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.....

Do You Want Some Gin with Your Cookies?

I am drunk. Not an odd thing when one knows that I am in Scotland. Scots find drinking to be a olympic sport so why should i deny myself a little bit of cultural competition? Plus when your hanging out in a haunted 500 year old house you definitely want to ply yourself with enough alcohol so when you see the ghost of a beheaded priest walking down the stairs with a bible your reaction will be less "HOLY SHIT" and more "wow, that must have been one hell of a sermon"....

The more and more I visit Scotland the more paradoxical the culture becomes to me. I am no longer blinded by awe or the newness of it. Instead now when i see several drunken bastards puking in the street I am not shocked, instead I look at the cans of Tennents in their hands and think you daft bastards no wonder why your all puking. The stuff is in competition with Natty Ice and Ankor with being the most chemically induced beer this planet has so far created.

So the paradoxes have started piling up like a gang bang train. The other day I was taken to go see my boyfriends grandma. She was a nice old lady with kind eyes, an unbelievably brilliant thick Scottish twang and can get me drunk quicker than a roofy at an UCSB frat part

What I've realized is that Scotland is no place for the grannies that are the faint of heart type. The grandmas giving you hot coco and a slice of key lime pie dont exist here.

My boy friend's grandmother is no alcoholic by any means but she is just very prepared. Her alcohol cupboard would rival that of Gary Busey's personal bar.  The gin and tonics she forces us to drink are explosive and the single malt whiskeys' are not just wee drams but fucking imperial pints. The scotches are are so strong they easily peel your nipples off and could grow you a full size man-package!

You don't get cookies here, no you just get a hangover. Most American grandma's turn their grandchildren into diabetics but here they seem to turn theirs into alcoholics. My granny used to offer us stale cereal and  fermented orange juice, not such a good deal...however, my sister did recently inform me that the "tang" my grandmother used to give us was actually outdated orange juice with an abundant amount of champagne to disguise the OJ's fermentation or maybe she was trying to sedate us? No wonder i get a long with my boyfriends grandma so well! I am used to my drinks being heavily spiked by old ladies....

Not only is my partner's grandma a brilliant bartender in disguise but she is also very observant and calls it like she sees it. At one point the conversation started dancing around religion and gently pushed towards Catholic priests. Now in other company I would have steered clear of that topic but seeing as she is an elder Catholic woman I thought we were safe enough.... I was most definitely wrong. Because before I knew it the word poof and priest were uttered in the same sentence. I proceeded to spit out the contents of my (mostly) gin and (very little) tonic and stared in shock. That didnt stop her.
"Oh yeah, Most priests are total poofs." I thought maybe my definition of the word poof had altered in the last minute some how...maybe it meant utterly devote?
"They are all homos"...Apparently not.
Now she is not racist or a homophobe. She's a grandma which means she loves everyone! She is just an elderly lady with a keen eye and an unPC vocabulary.

According to Granny though, her priest was most definitely straight and also a saint.  "He comes over and drinks with my son and I.".... I could not let this fantastic contradiction pass me by so I said "he drinks with you?" and her response is "Och aye! He loves his drink."

And so my adventures in Scotland thus far have been  paradoxically fabulous. Loaded with drink pushing grandmas, puking strangers, and colloquialisms. Oh how I have missed this unPC world! I hope that one day i will grow into being such a granny where nothing is too taboo to touch.