Who Is John David?

My Dad hails from a different era.  Born during the Depression, he was raised in a time when you didn’t talk about your problems.  Times were tough and complaining did nothing to resolve the economic troubles that engulfed our nation.  Work was the only solution, and since everyone else was busting their rear ends to survive, just like you, you didn’t go griping to your neighbor in an attempt to make yourself feel better.  As a child, I don’t think I ever heard him complain about anything, aside from an occasional jab at my Mom, who is very high maintenance.  Nor did I ever hear him bemoan his mistakes for more than just a minute or two, and even that was a rare occurrence.  And while his go it alone, ever-positive approach to life is still admirable to me, I now realize that technology has forever left its mark on society by rendering that once heroic philosophy obsolete.

This blog entry comes to you from St. George Island, off the Gulf Coast of Florida, where my family, along with my sister’s family and our Dad have spent the last day or so relaxing.  Last night, we stayed up late into the night, talking about a number of things – some important, some not so much.  At around 11:00, my Dad, who had been largely on the periphery of the conversation, as he had busied himself with a 500 piece puzzle, asked a bizarre and random question.  “How do you unfriend someone on Facebook?” he asked.

A little taken aback, we hesitated before answering.  Up until that moment, we had spent a large quantity of time discussing my 23 year old nephew’s relationship status, as well as the characteristics he’s looking for in a woman.  Ben, who’s a very deep thinker, has an extremely shallow grocery list when it comes to women.  Somewhere between “flexible”, “built like an hourglass”, and “able to do a cannonball with minimal amount of splash,” my Dad had asked his question.  Something in the previous discussion must have triggered his question, but it was way too early for us to know exactly what.

I then explained to him the mechanics of the unfriending process.  With a puzzled look on her face, my sister Carla then asked, “why do you want to unfriend someone?  Did you get your feelings hurt by something they posted?”

“No,” my Dad said.  “I have a friend that I don’t know, and I probably just need to unfriend him.”

“Who is it?” someone asked.

“I’m not sure.  His name is John David, and I just assumed I knew him, because he sent me a friend request.  So I accepted it, and now I need to unfriend him, I guess.  Anyway, he sent me a picture of a naked woman this afternoon.”

Wait.  What?

We all looked at each other, not sure if we had all heard the same thing.  You could have heard a pin drop in the room as our minds went into high gear.  “He sent you what?” someone else asked.

Ben immediately piped up, “well… suggest him as a friend to me.” 

We all had a good laugh, then my wife chimed in, “Daddy, did he send it to you in a message, or did he tag you in the picture?”

“No, he tagged me,” said my Dad, obviously more than a little bothered at the thought of being sent a picture of a naked anything at this point in his life.

“Daddy, that shows up on your wall.  Did you delete the picture?” she asked again. 

“No,” he said.  “I didn’t know how.  I checked it on my iPhone, and when I saw the picture, I couldn’t tell what it was, so I clicked on it to make it bigger.  Once I realized it was a naked woman, I put my phone away as quick as possible.”

Then it hit us all like a kick to the groin.  The 75 year old patriarch of our family, and perhaps the most godly man any of us has ever known, had a nudie picture posted on his wall, and rather than deleting it, he just simply put his phone down and walked away.

Immediately, we all scrambled to get our online devices – iPhones, tablets, etc – to see if the naked woman was still on his wall.  I don’t remember the first to spot it, but within a matter of seconds, a chorus of, “oh my gosh’es” went up around the room in sporadic intervals as we surveyed the woman in question.

She was definitely naked, but simply describing her as naked doesn’t do justice to the level of nudity she had obtained.  Without going into great detail, she was well beyond the threshold of tasteful art, and in the dark and grungy recesses of the world of pornography.  However, we soon realized what had sparked my Dad’s recollection of the seedy photo – it had to have been my nephew’s mention of the word flexible.  I quickly asked my Dad how long it had been since he first got the photo.

“Some time this afternoon,” he said.  “Maybe 4 or 5 hours ago.”

As a family, we were shocked.  But not in a way that says, “oh my gosh, Daddy, how could you?”  No.  We were shocked in a way that said, “oh my gosh, Daddy, didn’t you realize that turning off your phone did nothing to get rid of this trashy photo?  Don’t you know that everyone from Pastor Larry to Mama (who has not yet joined us) has potentially seen this picture and flagged you as a pervert on Facebook?”

To say that we laughed hysterically would be a gross understatement.  I’ve had many friends, mostly female, who have laughed so hard that they wet themselves, but I’ve never actually considered I could do that to myself… until last night.  At one point, I considered the possibility of laughing up an internal organ, and by the looks of it, everyone else in the room felt the same.  We were dumbfounded that my Dad, when faced with some of the most unnatural poses known to photography, simply turned his phone off to make the problem go away.  All he had to do was ask for help, but instead, he simply lowered his head and went to work once again, hoping to put his troubles behind him.  But in this age of technology, you just can’t work your way out of a jam like this.  No amount of puzzle putting together can get porn off of your Facebook page.

A Tense Encounter

My wife loves to lavish gifts on those she loves most.  And since I am, at the very least, in the running for the title “love of her life,” I often find myself as the beneficiary of her generosity.  My wife also takes great pleasure in her individuality, which spills over into her purchasing decisions with great frequency.  She’s been known to avoid trends and fads just for the sake of maintaining her individualistic integrity, even when doing so means going without something she would otherwise buy.  All this to say, when she buys you a gift, you can expect that it will be something you’re not expecting. 

Throughout our nearly 15 years of marriage, I’ve had regular bouts with both a stiff back and neck – a condition, it seems, that I picked up from years of sitting at a desk with my shoulders drooped to my knees and my head arched forward like a racehorse lunging for a finish line.  And while it’s not a very pleasant condition, to say the least, the remedy is actually quite a simple one, provided that I can find a willing accomplice.  A simple backrub, delivered with a little love and a firm grip, does the trick every time.  Early on in our marriage, I looked to my wife to provide such relief.  After all, she’s the most obvious choice, or at least it seemed at the time.  I naturally assumed that she possessed both the affection and the will to carry out the task of un-knotting my achy muscles.  I was wrong on both accounts.

It’s not that she doesn't possess the strength necessarily, it’s more, I believe, an issue of resolve.  My theory is that she sees no return on her investment of time and effort, given that 9 times out of 10, a good massage puts me to sleep within minutes.  Why rub on someone for a good 15 or 20 minutes only to put them to sleep and get nothing in return?  And while outright refusing my requests for a rubdown would demonstrate a severe lack of marital commitment, my wife maintains the illusion of caring by putting forth a minimal amount of effort when asked, giving the shortest and least effective massages known to man.  I once suggested that I’d be better off if she’d just place a half-dead fish on my back and let it flop about.  “At least I’ll have a fighting chance of some actual pressure being applied to my back for an acceptable duration of time,” I said sarcastically as I suddenly felt an enormous amount of unsolicited pressure all at once in the form of a slap to the back of my head.  Shortly thereafter, the massages ceased altogether, and we reached a comfortable medium.  I quit complaining about my back, and she quit pretending to care.  

And so, it was with great astonishment that I received a most unusual birthday gift from her, several years after the “dying fish” assault.  Several days prior to my special day, she announced, with no pretense of discretion, that I should plan to be home from 5 to 6 on my birthday, which translates into Christmas Eve Eve.  Not exactly sure of what she had up her sleeve, I questioned her until I had enough information to solve the riddle.  After several minutes of serious interrogation, I deduced that she had scheduled an appointment for me for an “at home massage”.  And while I very much appreciated the thought, this peculiar news was met with a great deal of skepticism.  I had no idea that masseuses made house calls, and the more I thought about it, the more I questioned the validity of the “massage” in question.  Fearing that my wife had misconstrued whatever advertisement that enticed her into this bizarre gift, I began to wonder what kind of services I would be getting and whether or not they were legal in the first place.  With my imagination running wild, I convinced myself that she had fallen prey to some horrible sting operation meant to catch solicitors of “at home massages”.  I pictured myself on an episode of Cops with my face blurred out being handcuffed and escorted to the backseat of a patrol car in nothing but my underwear on Christmas Eve Eve, of all days.  So I pressed for more information in a desperate attempt at avoiding a life of imprisonment.

I eventually discovered that I would, in fact, be getting a bona fide massage.  But in satisfying my curiosity, I opened up another can of worms.  Turns out that the masseuse, which I had naturally assumed was a woman, was actually a man.  And while that alone was enough to make me squirm, the real kicker came when I discovered that the man was someone I knew and went to church with.  And there it was.  I was not only scheduled to get a complete, one hour rub down from a man, I would have to see that man every week for Lord knows how long.  How would I ever be able to make eye contact with him again?  Suddenly seeing myself on Cops was not the most unpleasant scenario I could think of.  While wanting to sound grateful, I inquired as to the likelihood of getting a full refund.  “I’d really like to get something for you with that money instead,” I said as I grasped at the only straw I could find.  “That is what would truly make my birthday a happy one.”  She didn’t take the bait.

Sensing my apprehension, however, she quickly assured me that everything was going to be okay.  She told me there was nothing weird about the situation, and while I wanted to believe her, my imagination wouldn’t allow me that luxury.  Eventually, however, I acquiesced.  After all, she had truly done something selfless for me, and the least I could do is graciously accept – even if it challenged my manhood.

Christmas Eve Eve arrived after an unusually lengthy amount of time, and I had gradually grown tenser by the moment.  The hours I had spent thinking about the awkward present had knotted every ounce of muscle and tissue in my neck and back into a spindly mass of knotted chaos, and as the clocked ticked closer to 5 on that dreadful day, the pain became excruciating.  At 4 o’clock, my wife announced it was time for her to "start getting ready".  “Get ready for what?” I asked.  

“I’m going shopping so you’ll have a more relaxing experienced,” she said with no shred of humor in her voice.

I can’t remember my exact words, or even the tone with which they were spoken, but I’m pretty sure I used profanity.  I was desperate and meant not to be left alone in the house with a male masseuse, even if it was someone I went to church with.  Determined, my wife resisted.  I finally pulled out a trump card.  “But this is my birthday present isn’t it?  What I want for my birthday is to not be left alone with a dude in my house with a case full of his own rubbing oils.”  She laughed for the first time since informing me of the massage, and I sensed, rightly so, that this whole dilemma was giving her a great deal of pleasure.  Nevertheless, she agreed to stay – partially, I think, because she knows I would have left shortly after her, had she gone.   I further convinced her to promise me that she would remain within eyesight of me the whole night.

When the masseuse arrived, he greeted me kindly and I did my best to return the favor.  He then asked where to set up his folding table.  Fearing that he was looking for a more private locale, I quickly pointed to a spot right next to the front door.  “How ‘bout right here?” I said as I choked down my apprehension over the thought of what was to come.  My wife laughed out loud at her idiot husband.  As he set up the table, he spoke of church and people we both knew.  This only made things more bizarre.  Somehow, if you’re going to get a rubbing at the hands of a guy, you shouldn’t talk of the familiar.  In fact, you should probably just not speak at all.

I slowly warmed to the idea of the massage (and by “warm” I mean going from about 30 below to maybe 20 below) as he began to apply pressure to my neck.  After all, the back of my neck is, when it’s all said and done, the one place I would allow a guy to rub me, if it were entirely up to me.  The problem is, when you start with the place you least mind being touched, there’s nowhere to go from there except down – literally.  I soon discovered I had not been signed up for a back and neck only massage.  No sir, that would have been far too inconsiderate of my wife who, as I said earlier, loves to lavish her unusual gifts on me whether I want them or not.  Instead, she anteed up for a full body rub.  Several times during the session, the male masseuse commented on how unusually tense I was.  “Huh,” I would reply, “that’s unusual.  I don’t feel that tense.”  Each time, my wife laughed out loud.  She became hysterical when he started working on my legs and nearly busted a gut when I suggested he focus more on my neck and back.  “The real problem area is more towards my neck,” I said, feeling confident he would change directions if given the right information.  “Actually,” he said with authority, “you’d be surprised at how tension in one part of the body can cause pain in other parts.”  He continued working his way down my leg, and I started to see his point.  The tension of the entire scene was causing me an enormous amount of pain in my ego. 

When it was all over, my male massaging friend said good-bye and went on his jolly way, though I refused to look him in the eye when he wished me a Merry Christmas.  But once he was gone, I was the most relieved I had been in years.  I thanked my wife who, by this time, was fully aware of the misery she had inflicted upon me.  She repaid me by taking me to a movie.  As a side note, I didn’t enjoy the movie either – my neck and back were locked up from all the tension of getting a male massage.

The Day My Son Officially Went Too Far

I have recently decided that I might be a strong candidate for Anger Management therapy.  I’ve always had a bit of a temper, but in the past few years, it’s become a bit more serious.  If you want to know the severity, please read the blog entitled “Hello Anger, My Old Friend.”  However, I am now consciously aware of the problem, and as they say, that’s (hopefully) at least half the battle.  Nothing made me more aware of the problem like a recent episode involving my 11 year old son.

I should pause here to point out that in his 11 (almost 12) mischief-filled years of living here on Earth, he has never really done anything that has truly shocked me.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s all boy and is constantly pushing every limit and button he knows to push of, and many he’s not aware of, all because that’s what boys do.  And so despite all the outbursts in crowded shopping centers and all the publicly repeated comments meant only for private ears and all the broken precious items that once belonged to family and friends and all the times of outright disobedience, my son has always lived within the boundaries of expectations – that is, until last week.

We were in Phoenix, visiting family.  It had been an especially long day – one in which we had been on the road for 2 hours in what I would call ‘doable traffic’, meaning it wasn’t a bumper to bumper parking lot, but rather a large number of cars barreling down the highway at a speed that is both acceptable and stress-inducing all at the same time.  I know it’s no excuse, but I was a little on edge from the traffic stress and very much tired from having to wake up earlier than I would have preferred, given that I was on vacation - a fact that was lost on no one in the truck at the time.  We were on the interchange between the 101 Loop and the northbound lane of I-17 in north Phoenix.  The ramp is two lanes wide, and since I was aware of the fact that those 2 lanes would soon converge into 1, I legally and conscientiously changed lanes leftward (and by conscientiously, I mean with no intent to impede or inflame any other motorists in the vicinity – a fact that you should hold on to as we plod along the storyline).   All was well until we got to the little stretch of road beyond the merging point where there’s no more dotted line in the center of the road, but the space between the 2 solid white lines is more than enough for just one vehicle, temporarily speaking, of course.  As we hit this space I affectionately call “no man’s land”, the car behind me decided that the view must be better from the front and pulled over to the right to pass me – in no man’s land.

As I pointed out earlier, we were travelling at a pretty good clip down the highway – I would guess 60 to 65 - so real estate quickly became an issue for us both as we barreled down the ever narrowing stretch of road, side by side.  Caught in a game of chicken I had no intention of playing, I braked hard as the car and its reckless driver swerved in front of me and away from the solid concrete wall on its right.

At this point I, along with everyone else in the vehicle, realized that I officially have an issue with anger.  I said things you wouldn’t expect to hear in a PG-13 movie – good thing my sweet little girls were asleep.  My lovely wife quickly chided me.  I didn’t hear her words of correction, however, because my son had some choice words of his own. His were PG, but the situation swiftly deteriorated from there. 

As I now recount the story, I can see the whole scene unfold in sloth-like motion.  Rest assured, however, the following events happened in such rapid succession that I was unable to think as clearly as I can now.  In a fit of rage, I hastily chose to get even with this numbskull, who had ruined my otherwise perfectly tolerable drive, by pulling up beside him and giving him the look of death.  In moments such as this one, where I’m simply recounting a story with little, if any, emotion other than shame, I well know that glaring at someone does next to nothing to extract revenge.  In fact, my experience tells me that most of my evil looks at other motorists simply go unnoticed, which only makes me madder.  After all, if I’m going to glare at someone, the proper thing for them to do is at least take notice.  But as I said, I wasn’t thinking with my head, but rather with the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins.  So I commenced with operation stare down. 

As my foot hit the accelerator, my son popped off a question, “want me to flip ‘em off, Daddy?”  I promptly answered with a resolute, “yes!”  And before I could correct myself, I caught a glimpse of his little arm flailing about in the window, middle finger extended.  I gasped, “What are you doing?” I then noticed that the “he” who was driving the car was a very much elderly “she”, who gawked back at my son and me as if we were the Manson family.  A wave of nausea hit me like a baseball bat to the groin.  Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned away, hung my head in shame and eased off the accelerator.  I was a monster – not a father.

In all fairness, I truly thought he was joking.  My son has never seen me give anyone the finger.  I know this because for all of my flaws, flipping people off is not one.  I always saw that gesture as being beneath me, somehow.  However, my half-joking, half-angry ‘yes’ was enough license for him to begin gesturing like a drunken sailor at a blue haired, cataract sun-glasses adorned old lady who’s only sin was scaring the bejeepers out of me, a trigger-happy, stressed out driving buffoon.

My wife quickly moved from chiding to outright rebuke, and I can’t blame her in the least.  I may as well have doused the boy with gasoline and given him a lighter to play with.  This is what’s known as an epic fail in the fatherhood department, and I owned up to it. 

Few things have ever truly shocked me.  At the top of my list is the sight of my son flipping off an old lady…  with my permission.