MI FAMILIA

 

Sorry…after a week in Mexico I’m still trying to use some of the 12 Spanish words I learned in High School.

 

Mi familia is expanding. Our new foster daughter Jamie has arrived! She’s an absolute delight and we are thrilled that she is finally here. She’s a Mountain Dew addict like I am, so it’s great to have someone in the house to share my vice with.

 

Here’s a couple of pics:

 

 

 

Jamie is an accomplished artist. I scanned in one of her sketches (Goku from Dragon Ball Z):

 

 

Jamie will be a Junior in High School this year and we are in the midst of getting her enrolled, getting her room set up, etc. I’m in midst of getting used to living in a house full of women.

 

If you have a second, leave a comment and help me welcome Jamie to our family.

 

  CANCUN  PHOTO   BLOG

 

Warning: The following blog contains explicit photos from the video series:

 

 

 

We’re back! And we had a fabulous time! Here is the photographic evidence. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

 

This was the view from our hotel balcony

 

 

We have a “take no prisoners approach” to vacations so we tried to do every excursion possible. Here are a few:

 

Parasailing

 

 

The Mayan ruins at Tulum

 

 

Snorkeling and Snuba at Xel-Ha Lagoon

 

 

And of course – much shopping.

 

 

We also went on the infamous pub crawl which begins around 8:00 in the evening and ends at 3:30 in the morning.

 

Here we have a woman with a loud whistle pouring a shot down my throat.

 

 

Apparently, it was a little strong

 

 

Here, I’m table dancing while a young woman from our group is grabbing my ass. Boy - if I had a nickel for every time that’s happened…well, actually, I’d have a nickel, but I digress.

 

 

Don’t ask.

 

 

Even in a club, deep philosophical questions can be posed…

 

 

As far at the pub crawl in concerned, I think this sign says it all…

 

 

It was a great trip because I got to hang out with this hottie…

 

 

We also spent a lot of time on the beach.

David Hasselhoff called to say he’s not worried about his job.

 

 

Sea turtles would crawl up on the beach late at night. During a late night stroll we ran into this guy:

 

 

Finally, on the last day, we took in sunrise on the beach.

 

 

Thanks to everyone who wished us a good time. Mission accomplished.

 

WE ARE OUTTTAAA HERE

 

I’d like to thank everyone for your kind words and well wishes regarding our pending foray into foster parenting. Before we get back into day to day parenting, however, it’s PARTEEEE time.

 

I will be away from Xanga for the next few days because we will be spending all of our time on the beach in….

 

CANCUN!!!!!!

 

I’d like to say that I’ll be thinking of all of you while I’m hanging out here:

 

 

 

But that would be a lie, and I don’t want to lie.

 

See ya next week!

FATHER’S DAY – THE POLAROID VERSION

 

If there ever was an obligatory holiday, designed to fill the coffers of the greeting card, cheap cologne, and ugly neck tie industry, it’s Father’s Day.  The day begs us to remember the sterling (or not so sterling) examples our fathers set, and their sage advice, such as the gem my father shared with me regarding domestic life; “remember son, don’t shit where you eat.” I only wish I could say that I’ve always heeded that little pearl of wisdom.

 

My father has been gone for many years and my wonderful son lives nine hours away, so I won’t get to spend Father’s Day with either. But I will get to spend the day with some special memories of both.

 

The memories I’m talking about are those that are like snapshots of a particular moment in time; snapshots that are clearer in our minds than the high resolution photos of a digital camera.  Here are a few of the snapshots I carry with me:

 

My father always had a cigar in his mouth. I remember that cigar falling out of his mouth onto his shirt the day I told him I was going into the ministry.

 

I remember the look of abject terror on my father’s face when I almost drove off a bridge when he was teaching me to drive.

 

I will never forget the one and only time I ever saw my father cry; the day my mother died.

 

I carry many, many more snapshots in my head of my son Jordan, but here are some of my favorites:

 

I had the midnight to six a.m. feeding shift when he was an infant. I remember this particular look he often gave me that said; “sleep? like hell, I’m letting you go back to sleep.”

 

I remember the look of total wonder on his face when he was five years old and we had a neighbor dress up in a Santa Claus outfit and wake him up on Christmas Eve. He was speechless, and trust me, he was never speechless.

 

I remember the first time I ever saw him kiss his girlfriend (now his wife) when he thought I wasn’t looking.

 

I remember going to his college graduation from Baylor, looking down on the printed program and seeing the following words (that he hadn’t told me were going to be there) “Outstanding Graduating Senior in the University – Jordan Paul LaBouff.” I still get cold chills every time I think about it.

 

These photos don’t have to be pasted in an album and they don’t yellow over time. The colors only seem to become more vivid with each passing year. I won’t get to see my father or my son on Father’s Day, but I’ll pull those photos out again, and I’ll be a happy man.

 

With Jordan out of the house, I thought I was done with day to day parenting. I mentioned in this blog a couple of months ago that my wife and I were considering foster parenting. Well…DHS called today; we’ve been approved. Our foster daughter Jamie will move in with us in two weeks.

 

Who knows what kind of experience it will be, but regardless, I’d better get the mental camera dusted off and ready to use again.

IN PURSUIT OF THE PERFECT BODY

 

 

We are a nation obsessed with physical perfection. We all secretly want to be swimsuit models, and yet if you look closely at the average clientele of any Wal-Mart store as you walk the isles, you will notice that most Americans are more suited to be tractor-trailer models.

 

As we stand in the check out line with our Haagen Dazs and pork rinds we ogle the magazine covers and the beautiful women and men that adorn them; women with 22” waists and gravity-defying breasts and men with abs so chiseled their stomachs look like miniature relief maps of the Rocky Mountains.

 

The magazine covers promise better health, better jobs, better sex, and better lives if we only buy into the hype. I used to scoff at the hype…I’m now embarrassed to admit that over the last few months I’ve slowly bought into the Madison Avenue concept of perfection without even realizing it.

 

About seven months ago I saw myself in some photos that my wife had taken of me. Looking at those pictures I realized that at 5’ 8” and 190 lbs I could make extra money by renting out the front of my t-shirts as billboard space.  My blood pressure was through the roof and my cholesterol count was a number a lottery winner would be happy to see.

 

My physical condition combined with the knowledge that both my parents died of heart attacks very early in life caused me to take stock of my health. I realized that if I didn’t change I had about 8 minutes to live.

 

My wife and I enrolled in a weight loss program and we were encouraged by the results.

 

Something funny happened along the way. As I began to see the pounds come off I started buying those magazines at the check out line and reading the articles. I started stepping up my exercise routine and I began to try the workouts in those magazines that claimed I could have abs that would cause women to have spontaneous orgasms simply by looking at me.  I began to think that maybe plastic surgery wasn’t the ridiculously indulgent waste of money I had always thought it was after all.  I mean…a little eye job here, a little neck sculpting there, who would be the wiser? I became completely obsessed with looking like the guys on the magazine covers.

 

In my pursuit of this goal I arrived at the following routine: My diet is around 1200 calories a day; consisting entirely of baked or grilled chicken and fish, steamed or raw vegetables, and fresh fruit.  Every evening when I get home from work I hit the treadmill or go running for 30 to 40 minutes followed by another 30 to 40 minutes of weight lifting. I continue to add exercises from the magazine articles, and at this pace I will soon no longer have time to sleep or go to work.

 

After seven months of this there is good news and bad news. The good news is I’ve dropped over 40lbs, my blood pressure is only slightly higher than that of a corpse, and my resting heart rate is 4 beats a minute. The bad news is that no matter how much I work out, when I take off my shirt and look in the mirror my body still looks like cheap mattress stuffing.

 

I find this incredibly frustrating but I finally realized why this is; I’m 47 friggin years old! There is no amount of working out that is going to make me look like the guys on the cover of Men’s Health. Those guys are all 20 years old and spend all of their modeling money on personal trainers named Sven.

 

In fact, I read an interesting article in the very magazine I just mentioned. It stated that the average male has 20% body fat. It went on to say that in order to even see abdominal definition, your body fat has to be below 10%. The last figure was the clincher. It said that the average model in their magazine had a body fat percentage of 5% or less.  When Lance Armstrong does the Tour De France, his body fat percentage is around 4%…after the race.

 

This means that in order to have a body like the guys in the magazines, I’m going to have to ride a bicycle for three straight weeks through the Pyrenees Mountains…it ain’t gonna happen.

 

As I’ve said before, I am the world’s most happily married man. I don’t need a better job or better sex, and my life is great just the way it is. My wife isn’t going to love me more if I look like the magazine guys…she seems pretty content that I bring my mattress-stuffing body home to her every night just as it is.

 

I should just be happy that I’m healthier, and that I’ll have longer to enjoy the wonderful life I have.

 

Wait a minute…I think I just felt an abdominal muscle! Mmmmm, maybe if add another 30 crunches every night….

FROM THE “OTHER SIDE”

 

 

This past weekend I was involved in a highly unfortunate nipple-piercing accident and was tragically killed.  Oddly enough, I was able to find broadband internet access here in the afterlife, so I’m writing to you from “the other side.”  I’m amazed at how fast the connection is here. In fact, you could say that it’s as “quick as a prayer.”

 

I’m sure that many of you are interested in what it’s like here.  As with any of life’s events (or afterlife’s events as the case may be), there is some good news and some bad news:

 

The good news is that Islam is correct; you do get 77 virgins when you die. The bad news is that there is a reason they were virgins.

 

The good news is that you are greeted by Saint Peter. The bad news is that it is Peter Falk (and I’m not convinced he was wearing anything under that trench coat).

 

The good news is that I was drawn into a bright light. The bad news is that it may have been the policeman’s flashlight as he checked for pupil response.

 

The bad news is that the streets are not paved with gold. The good news is that they are lined with barrels of oil. God said he wanted to use something that had actual value.

 

The good news is that I was greeted by many of my relatives who have gone on before me. The bad news is that most of them annoyed the hell out of me in real life and they are just as annoying now.

 

The bad news is that God doesn’t own “the cattle on a thousand hills.” The good news is that he told me he does own stock in Google.

 

The good news is that you do get to see your pets in the afterlife. The bad news is that they still shit on the floor.

 

Now that I’m here, I plan to do several things that I’ve been dying to do. I’m going to start by visiting all of those psychics that say they can see the dead and scare the crap out of them. After that I’m going to go bowling up here to see if it actually sounds like thunder.  Finally, I plan to let George Bush know that management up here thinks he’s a putz, and that the same is true for Pat Robertson.

 

The point is that for all of you folks who are SOOOOOOOO convinced that you have this whole religion thing figured out that you’re willing to kill each other over it… you’re in for some big surprises (and not all of them are likely to be pleasant).

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go back through those 77 virgins, at least one of them must have shaved their mustache.

 

(Edit: I am aware that Peter Falk is “technically” still alive. However, he hasn’t appeared to be for almost two decades, which makes him eligible for pearly gate duty in my book)

THE “DISORDER” DU JOUR

 

According to a recent study done by the University of Chicago Medical School (and reported on yesterday by CNN), people who blast their car horns, flip the bird, and scream obscenities out of their car windows at other drivers are not to be scorned, but rather, pitied. This is because they are not displaying evidence of road rage as one might assume, but are victims of a psychological condition known as “Intermittent Explosive Disorder.”

 

I once thought I had “Intermittent Explosive Disorder” when I contracted a nasty case of diarrhea after eating my aunt Sophie’s Limburger Cheese Surprise, but I digress.

 

The study suggests that as many as 16 million Americans are affected by this disorder. If that is true, every single one of them followed me to work this morning.

 

I think those folks at the University of Chicago are on to something.  If I can blame a disorder every time I behave badly, I no longer have to take responsibility for anything. What a concept!

 

I’m not a research psychologist (but I play one on television), so I’d like to point out some disorders that I’ve observed in the general population.

 

For the guy who cheats on his wife: “Phallic Placement Disorder”

 

For the guy who talks on his cell phone during a movie: “Indecorous Vocalization Disorder.”  This is often followed by the need for an operation known as an “Anal Cell-Phone-Pendectomy”

 

For the person who takes 30 items into the “10 items or less” line at the grocery store: “Counterfactual Summation Disorder.”

 

For the party girl: “Indiscriminant Sexual Consummation Disorder.”

 

And finally, for the blog writer: “Voluminous Prosaic Verbiage Disorder.”

 

So, if someone tailgates me today on the way home, I need to remember that they have a “disorder” and they are not mearly a “prick” like I always thought.

 

Of course, if they tailgate for too long, I’ll have to force them to the side of the road, pull out my tire iron, and confess to them that I have “Aggressive Gluteus Maximus Pummelation” disorder.

…since my last post was a bit of a bummer

 

WWJS  (What Would Jesus Scratch?)

 

When many people think of church, they think of a stuffy atmosphere where people are uptight, take themselves waaayyyy too seriously, and generally look down their noses at the remainder of humanity.

 

At the little church I direct music at we like to refer to that as “bullshit”

 

 

The following picture of me in the pulpit was taken (and further embellished) by our church’s web master. It reflects the high level of dignity that we think is vital to the worship experience…

 

  

The answer to the question posed in the photo is that the pulpit is large enough for me to do some considerable digging around without anyone noticing.

 

If you’d like to see the actual website, here it is: http://www.yacc.org

 

DOG DAZE

 

As a kid growing up, I never really had a dog that was officially mine.  My mother had a chocolate brown poodle named “Teddy” that was seriously in need of doggy psychiatric help long before puppy shrinks came into vogue.  For the space of about two weeks we had a Beagle mix that was supposed to be my dog. Unfortunately, he tried to eat Teddy. I didn’t see a problem with that, but apparently my mom did, so she said we had to get rid of him.

 

When I met my wife she was breeding Shelties and there was a new litter of really cute puppies for me to play with every so often.  They were always sold so it didn’t pay to become too attached to them. We managed to maintain this guarded objectivity until the very last litter that came along. 

 

In that litter was a runt. Actually “runt” would be a kind word. He was more like a “Mini-Me” version of the rest of the pups. He was uncoordinated, afraid of his own shadow, hyper, and completely loveable.  My step daughter pleaded to be allowed to keep him. The plan was for the dog to belong to my step daughter and her boyfriend. My wife semi-reluctantly agreed.  My step daughter named the little guy “Ricochet.”

 

Well, as these things often go; the boyfriend became history. Then the step daughter moved into an apartment on campus where pets were not allowed.  Then a new boyfriend came on the scene who later became the fiancé and then the husband. Then they moved 10 hours away into an apartment that didn’t take dogs either.

 

Since I’ve never had a dog of my own and since Ricochets’ would-be master went and married a human and moved to another state, the dog and I decided to adopt each other.

 

Ricochet and I quickly established a little routine. When I come home from work he likes to jump up in my arms and sit upright with his back against my chest and his front legs out in front of him. He will let me carry him around like this for hours and will actually fall asleep in this position. When I sit down on the couch and watch television he will crawl up on the back of the couch and then walk out and balance on my shoulder like a parrot in a cheesy pirate movie. When I get in bed at night he likes to jump up on the comforter and chase my foot around under the covers. That little seven pound, foul-breathed, fuzz-ball has more personality than the majority of people I know. Or perhaps I should say he had more personality…

 

He’s dead.

 

I came home on Saturday afternoon and opened the back door to let him in. When he didn’t come in I went out back and called for him. Because he was so tiny he could squeeze out of tiny little gaps in the fence and liked to do so at every opportunity. When I couldn’t find him, I figured he’d made a jail break and I got in my car and began to drive around the neighborhood. I scoured the streets for about an hour with no luck and decided to make one more sweep of the back yard.

 

When I walked around the corner of the house I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before and I suddenly got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m getting ready to build a shop in my back yard and I had stacked about 10 sheets of plywood up against the side of the house in preparation for the project. It was incredibly windy on Saturday with gusts up to 50 mph. The stack of plywood had blown over and was lying on the ground. I went over and began to pick up each sheet and stand it back up against the house. I found him lying underneath about the eighth sheet, crushed to death.

 

I’ve been around death all of my life. I buried my closest childhood friend in my teens. I buried both of my parents in my early 20’s. I’ve buried grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. During my years in the ministry it would not be an exaggeration to say I did several hundred funerals. I’ve always met death stoically, in complete control, and have handled it well; perhaps because that was always my role and responsibility.

 

I’ve lost a yappy little dog, and I’m a fucking mess.

 

I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see him lying there. I’m so damned pissed at myself for stacking that plywood against the house that I can’t see straight. I keep replaying it over and over in my mind, and I keep expecting him to greet me when I get home.

 

With all of the human tragedy and death that hangs around us like a shroud, it seems silly to mourn the loss of a dog; even innapropriate. Perhaps, though, I’ve never really allowed my self to experience grief.

 

Well, I seem to be experiencing it now…and its name is Ricochet.

 

IT’S A BITCH BEING OLD AND USELESS

 

When your children are little they need you for everything; from wiping their little asses and noses (it’s probably best for the child if it’s not done in that order) to making sure that the slime monster isn’t in their closet or under their bed.  As they get older the inverse square law takes over and they need you less and less until they go to college; at which point they don’t really need you, just your bank accounts, retirement savings, and what clothes you have left on your back.

 

Parents like to complain about the drain of constantly meeting the needs of their children. Well, for you parents whose children are still at home, let me say that it’s actually a bitch when it suddenly stops.

 

When my son went off to college several years ago I gave him his own American Express card which was billed to my account. We had a long running joke that his wedding day was the date on which he would officially be “cut off.”  The day after my son’s wedding he took the American Express card out of his wallet and handed it back to me. I was shocked at how much I didn’t want it back.

 

He’s now been married a year. He is commuting several times a week from Austin to Waco for grad school. A couple of weeks ago during this commute he hit a coyote and did $3,500.00 worth of damage to his car. The radiator repairs that were done didn’t hold, which left him stranded yet again on the side of the road several days later.

 

Do you know how I found out about this? I read it on his blog! (If you want to read his account of the incident, it’s incredibly funny and is entitled “Montezuma was a Coyote”)

 

When you are a responsible adult and things like this happen to you, you deal with them, take care of what needs to be taken care of, and go on. When I read his blog, part of me was incredibly proud that he is that responsible adult.

 

Part of me felt like I had been kicked in the gut that he no longer needs to come to Dad to take care of his problems.

 

The cycle of life will continue. One day I may need him to come to my nursing home and wipe my ass and my nose (again, hopefully not in that order). We have an understanding, however, about whatever nursing home he puts me into. There won’t be a slime monster under my bed; I expect it to be Halle Berry.