On The Radar

(Pre-Script: This post should be read as the song, "Going the Distance," #18 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

Yesterday, I was driving to work, and I don't even think I was speeding. I even remember consciously having that thought, "I am driving to work, but I a not speeding." So it really jarred me when all of a sudden, I saw a police officer standing on the sidewalk and pointing his radar gun at me. He was wearing sunglasses and the smile of a seasoned hunter. He was aiming to shoot. It made me question my own good judgement on the matter of "not speeding," which made me fumble my steering wheel a little and hit the brakes a little. It made me exactly the opposite of what the police officer wanted to make me, which was a less safe driver than I had been the split second before.

This, Dear Children, is what we like to call "ironic."
Y'all, I'm not going to lie; when I saw that radar gun and that smug, satisfied smirk, I felt just like a goose flying with my pack over a frozen lake above New England somewhere; I felt like a Republican out with my fellow constituates on a jovial wildlife preserve for an innocent hunting jaunt; I felt like a large, wild game animal on Sarah Palin's ranch in Alaska.

It disturbed me.
If I was disturbed, I was not going to be on my A game at work, and, as a salesperson, I was not going to sell very well. This disturbed me even more. Because If I don't sell well, not only will I not survive, but the economy won't survive, and I won't be able to pay my taxes...the very same taxes that provide this policeman (who harbors an unrealized lifelong dream of big adventures on the African Savannah with Ernest Hemingway et al circa 1922) with his job of terrifying the masses of civilized tax payers so that he can shock them with a photo ticket 3-5 business days later.

Blink.

Blink.

And to think, he could have been using that time and money to hunt down and capture a real criminal.

This, Dear Children, is what is commonly known as "Wishful Thinking."

-XOXO,

The Sum Of My Parts

(Pre-Script: This post will introduce you to worlds you never knew existed when read as the song, "Everybody's changing," #21 on the playlist plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I get all flustered when I have to fill out any kind of Health Care questionnaire or job application that asks me about my race. Pacific Islander? Maybe. My skin is pale, but so is Gwyneth Paltrow's, and she was in an ad campaign that said "I am African," the theory being that we all started out in Africa.

Lately, I have been wearing a flower in my hair every day. You could call it flamboyant overaccessorizing, but I like to think it's my Hawaiian gene pool finally showing itself.

"Michelle, you have Hawaiian in your bloodline?"

Sure, why not?

I have no way of accounting for every action of my every ancestor since the beginning of time, and even if they all kept extensive, detailed diaries, I'm sure at least one or two of them was lying.

Blink.

Blink.

Even if the lie was simply by way of omission.

Blink.

I am just as likely to contain Hawaiian blood as any other. So I feel pressure, Healthy Care providers and Job Granters of the world; do you hear me? I feel pressure to check every box in the nationality department.Yes, I could have a 15% higher chance of getting this or that disease, instead of that or that disease. You'll just have to test for all of them.

...But instead I check the box marked "Caucasian." This causes my brain to itch in a place I can't quit reach to scratch, because, aside from the fact that I'm not as flexible as I once was when I used to stretch extensively before trying out for cheerleading, (call that my "delusions of grandeur" gene, of which nationality I have yet to pinpoint) checking "Caucasian" is sort of like getting stuck eating the corn flakes when everyone around you gets to eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Waffles and Bacon.

Blink.

Blink.

I have never heard of a land mass, (country or continent, I wouldn't be picky) called "Caucasia." Have you?

How can I be whole if I am not the sum of my parts??

Think about it.

-XOXO,

Thanksgiving

(Pre-Script: This post pairs best with the song, "Better, " #43 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait..)(...still waiting...)

I was always hungry, then.
I wanted something sweeter
than what was on the table
I wanted the sweetness
to never never end
so I went outside and started digging
I started digging
with filthy bleeding hands
didn't mind the sting of the ache
didn't mind because sometimes
something inside of me would start to growl.
I was always hungry, then;
I wanted something sweeter than what was on the table
the problem was
I didn't know how to differentiate
sweetness from poison-
and maybe I still don't.
(Didn't anyone ever tell you that poison tastes like love?)

-XOXO,