business of playing solitaire on his ancient computer, and we’d go out to lunch.  It was nice.  My dad liked lunch.  It helped absorb the alcohol. 

Toward the end, as our conversations became tired, I sensed he had begun to realize he was a man out of his time.  He had gotten off the train at a familiar stop and remained in the station, watching as the world passed him by. 

At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, George’s guardian angel, Clarence, bequeaths to George his copy of Tom Sawyer.  Inside the front cover was inscribed a note which read: "Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends.”

By any measure, my dad was no failure.  Just ask his friends.  Just ask anyone. 

 

Nightime Nomad

It wasn’t until my mid-forties that I began sleeping around.
 
My wife and I were having difficulties in the bedroom.  I was restless; tired of our routine.
 
It all began innocently enough with a couple one night stands.  They were awkward and uncomfortable at first.  Before long, the unfamiliar became familiar, and I had adopted it as a way of life, waking two or three times per week in a strange bed.

Ironically, my liaisons rarely took me outside the comfort of my own home.  Each different location that I explored held its own special allure and charm.

My first experiences were in our finished basement.  The couch there converted into a queen size hide-a-bed which provided plenty of room to spread out.  Unfortunately, the thin mattress provided insufficient protection against the metal framework digging into my back and ribcage.  Plus the work of removing the cushions, pulling out the bed, and adding sheets and a blanket destroyed any hope for spontaneity.  Still it was dark, and private, and quiet.

Eventually I became bolder and moved upstairs.  The living room couch was extra wide with sturdy foam cushions which made it ultra-comfortable.  The problem there was the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the front yard.  Not that anyone was likely to be peering in during the wee hours, but privacy was certainly an issue.

Although the upstairs family room was outfitted with dark window shades, the standard length of the couch there prevented me from fully extending the whole of my six foot frame.  At 52 years, the prospect of keeping my knees bent for an extended period was problematic, not to mention awkward.  Plus the couch’s standard depth made it difficult to roll over and switch positions without falling off.

I’m ashamed to say that from time-to-time, I would even wait until my youngest daughter was sound asleep, and steal into her top bunk. I was never able to fully relax there either, ever fearful that my nocturnal gyrations might wake her. 

But of all the myriad scenarios I explored, the one I longed for more than any other was when my wife would take the kids to her parents for a sleepover, and I’d get the whole house to myself.  Spending time in my own bed was a wicked pleasure unrivaled by any other venue I dared explore.

I realize how awful this must sound.  And make no mistake – my wife and I still love each other.  We just make incompatible bedfellows.

Needless to say, I found myself becoming a sneak.  Not so much because I was afraid of being discovered, but more because of the pain such a discovery would cause her.

In the first place, my wife is a Virgo.  As such, she keeps our home ready to receive an HGTV camera crew at a moment’s notice.  For that reason, each morning I would rise early and cover my tracks like a Navy Seals assassin.  After tidying up the couch, I’d re-fluff the pillows and cushions, then make sure any blankets I used were folded just so.

But even with all of my surreptitious maneuvers, I knew I couldn’t keep deceiving her for long.  She was too clever… too observant.

Sure enough, one night when she couldn’t sleep, she wandered into the living me and caught me red handed.  It was the moment I had long anticipated yet feared most.  I was ashamed, but at the same time relieved the charade was finally over.

I could see the pain on her face; tears held back by pride alone.

“How could you?” she said in barely a whisper.

No words would come.  I was dumbstruck.

“I… I…  I love you.”  I stammered.

“And this is how you show it?” she said, the shock of what she had just witnessed shaking her to the core.

I felt two inches tall.  I knew that no matter how painful it might be, I owed her the truth.  So I mustered all my courage and said what I should have told her long ago.

“Honey – I love you.  But you left me no choice.  Your snoring makes it impossible for me to sleep.”

As a testament to her strength of character, she didn’t get angry.  In fact, she was so genuinely concerned for my well-being that she insisted I sleep elsewhere from that point on, going so far as to let our sound sleeping nine year old assume my position in our marital bed.

She’s special, that wife of mine.  I’m lucky to have her.  And even though my daughter’s stuffed-animal- strewn bunk bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as my own, sleepover night at grandma’s is never far away.  

 

2012 Layne Family Christmas Letter



Ah, Christmas – that wondrous time of year when we take time from our busy lives to reflect upon Christmases past and all the care and thoughtful planning that went into selecting the perfect gifts for the kids, only to be trumped by whatever electronic gadgets they got from grandma and grandpa.  This year, Karen and Mark hope the girls enjoy their shoelaces and toothbrushes.

In spring, Allyson channeled her desire to club small round objects into a more socially acceptable outlet when she became the Babe Ruth of the Roselle Medinah Softball and Baseball Organization (minus the drinking and philandering).  Mark regrets he didn’t run more red lights on his way to the league championship game, having arrived in the warm afterglow of her grand slam.  Fortunately Karen was ready with the camcorder and thus managed to capture Ally’s swing, contact, plus a lot of frantic screaming and jerky video of the dirt behind home plate.

On the subject of traffic signals, Mark J. Layne & Associates forfeited most of its 2012 earnings to red light camera violations, thus prompting the firm’s hostile takeover in October when Mark was asked to step down as CEO because the board of directors (aka Karen) was tired of having him around the house all the time, messing up the bathrooms.  Mark has since joined the real estate department at Commonwealth Edison where he was tasked with, among other things, developing a new super breed of fighting monkey.  This being his first experience with cubicle life in twenty five years, Karen was glad he was issued a hardhat which she insists he wears at his desk, not only for protection when he nods off, but for the merciless teasing he receives from coworkers.  Karen has adjusted to Mark’s absence during the days by redoubling her shopping efforts and shifting the firm’s mission statement from real estate consulting to house cleaning.

Whereas Amanda continues to impress with her skills as a writer, Ally has developed a knack for photography, prompting her to ask Santa for a camera.  Mark & Karen were unaware that shaving and photographing cats was an up and coming niche in the field.  Mark explained to her that while this was an interesting choice of careers, it might be more practical to ask Santa for a quality pair of cat shears first.

Speaking of cats, Taffy has become a legendary skunk hunter.  Though she hasn’t caught one yet, she remains undeterred, emboldened by her new strategy to smell enough like the enemy that she’ll be able to sneak up unnoticed.

In an effort to escape the mayhem the Ryder Cup brought to town in September, M & K decided to bring the family down to Disney World.  (Motto: Experience the magic of your disappearing cash!)  By “M & K” we of course mean “K” in that “M” considers Disney a money devouring monster in the shape of a giant mouse whose sole objective is to separate him from his savings faster than the attraction he just waited in line over two hours to ride.  The generosity of Mark’s cousins and the fact that only Amanda got sick this time made the experience almost bearable compared to trips past.

Speak of the devil, on November 23rd, Amanda turned 13.  Refusing to admit she’s a teenager, at least she now has a reason for taking two hours to get dressed, showering before soccer practice, doing her hair before going to the pool, staying up so late she misses the bus, and changing her clothes more often than the cast in a Broadway musical.

At 5’6” and 225 lbs., our 9 year old nephew, Jayson, was the only high school player on his Pee Wee football team.  Despite Jay’s prodigiousness, his team lost every game this season owing to the new league rule which required him to play on his knees, blindfolded.

In other sporting news, owing to his legendary skill operating the scoreboard during his high school freshman “C” games, Mark was asked to be an assistant coach on Ally’s basketball team.  He hopes to teach the girls such useful skills as the slip shank, the eye poke, the reverse Lindy, and decoupage.

Speaking of eye-poking, in November Mark broke his left ring finger playing hockey.  Unfortunately, the referee was no less blind after Mark jabbed him than before.  Although the finger is healing fine, as Mark’s luck would have it, he emerged from surgery with a third left foot.

As the warmth of the season envelops us like a pestilential fever, let us recall that while Christmas is for children, “Parents were invented to make children happy by giving them something to ignore.”  [Ogden Nash]

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,
Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Tabby… er, Taffy

Walk of Shame

America was discovered by men of great courage – intrepid explorers who braved long and perilous ocean voyages, landing upon the rugged, foreboding shores of this continent where they endured harsh conditions, bitter winters, hostile natives, and the Donner Party, all to bring the hope of civilization and professional football to this wild and untamed land.   

Which leaves me to wonder – given our proud heritage of exploration and fortitude, when did we all become too lazy to walk?

What I’m referring to is the recent proliferation of electronic convenience vehicle or ECV – a battery powered wheel-craft designed to locomote persons who ostensibly cannot do so themselves.

Also referred to as “mobility scooters,” I became aware of their existence thanks to those late night television ads which prey upon the elderly, specifically my mother.  I did not realize the extent of their pervasiveness, however, until we decided to bring the kids to Disney World.  (Motto: Experience the magic of your disappearing cash!)

When I say “we,” I of course mean “my wife” in that most males recognize Disney as a money devouring monster in the shape of a giant mouse whose sole objective is to separate you from your savings faster than the speeding roller coaster you just waited in line two hours to ride.

After a twenty minute delay during which our bus driver loaded, secured, and unloaded a half dozen ECV’s, we finally arrived at the Tragic Kingdom.  (Motto: The happiest place on earth for Disney shareholders.)  

At first, I thought we had stepped into the midst of a new Disney attraction:  Scooter Land – a futuristic society where humans have evolved beyond their need for legs.  I could already hear Goofy’s voice in my head: “Kindly exit through the gift shop featuring an enticing assortment of Mickey scooters, canes, and prosthetics.” 

At the risk of offending ECV owners, I realize many persons who employ these devices do so out of medical necessity.  Our neighbor, for instance, rides his scooter from the house to the end of his driveway – tubes up his nose, oxygen bottle strapped to the rear, smoldering cigarette dangling from his lower lip – to take out the trash.   

My own father, who suffers from congestive heart failure and has two bad knees, is just the sort of person who would benefit greatly from one of these contraptions.  He gets out of breath walking twenty feet and can’t ascend a flight of stairs without pausing for a martini.

Dad is a veteran of WWII, however, and would never consider taking advantage of any modern convenience that might improve his quality of life.  In his mind, crawling on one’s belly under barbed wire through a muddy field with tracers flying overhead is nothing compared to the indignity of accepting another’s assistance – unless it’s from a short-skirted cocktail waitress carrying a tray of vodka tonics. 

Nevertheless, each day of our magical adventure found us assaulted, nudged, and bypassed in line by folks on scooters.  There was even an ECV rental booth at the entrance to every park.  Most days, they were sold out by ten AM.

It confounds me why anyone with a dire medical condition which prevents them from walking would purposely come to a 10,000 acre theme park where walking, standing in line, and sprinting to the nearest ATM are prerequisites.  

Yes, there were those indolent few who needed assistance to get around.  There were also a remarkable number of perfectly healthy individuals – some in their teens – riding to and fro for no reason other than they were too lazy to walk or didn’t want to wait in line.    

At our resort, we watched two intoxicated seniors – one wearing a Richard Petty hat and the other a Dale Earnhardt t-shirt – plow their way through the hotel lobby, scattering toddlers and costumed characters, in a race to take the pole position at the early-bird buffet.   And my nine-year-old was nearly mowed down outside the tennis courts by two scooter-enabled couples in their thirties who had cut their doubles match short to ride to the fitness center for their 3 PM rock climbing class. 

Back home, our local news carried the story of a heroic man who came to the aid of a woman whose scooter became trapped on the railroad tracks at a crossing.  She had somehow turned parallel to the rails and got her wheels stuck.  Casting his personal welfare aside, this brave soul bolted into the crossing, pulled the woman from her scooter, and dragged her to safety mere seconds before the downtown express pulverized her ECV into poker-chip-size pieces. 

During the post near-tragedy interview, the woman was understandably grateful to the man for saving her life, but nevertheless disappointed he didn’t also rescue her scooter as she would now have to walk the four blocks back to her home.  The man apologetically offered her a ride.

So as the dawn of another year approaches, I resolve to walk less, ride more, and perhaps take up smoking, because if I’ve learned one thing for certain, it’s the stairway to heaven ends in a souvenir shop.