One's Woman's American Reality is Another Man's Prison Bitch

Yesterday, a gentleman on Portland’s public transport tried to befriend me. His opening line was “So I just got out of Federal Prison...” First of all, that was a rather unfortunate opening line. That said, I felt a lot of empathy for the young man. I could relate to him in many ways. No, I have never been in federal prison and I would have never in a million years opened with that line; however, I know what it is like to come back into American Reality after being absent from its capitalistic clutches for so long and having to deal with everything being different. The culture shock is so incredible that your sociability plummets, although, I am sure this gentleman’s ability to follow social cues before prison was probably dismal at best. He had the charm of an ape on acid. It did not help that he had that Dungeons and Dragons meets your everyday electrician look about him. Due to these unfortunate attributes you just knew he was a prison bitch. None of which helped his case. Also the shoving his phone in my face and asking how his Prostitute iPhone App worked did not endear him to me whatsoever. “They just keeping wanting to buy me” is not a good pick up line.

In all seriousness, I understand, even if minutely, the loneliness and disconnect this man is feeling. I’ve felt it so often the last 10 years that it is now a second skin. I am currently battling with these feelings in Portland. I’ve been here 9 months. Long enough to give birth but not long enough to make  good friends who are not always hopping on planes to escape the monotonous rain and hippienesss . Its a definite limbo. The funny thing is though that I thrive in Limbo. I have for years, but usually I have countless, somewhat, stationary friends to enjoy limbo with.

After running off the tram and away from the ex-convict and possible prostitute, I met with my one and only stationary Portlandian friend. She too just moved here and is trying to create some sort of lasting community. So many things are going her way. The Gay Marriage Ban was lifted so now she can take the next step in her long term relationship, she got a kick ass job in non-profit in which she actually gets paid with real American money, and she lives in a killer part of Portland; however, she too is battling with making those non ex-convict friendships here. We might live completely different lives and have totally different goals but at the foundation of it all we are fighting the same battle: debilitating loneliness.

After my lunch date, I trudged home on the light rail with a new sense of camaraderie and understanding. I was not wholly alone. Even my roommate was dealing with her own form of loneliness. Except her loneliness was in the form of the show “What Not to Wear” and www.Christianmingle.com. She just wants another person to share her adventures and fashion trends with; however, she quickly realized that Christainmingle.com was not the answer to her loneliness prayers. If anything it was a very biblical nightmare.

With that said, there are moments that I do secretly revel in the loneliness--  those moments when its just me and my thoughts. And sometimes I even enjoy those rather uncomfortable interactions that happen on Portland's public transport. They make me aware of my own social short comings. They also make me aware that no matter how alone I might feel that I will never ever be desperate enough to befriend a man who’s opening line is “So I just got out of Federal Prison..."

Tangled Up in Boredom

Most of my days as a newbie flight attendant are spent on reserve. What does that mean? Well basically it means sitting for hours on end, some times days waiting for one simple 15 second phone call. Often times it’s worth it. Other times....you find your self going beyond insane with boredom. Some of the things that one has done while being on reserve would make anyone cringe, and sometimes they are just down right creepy. The other day I found myself lying on the carpet in a floor length gown and a beanie moaning “Save meeeee” to my roommates potted plant....then I proceeded to have a conversation with it.  Boredom can make anyone go nutty. Anywho, this song perfectly illustrates how I feel while waiting for the illustrious phone call:

Im Sorry I Threw Up All Over Your Cat

“ 'I am sorry I threw up all over your..’  does that say ‘cat’?’ I read allowed the shaky white icing on the poop brown cake. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and my day just got interesting.

“Yes. It’s an inside joke. I was going to write ‘ Im sorry I threw up all your semen’ but thought it was a bit too suggestive.” This is Kate. Kate and I met on a cold Christmas day in Portland. We were both delirious and ended up bonding over a cup of nasty orange juice and the stories of our unfortunate love lives. I had ended a 6 year long transatlantic relationship a year prior and she had just ended 6 controlling years with her ex-fiancé. Now a month later Kate was sitting at my table with a weird homemade cake, a hormone induced chocolate craving Filipina roommate, and a decision. The decision: to give the cake or to eat the cake.

“Yeahhh...You can’t give him this cake.” I said with determination.

“But why?!”Kate said defensively.

“That’s exactly my point Kate. Why? Why would you give him a cake?! ” 

“Because a cake says 'Im sorry, I want to get back together'?” Her big blue eyes filled with longing but her voice sounded unsure.

“But why? Because you certainly don’t want to get back together. That is why you are here, single, looking at the extra room in my apartment to rent. So I say eat the fucking cake.” I said as I handed over a knife and fork.

In that moment I saw Kate, I saw myself, and  I saw the cake. I was angry and I was angry for two reasons. Angry because one, I used to be her. I was that vulnerable and confused girl two years ago about to give her ex a cake but afraid of what it might mean: reconciliation, familiarity, unhappiness. And second, I was angry because I wanted to eat the mother fucking cake that her ex most certainly would have pissed on and left out for the raccoons. In fact, she had a whole household persuading her not to give away the cake. The Filipina who never understood the meaning or complexities of a real relationship wanted to eat it, I wanted to salvage what dignity Kate had left and didn’t want the cake to be thrown away, and Kate who was searching for a guilt free card wanted to have it make everything better. 

“What do you mean I can’t eat it. You made it for us right?” The Filipina said with one ear turned towards us waiting for a yes and one ear pushed up against her phone listening intently to the compliments from her current beau.

“NO, Kate made the cake for someone else.”

“Don’t give it to him. Lets just eat it.” The Filipina said as she eyed the cake hungrily.

“I can’t! It is supposed to make everything okay.”

“Kate...no matter what the hell happens nothing you do will ever make him feel okay with you being you....ever...”

At this point the cake became our personal motto for relationships. The Filipina was in the business of consuming. Consuming hearts, consuming things, consuming cake. I was terrified to throw something away that was still perfectly good. Good guy, good sex, good friendship, good life, good cake. And Kate...Kate just wanted things to be better, so-let-me-just-give-you-a-cake better.  This is what our conversation developed into. We began getting metaphorical all the while the cake just remained a cake: delicious, tempting, edible... a mother fucking cake.

“This cake is evil. This cake is everything that held you back in the relationship. It’s hate, doubt, misery. This cake is death cake. Take this knife and stab it.”

“But I can’t” 

“STAB THE CAKE!”

I realized then that I was getting confrontational with what essentially was sugar, butter and bread. I was turning into my worst feminine archetype...the emotional female. I was fighting for cake suicide like I was fighting for the suffrage movement. The cake just got personal. I had to get a grip.

“Kate...you weren’t happy. Let it go.” 

And with that she did. 

She stopped, stared at the cake, and before I knew what was happening she had thrown her hands into the frosting with such force that the table shook like a small act of god. She had a manic smile on her face and she pushed her hands in further. Determination set into every crevice of her youthful scowl.  "Fuck the Cake! RIO! YOU-CAN-HAVE-YOUR-MOTHER-FUCKING-CAKE!!!” She then picked up the knife with a triumphant yelp and stabbed the cake repeatedly.

Looking at the pure willpower it took for this young 25 year old to, in a sense, say goodbye to someone she really loved I was in awe. I might have been fighting over cake but she was fighting over her guilt.

An hour later Kate opened my apartment door with a resigned look. “Thanks. Im glad I’m not giving him the cake, but...I miss him.” and with that she left my apartment feeling lonely but a little be more free. She was free from the pressure of being someone else, free of the burden of trying to piece together a very broken and irreparable relationship and free of one very fucked up half eaten cake.

The Marilyns' of Hollywood

       Every afternoon at precisely 4 o’clock the older women of the Hollywood Towne House descend like a flock of tired geese into the vestibule of our dated apartment building. These women, ranging from 70 to 100 with their walkers and canes are defined by the surrounding decor. An obscenely large Warhol-esque Marilyn Monroe painting presides over their space like a crumbling figure head of days gone by. The 1960s wood paneling adds another element of nostalgia to the scene; as does, I'm sure, the faded china green walls and green linoleum which I liken to melted mint chocolate chip ice cream that has been dropped in the dirt. These Marilyn's sit for roughly one hour to “discuss" the weather or the overpriced rent. I'm not quite sure. They throw around their period names like it is a Dick Tracey movie. Maud this, or Betty that. I imagine in their eyes that their conversations are full of sentences that in turn are full of descriptive words, colorful adjectives, and a few wild hand gestures. But for onlookers their conversations are hardly that. It is a discussion in slow mode...or no mode.  Their “talks" instead involve a lot of staring wistfully out at the roundabout or grunting to one another listlessly while their bodies sag into the ornate and very uncomfortable baroque chairs.
 
    I am fascinated by this world of women who have said so much in their lives and are now exhausted by it all. Many of my neighbors brusquely walk by without even so much as a breath between them.  Me, well lets just say I learned from my father, for when I enter into their walker jungle I can’t help but shout. One of the few men of my past liken my entering a room to a fishing boat that has been tossed at sea into a terrible shit storm. I can’t just pass by listlessly, I must disrupt absolutely. With the Marilyn's I do precisely that and I do it marvelously.

Before I disrupt their silent interaction I become a voyeur. I study their weathered frowns, manically frizzy or puffy hair, and slouched posture. They are bored with life....Then I gather myself and enter their lounge like a fireworks display. My favorite part is seeing their eyes go from dead to twinkling, their posture from unforgiving to straight and welcoming, and their droopy cheeks become propped into tent like smiles. They always ask “Lexie, where have you gone today!?” and most of the time I answer honestly but sometimes...sometimes when I see that their smiles are less broad or their eyes a little less twinkly I stretch the truth just a little.

“I just got back from Spain. It was amazing! I met a man named Hugo who had an unbelievably delicious six-pack and olive skin. He didn’t speak a word of English and it didn’t matter. I liked him all the same. We drank sangria every day while he gave me these incredible foot massages that made me comatose. But to be honest my favorite part was simply eating tapas while watching the European world pass me by. It was beautiful....But I am exhausted. How are you ladies?”

The Marilyn's smile and laugh and for just that brief moment feel young again. These women are my past and they are my future.

When I leave them I always peak around the corner to see how the scene has changed since I first spotted them from the roundabout. I always notice their eyes are a little bit brighter, their smiles linger, and their posture just a little less sagged. The Marilyn’s of Hollywood, if only for a few moments, had just gone to Spain.

My Non-Romantic Forever: Charity Shops and Pancakes

I met my best friend in a small little restaurant in Scotland after two months of solo traveling. I would love to say that at the precise moment she walked into the shop door that our eyes met and it was platonic love at first sight; or perhaps that I knew Ms. Pancake would be my non-romantic forever; however, that wasn’t the case. Instead, I was shoveling haggis and mash potatoes into my face at such an alarming rate I am surprised I didn’t choke. I was more willing the food into my starved traveler body rather than actually tasting it.  She saw me packing food into my mouth laughing obnoxiously and I saw her standing there in typical stoic early Ms. Pancake fashion...translation she looked like a bitch. Needless to say we did not “bro-out" on our first meet up. Instead, Pancake and I bonded a few days later in a pub, beer in hand. It wasn’t the alcohol that helped us bond, nor the dancing. No it was the one thing that would be the scaffolding to our budding relationship. We bonded over being the embarrassingly cheapest people we knew. More specifically, two words were spoken that night that sealed the deal: “Charity Shops”, and that was it.

Charity shops are the UK’s equivalent to Goodwill stores in America except the UK shops have a very charming and quaint vibe. On first inspection an American could mistake an Oxfam Charity Shop for a boho boutique. They also have that musty smell like an old fur coat that has hung in the hall closet for the last 20 years. Goodwill’s on the other hand are massive warehouses of pestilence. I firmly believe that they would sell used needles and dead bodies if they could make a buck. Anything is a go. David Sedaris once wrote about how he contracted crabs from a pair of Goodwill pants all for the price of a few dollars.

Being a hypochondriac germaphobe, visiting a Goodwill is always an interesting endeavor. When I walk into one my body does two contradictory things. It cringes from repulsion and buzzes with excitement. I imagine watching me wandering the warehouse floor would be more entertaining than watching two drunken transvestites fighting in the crowd of a sporting event. I have the token “stink face” as I pick through the racks.  I try on clothes like I’m forced to wear a homeless person’s pee rag. But after several scalding hot washings (both my body and the clothes) I am tickled by my find. I brag like a hipster (definition: today’s version of an alternative hippie). Under the surface I know I am a fake because hippies aren’t afraid of what might be hidden in polyester.

I still held onto my new world stink face as I perused the shelves of the quaint Oxfam Charity Shop; however, in the UK my stink face was seen as just being British. I no longer was rubbing elbows with crack addicts or chain smoking grandmas in a large warehouse; instead, I was skimming the shelves with the cool college students of Edinburgh University or the cute old granny’s in tartan. I was hip and I had my future best friend on my arm.

Our first charity shop purchases have become tokens of our earlier friendship. She still has her first edition Harry Potter Philosopher’s Stone, and I still have that New Look black zip up shirt (albeit with several more holes and a potent smell that I don’t recall came with the initial purchase). This seven year long friendship has grown beyond the mutual love of all things frighteningly cheap and into a love for life, adventure, and each other. However, we will always feel closest when are filing through the racks at the nearest goodwill with the transvestites and prostitutes of the world. Ms. Pancake you have indeed become my non-romantic forever.

"It Ain't Easy Being Awesome"

"You are really tight...really tight. And so I'll help easy some of that tension by loosening you up."

It has come down to this, 30 plus countries by the time I was 28 and countless awe inspiring moments to only be talked at by a strange Chiropractor like some cheesy 70s porno.

In a moment of desperation and 10 years of growing medical problems and a phobia of doctors I broke down and went to a chiropractor today. As I sat in his trendy 3rd floor office suite, I felt like an outsider. In my converse, ratty jeans, thrift store top and manically frizzy red hair I could not have felt more out of place in his crisp and clean modern office. I stared at his abstract art with confusion and listed off the several ailments I had been experiencing over the years. With each newly documented ailment my chiropractors' face twitched.

"Now Miss R. what is the cause of these problems," The doctor monotone voice wafted over my strayed nerves.

"Traveling." I admitted with a sigh.

"Traveling?...No I mean what specific thing caused these problems."My Doctor repeated.

"Traveling.... My body is falling apart because of traveling." I then proceeded to go through each one of my injuries one by one. "My toe happened in Honduras, my foot in Italy, my knee in New Zealand, my back...well technically from carrying my bag thousands of miles over 30 plus different countries," and so on and so on. "So Doc. I am broken because of traveling."

I left the doctors office an hour latter feeling like a limp noodle, a noodle who felt compelled to share this odd experience with a friend. They seemed just as shocked at my seeing a chiropractor as the chiropractor himself and so I found myself being asked the same question "Why and How?" and I responded with the same short reply I had given my doctor just minutes before..."Traveling."


His response was one I had not expected. My friend replied with “It ain’t easy being awesome.” And then proceeded to send me a link to this video:

The video I cant really explain other than to say it is a work of animated cinematic genius. The "Awesome" comment on the other hand, now that got me thinking. It is really tough to be awesome (I mean if I define awesome by the description of one who has been in awe and seen awe inspiring things). For instance, I easily look 5 years older than I actually am, my once thick beautiful ginger curly locks now have the consistency of a bag of half eaten brown straw,  I have had at least 3 broken bones, 2 surgeries, cuts, stings, bruises, scars, parasites, weight gain, weight loss, and emotional scars to last me a life time. My body is a fucking battle ground. Some days I mentally go through my travel scars out of amusement. 

With all this said I sometimes forget that the things I have been through are not normal. Talking to my Filipina roommate, who massages gold onto her skin daily and sleeps on a bed of swan feathers and broken hearts, I have realized that my life is her worst nightmare. "You mean you sleep on sheets that are not at least 1000ct?” If she only knew about the Hungarian Hospital...

Hitch hiking on the side of a road with cast and crutches on a daily basis was and IS my reality just like cracking backs is to my Chiropractor or shopping for high end jewelry and sugar daddy's is for my Filipina roommate. Its my normal and even though my normal has left me battered and bruised I wouldn’t have it any other way...that is until my doctor comes at me with a needle. As the Filipina says, “Back off bitch!"

My Reality: Furries and Human Bitches

Yesterday I walked into an elevator and was greeted by a furry and his human bitch. I just shrugged off the odd picture with no more enthusiasm than it took to press the elevator button. Upon exiting the lift I was surrounded by more people in very odd animal mascot costumes being followed around by men and women with dog collars and fluffy colorful tails. I chalked this all this up to my lack of sleep and kept walking. It wasn't until I got outside my hotel and got some fresh air that it hit me. I just walked through a crowd of Furries in my Denver Hotel....  This incident has made me realize that my reality has definitely become other people's surreal.

SO what is reality? Is it this? A grown human wearing a life size animal costume? As the day carried on this question started to plague me. 

An hour later I arrived at my friends graduation party where I was thrown into Bolder's idea of reality. I was enthusiastically shown astrological charts, ironically discussed the fascinations that a wealthy German had with destruction and watched folk dancers prance across the backyard. It was an invigorating experience yet confusing to navigate on only 3 hours of sleep. I kept pinching myself. Is this really happening? 

With a heavy heart I left my Bolder friends and made my way back to my hotel where I had to swim through the giddy zombie wolves,  furry dogs and human bitches back to my room. 

The next morning I trudged down to the front desk and was a bit disappointed when the foyer was empty of all its previous animalistic activities. It was as if I wanted more odd things to challenge my sense of reality. Alas my flight home provided that for me. 

When I caught this gem of a T-shirt I began to think what an odd choice of clothing to wear in public, but then I got to thinking. For this gentleman this rather ridiculous shirt is completely common place. In Alaska this is normal...In California or Portland some hippie would probably throw paint on him or tofu pieces. But here among the moose and diehard Republicans he is accepted. It is their reality and because I live here it is sort of mine as well. 

After I deplaned my flight I got to thinking about this T-shirt and was buzzed out of my thoughts by a Facebook message. I looked down at my phone and read a message that my travel buddy and best friend RP sent to me and a few of our other travel pals. 

These messages are not rare. In fact, I receive one from RP about every 2 months or so when some stranger pops up on her newsfeed or sends her a message. This is our reality. We have traveled all over the world. Met people from all 6 six continents, and have come face to face with creatures that would frighten even the most brave of men. Example:

Bull's Balls

MeatBall

But our memory is shit and so we rely on these quick FB messages to set us straight and often time the answers and realizations are quite amusing...

So again I ask what is reality? Or better yet what is my reality? Is it petting a tiger? Is it people who get a thrill out of dressing in mascot costumes? Or is it old men in inappropriate T-shirts? These are all trick questions because...“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” ― Albert Einstein

The Single Traveler: A Nasty Little Beast

Travel can be a nasty little thing. It can bring enlightenment, happiness, and spontaneity, but it can also cause confusion, deceit and loneliness. Being single can be an even nastier beast. You pair the two together and you could have a monster on your hands if you dont keep your guard up.  When I first started traveling almost 8 years ago I was snatched up fairly quickly from the dating market so could not dabble where most women would have gladly done so. It was a fortunate thing for me. I was so ignorant and naive to the dating and traveling world that I would have most certainly been taken advantage of and cocked things up royally; so instead, I sat on the side lines and watched what unfortunate things could happen to those who were unaware. Don't get me wrong, be it woman or man, I always advertise being single when you travel. I am a big advocate of remaining wholy in the moment and it is hard to do when you have a loved one at home- possible but hard.

After years of being in a relationship I find myself single in the traveling world again and it is odd. I am both invigorated at the idea and petrified because it is completely different when you see it from the other side. I no longer heckle the players because now I am one. In the past, certain things I would do or say would have been taken in jest but now...now they are taken very seriously indeed.

The past few months has been a lesson in navigating this foreign world of singledom traveling. One thing I'm beginning to learn is that the heart is a funny thing. If you mess with it, it hurts. Who knew. Just today I was listening to my roommate who, like me, is transitioning into the "Single Traveler" lifestyle. Already she has run into some rough patches and unlucky snags along the way. I found my self saying "Babe, when it comes to the dating lifestyle we live, you must think like a man. Be blunt and think black or white."

I am a proud female and saying these words did sting a little, but they held a lot of truth. You can't be vulnerable as a single traveler. It is like bleeding in a tank full of sharks. They can smell you. Or like a Playboy Bunny in a room full of nasty old men. Sooner or later you're gonna be pricked.

It is so easy to loose yourself in this lifestyle but being your own anchor will help you retain your sanity and self respect. The best advice I could ever give any single independent female about to travel the world is trust your intuition. I didn't listen to my intuition for a while and it lead me to fall down the rabbit hole. Let me just tell you it is a lot easier to fall into the hole than it is to dig your self out. So find your mantra and remember...

"I am the hero of this story. I don't need to be saved."

How I Found Happiness: Frodo to Brazil

My day started with Frodo and ended with Brazil. A typical day in the life of the new me. Six months ago I would have never imagined I lived in the wilds of Alaska and made a living out of flying to the North Pole and the end of the world (as most Californians would define it), but alas here I am. Six months ago I was half a person who could not define happiness let alone live it. But today...today I laughed and... it felt great.

My home is an airplane and my family its occupants. I  find solace in the business men, the fishermen, the doctors, the dentists, the oil drillers, the ill, the healthy. Today I enthusiastically  retold a familiar travel story at 35,000ft in the air to a wrapped audience; and I could not help but find a bit of home in this motley crew: Frodo with his charming good looks; Pinky with his hearty laugh and pure embarrassing ignorance of mother nature and human nature; and the side kick with his uncanny ability to successfully exploit these embarrassing moments of his family and friends. These people I only knew for but a moment yet I felt more comfortable talking about how to recognize a hooker from a far and how to not to look like an idiot when confronted by an Alaskan moose in mother nature than talking about the weather with my brother-in-law. Odd moments like these allow me to validate the choices I have made this past year and have caused me to find the impossible: happiness. Even though I have to come home every night to a very small studio apartment that I share with a kinky Filipina, ironically named after  a Brazilian Sex crazy party town, and a Lebanese-american woman who's never heard of the phrase "too much information", I am still very much content. As a result, I would say that I have finally made a beneficial decision and I have begun to find happiness thanks to the Frodos and Brazils of the world.

From San Jose to San Jose in a day!

Sleeping has magical powers. While I stared at the clock blinking a 4:22am at me in the SFO airport I repeated that mantra as if I had slept a full night sleep instead of staying up a full 24 hours plus.

With blood shot eyes and a mouth full of golf balls I had to have a charming interaction with a rather grumpy ticketing agent. Reminding myself, charming equals first class, charming equals first class because my inital reaction was to reach over the counter and strangle the unpleasant woman who was about to decide my airplane fate.

Walking away with a ticket and a false promise of a place in first class I began my sleepless trip to Costa Rica. Another ticketing agent later and one far more unpleasant met me at my gate grunted at me, "NO chance on first class lady." and then proceeded to laugh.

 That was it! My resolve was slipping. Just-make-it-to-the-plane! Andddd I did. Then an angel decended down from his heavenly perch dressed in flight attendant attire and asked if I was flying D3 aka standby.

"Yes I am." I said hesitantly

He smiled and said "would you like  a complimentary alcholic beverage."

I sat right up and repeated 3 times "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

So 2 free drinks and a free snack later I was ready for my trip to Central America! In fact, I think my seat partner caught me drunkenly mummbling San Jose, San JOSEEE! either way I enjoyed the moment immensely.

Crazy Lady = Run away!

I had the craziest and most expected news today...I dont know how I feel about it and I certainly dont know how to handle it. Do I cry (already did that). Do I start yelling (already do that). Do I get excited....havent done that...Oh Lexie no one is to blame but you my friend. That is right I got myself in this mess now I have to either deal with it or figure out how to get myself out....that actually might be a lot more difficult than originally thought. Fuck me! I simply want to run away from the crazy person that I am right now...sounds nice...

Dick's Agenda

I read an article today about human consumption and the environmental degredation we are exacting on our beautiful Earth. The article sited a recent report that stated how humans are now using 50% more resouces than our Earth can replenish. Also it stated how ultimately its the rich countries that are the ones perpetuating this huge problem. The wealthy nations are providing the demand and are searching for the supply in poorer countries thus disposing the environmental burden onto the vulnerable. These economically unfortunate nations have become the dumping ground for the rich. Politicians and entreprenuers use these factors to their advantage because they make more profit. First world countries create the waste and the waste ends right back in the places that provided them with the resources to make the trash in the first place. US, Holland, Neatherlands, Canada, Australia and several other first world countires have become living trash mongrels:


not quite....




These rich nations have become a trash army! But I have strayed from my point. New stories such as  this one have made me start to piece more things together.

In the last several weeks I have been hearing a lot about various political developments that have been rubbing me the wrong way. One thing I heard was about was that up until April this year it was completley legal for politicians or government workers to use non public information to base their stock market purchases on. Essentially we call this "insider trading" which Martha Stewart got slambed for a few years ago


However for Government employees its called a pension plan. They would go as far as to pass certain bills that would effect certain stocks that they had invested or had planned to invest in.  Congress just passed The Stock Market Act in April that makes it illegal to do these practices but it only passed because politiicans took out the policing portion of the bill which was that politicians involved in "political intellegence" had to register themselves.Without this one provision there is no way to really catch naughty government employees in action....they will simply deny all charges...

Also Govenor Jerry Brown and several California government officials just approved a budget plan. Which included shaving down quite a bit from public child care programs by cutting or combining certain programs. Now analysist have pointed out the transparency behind this decision. They suggest that Californian politicians passed the shaved budget in Child care Services because it was a political move. These anaylists believe that at the end of the year they will use these budget trimming as an excuse to tax middle Americans more....and the rich less  (most likely)

These stories as well as countless more I have heard over the past week alone have made me distrust our politicans and goverment workers even more than I already did. They dont do their job to help us. They arent out to help the world or feed the hungry...they are simply out their to make a buck regardless who they have to kill or better yet WHAT they have to kill to get there. What is one planet's health and survival? What is one hungary kid or a thousand? What is one more middle american loosing their home because of rising taxes and and an inflated morgage? What is one more illegally traded stock? If I am rich then everyone will be rich in a way...right?

Its all motivated by money and power.Things have never been nor will ever be done because they should be or they might be done because it is a political strategy to gain more votes, power, money...I am sorry for the homosexual community, the immigrant community, the poor community the female community the latin community the black community....because all of the rights we have received (big or small) has not been done because we all have deserved our freedom and right to be present and integrarted equally in society. NO! It has all been done to further some jackasses career or pay for his extramarital affairs with little boys or high class hookers.... How can we ever trust any politican voicing the words of Hope or change when the only hope and change I see is to further some rich dicks agenda?

The San Francisco Treat

My Nephew with his hot chocolate, Legos :D

and his fleece. All necessary accoutrement's for a child's SF trip.

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.....