My Father: A Childhood Contradiction

            My father was my favorite contradiction as a child. He was both my beloved childhood friend and the worst Disney villain. Those grey-blue eyes terrified my seven-year old mind, but they also made me feel at home. There was a story that could be told just by gazing into their periwinkle depths. The lines at the sides of his temples and the ones framing his mouth also told a story, one of enjoyment, but the deep wrinkles on his forehead and between his eyes told of a harsh reality: 14 hour work days, hard manual labor, a desensitized and strict military father, and a forgotten youth.

 The contradiction continued. He was both familiar and a complete stranger. It was years before I even knew his name. He was simply dad to me. My grandma would call out to him “GUY! Guy come here!”

Several years later I got the courage to ask my grandmother why she always called my dad “Guy”. Why not call him by something more personal like honey or sweetheart, or even by his real name, Dad? 

“Oh Silly that is because that is his name!” she exclaimed.

 I looked at her puzzled. Guy is not a name, it is a pronoun.  Why would anyone name a man Guy? Is that not repetitive? It was silly really, which was part of who my father was. He walked that fine line between silly and cruel; often times completely falling on one side or the other.  His naturally straight white teeth and inviting smile was welcoming when he was in good spirits but they quickly turned into fangs when he was angry. His anger only made his six-foot, 230 pound, bulky, square frame seem bigger and even less inviting. My father’s size was intimidating in all occasions except one, when I was lucky enough to be gifted a hug. When he held me it was as if I had my own personal super hero and no one in the world could touch me. Even the Boogey man would slink away from fear. But those hugs were rare. Terms of endearment were even rarer.

“Soldier one! Go clean the dishes! Soldier two! Go clean the bathroom! AND MAKE SURE IT SPARKLES,” he bellowed in his military voice. It would make us quiver with fear and confusion. He was no nonsense when he wanted to be. If his voice and monstrous size did not express this then his crisp white shirt meticulously tucked into his levy jeans and large leather belt adorned with a tombstone of a buckle did. I was his princess but also his soldier to command. At a moments notice, his five children would morph from his dirty little munchkins into an indestructible army ready to do his bidding

            What I enjoyed the most about our contradictory connection was holding my father’s hand as a little girl. His calloused grip enveloped my delicate porcelain skin. His hold was deadly when it needed to be but could be the most delicate touch when holding something that needed to be handled with care. I loved to swing our hands back and forth as we walked together down the street. My father might have been unabashedly cruel at times but he was also just a big man whose military brat history ruled his every waking moment. When you stared at his buzz cut, massive biceps, and scowl my intuition screamed danger, but then the words “ICE CREAM!!!!” would fall out of his mouth with a childlike falsetto twirl. What I came to understand in my adulthood was that my father was as much a mystery and contradiction to me as he was to himself. In his mind there was a constant battle between sensitivity and harsh reality, but either way he would still always be my villainous best friend.

1000 Days: My Journey Across the World

For class this week I had to put together a slide show using Adobe Premiere. It took me 12 hours to do! (a sign of a true beginner!); however, since it took me half a day to do I thought I might as well post it here since it is a mini story in itself. Please excuse how rough it is. I am still very new at Premiere. 

Enjoy.....

Wimp with a Cake

As a cheeky five year old I was always diving after the biggest slice of pizza or the largest chunk of cake. I would get into hair pulling matches just to be the first to done my saliva coated tongue on the cookie and scream " Its mine!!!!!"

So why is it that i have not grown out of my approach to making things mine but instead have reversed my desire for the biggest piece....Now as a partially grown adult I thrust my tongue out fighting for the smallest piece of pie, the tiny slice of cheese cake, the most pathetic sliver of pizza....have I become a wimp in my older years? Just cant handle all that goodness at one time? Are my saliva glands not working properly? can I not coat a big piece with enough of my saliva to make it mine before others get to it so have to settle for the small piece instead?

Disgrace. Five year old Lexie would kick 26 year old Lexie's ass....

Conversational Karaté: The Unconventional Icebreaker

In my family I am known not only for the outlandish things I do but the outlandish things I say. No topic is too taboo, no place to risque to let the anti-black hole, that is place so conveniently in the center of my face, to spew forth such ridiculous remarks that make my own mother wish she birthed a mute.

My conversational abilities are so rudimentary and awkward that "crazy" or "weirdo" have been deemed not merely character traits of mine, but have become nicknames. These two traits have ingrained themselves into my psyche so much so that any conversation I have not only highlights these two descriptional flares of mine but advertises it with such ferocity that I blind my conversational companion with my eccentricity.

Over the last few years of excepting my rather odd psychosis I have began to make a kind of game of it. I like to label it Conversational Karaté. Its not simply karate but Karaté. It is sophisticated enough to have the additional flare added to the end to let people know that there is a fine amount of finesse in this rather odd off shoot of the typical conversation. It is not just about a diarrhea of exchange but more like a very specific planned ninja attack on one's fellow conversationalist.

I graduated from Conversational Diarrhea to Conversational Karaté without realizing that I was transitioning into this much more sophisticated method of exchange until it was far too late. I have found it a efficient no bullshit approach for individuals who want to understand me and a quick way for me to get to know them. This verbal Ninja Attack is an way to make any mundane introduction exciting. I have come to secretly enjoy it not only because it complements my klutzy conversational abilities but also because it happens to jump start any social exchange; leaving people dazed, confused and vulnerable.

It was in a moment of my youthful travel weariness that my social ninja attack abilities were discovered. I was 19, in a foreign country, emotionally exhausted from ingesting Italian culture, my ass hurt, my legs were numb, and I could not even imagine ever being so dirty in my entire life. This coming from a person that at age 8 was allergic to anything that aided me in being clean and hygienic (a unfortunate trait that has more or less faded over the years, or so I hope).

Some how, I found a way through my exhaustion, and was  bubbling over with excitement at my first real conversation with a foreigner my own age! I did not know where to begin or how to begin. At first I let the poor unsuspecting boy talk to me and begin to paint a picture of a sweet demure young American girl.

As he talked I became more and more antsy, fiddling with my sweat soaked tang top and squeezing my mouth into a pucker so as to keep my possibly klutzy exchange at bay. However, this act only made me look that much more angelic and shy, something that I most certainly am not.

My Irish companion suggested we go for a walk around the area so we could get some fresh air. At this stage I was at my breaking point; only seconds away from exploding with inappropriate conversational remarks. This mixed with my fear of being alone with a stranger, in a non-English speaking country, in the middle of the night, I knew would not equate to a very angelic remark but rather the opposite.

I had said very little up to this point and was confused, scared, intrigued and naive. It was a pyroclastic cloud of words waiting to happen. An unstable verbal display that was ready to topple forth from my lips.

As the fresh air undressed my senses and licked at my sweating brow my ropes of restraint broke. And with that I exploded with, "Your not going to rape me are you? Because if you try I am going to kick your ass."

My best attempts at Conversational Karaté and I did not even know it. I blew away my conversational partner, a round house kick to the gut. All former ideas of me as being a sweet, angelic creature to rival all American stereotypes was crushed. But there was one thing I knew for sure...I was most certainly not going to get sneak attacked that night.

After my unconventional conversational introduction and a few moments of recovery, I could  recognized the tell-tell signs of amusement and of growing respect in the eyes of my Irish companion. How could he not be entertained, because who in their right mine would be brave enough or insane enough to say something so stupid?!

The Rhodes Man Cave: Symbols of a Twisted Life Well Lived

It is a man jungle. The smell of testosterone, sex, beer, and other questionable odors waft through the place like a odd vortex of the senses. You can taste the sweat from the pile of sports uniforms and see the ungodly green fuzz growing on the jock straps and baseball socks in the corner. It is the one place that men have claimed as their own, their masculine CAVE. Their escape from the antsy feminine clutches of their slightly neurotic partner. It is the place in which anything can happen and almost any horrendous or ridiculous item that has crossed your path in life now resides. It is the Garage.....

Growing up the garage was off limits. At the age of five the outrageous scents patrolling the space gave me nightmares for years. One reoccurring nightmare I had as a child involved a red and white stripped tube slide. I was always scared to see what lie at the bottom. I never knew what would happen or what things i would find. I realize now as an adult that this dream was a metaphor for my father's man cave because I was truly afraid at some of the foreign objects I might find.

My Father's office....

How do you explain to a sobbing child why there was a scantily clad woman looming over his work station instead of a picture of mommy. To me the posters of Budweiser models with high wasted hot pink thong bikinis and hair that was reaching for the heavens were all ex-girlfriends of my dad taunting him to come back to them. And maybe my father actually believed they were.

Even to this day I shutter at the idea of going through my parents garage. My mom has given up all reasonable hope that my father will decide to empty the contents of the space and turn it into an organized family den with labeled drawers,  clean white walls with pictures of flowers instead of women, and a place in the corner for her arts and crafts. However, any time my mother decides to touch the contents of the cave whether it be a pen or a box my fathers face turns from its familiar red to a deep purple with steam coming out of his nostrils. He begins to resemble a bull taunted into fight mode. So now to avoid an uncomfortable situation my mother has refused to cross the line made out of the scent of male juices. Unless laundry needs to be done the door stays closed, and if company is over it gets locked and bolted.  Heaven forbid if someone were to witness how big of a monster her husband actually is. Even worse is the idea that someone might associate his mess with her.

One day i decided to get over my fears and go poking around for some boxes I had stored in the garage years ago but was to afraid to look for. I thought it is ridiculous I still felt this way, what could I possibly be afraid of? It turns out I am still that chubby cheeked 5 year old that is scared of the monsters my father told me hid behind the boxes and would eat me if I got too close. I found all sorts of unexplainable items that I did not have the courage to analyze.

WTF?

Over the years my father would walk back into the house with a new item he had just discovered living in his garage. It was like the man cave became a living breathing creature that began birthing foreign objects just to amuse my fathers already perverse mind. When you heard the door squeak open followed by an evil fit of masculine giggles you knew my dad had found yet another totally ridiculous conception from the garage.

Just the other day my dad walked in giggling like a school girl and handed me a card from a stack that he was holding. I looked at it with a puzzled expression because written on the card was an series of letters that did not form any intelligible word.  The card read "poohaw". When I proceeded to flip the card over it explained that a poohaw was a place someone went to go play billiards....My dad proceeded to laugh manically and through the moments of utter glee remarked "THEIR OOKIE CARDS! GET IT! I just found them in the garage! Aren't they GREAT!"

Now it is not a surprise that my father would own a pair of ookie flash cards, but where or better yet who would make something so absolutely pointless? It only validates my theory that the garage coughed this ridiculous item up from its loins just to amuse my father's twisted sense of humor. Has the garage evolved to become some sort of creator of perverse thought? And how many man cave's out there have such a expansive inventory of ludicrous and nonsensical goods? I would be naive to think that my father's garage is the only one of its kind.

In a way, the man cave has become a right of passage, a link between father and son, the Fillet Mignon of the masculine world. One only has to witness the recesses of my grandfathers garage to understand the finite reasons behind why my father's own manly space is such a cluster fuck.

Bambi

My father's own space has become a Rhodes Legacy, one in which he will certainly not forget to pass onto his own sons. If he could some how pass on the whole garage including all of its questionable contents to his future successors he would.

His own place of masculine worship has become symbolic of the viking funeral. Where as the vikings were buried with all of their loot to help them ascend into their new life, my father (if my mother would allow it) would be buried in the garage surrounded by his own creations. Symbols of a twisted life well lived. I can only imagine that in his will he states that his eulogy be said just inside the content's of his masculine space so all can witness who he actually was. For this very reason my mother hopes to supersede my father in this life so this last remaining wish be denied to him. She'd rather die knowing that no one outside her own children truly knows how much of a slob my dad really is.

My mother would murder me in cold blood if she knew that I have unleashed her worst nightmare on the internet....

And so I await in fear and curiosity for the next unbelievably ridiculous item my father will pull from the depths of his 50 year old creation, the man cave. Heaven forbid if I inherit even a sliver of the Rhodes Legacy. Boys- it is all yours! 

More Twisted Thoughts from a Malfunctioning Mind

 

 

 

It's a moment of weakness that I am posting this image. 

Here is yet another glimpse inside the mal-functioning brain of my father ...I only wish i could explain

 

US Male...Artwork By the Mentally Unstable

Inappropriate behavior + My Father + Endless Time = Un-PC artwork
Some times I wonder what sick and twisted ideas run through my fathers mind.....