Michigandering

I am on summer vacation to Michigan. 

"Pure Michigan" is the tourist bureau's slogan for it. 

This morning I had I diet vernors soda, which is a Michigan kind of ginger ale - pure Michigan. Like Stoney tangawizi, which is pure Kenya ginger ale. I'm becoming quite the connoisseur. From west to east it becomes stronger and less sweet. 

Recently I passed a vehicle on a four-lane road with its back windows down, which caught my attention. I found that that was the purpose because the backseat passenger (who was an adult man) was entertaining himself by sitting sideways and trying to make eye contact with everyone his car passed. We had a fun moment. It wasn't a wierd moment. 

It was pure Michigan. 

We're on the second leg of the journey today; having slept over in the Detroit area last night. We, are going Up North. 

Up North is where you're allowed to be a hick and joke about them like you know about them if you were born there. 

My dad was born there. I've been to the brown trout festival (I wore a purple fairy dress but I still watched them gutting fish and stood around while grampa talked with his old hearty up north friends). My grandpa owns hunting land. We call it, "the land."  I am very proud of this information. When we pass the "up north" rest stop on the way to our destination and walk in the door to greet the taxidermied bears, I feel a sense of inheritance. 

I'm proud of my heritage up here. I'm proud to not be a tourist. (Let's face it; nobody wants to be a for-real tourist.) 

My rule is that if I am "with," accepted by or am related to someone in an area I am no longer touring the area. The line is fuzzy. Sometimes I jump back and forth. 

I like to think I have some hick blood in me. I've been told my dad's the quirkiest one of my parents, and that I'm the most like him. Maybe it has something to do with my northern aura. 

We just passed a diner called "Ma's Girls. ". Enough said. 

We also passed the Up North store without going in. Dad said we were breaking with tradition. Mom commented that the hand driers in the restrooms were always quite powerful. 

There are more hand driers in Michigan. Less paper towels. I think Michiganders like their trees. 

This is a good time. 

My Ass

I was visiting a friend who had some friends over. These were friends I had never met. A guy and his girlfriend. 

To the girl, I said, "I like your skirt!"

"Thanks. The guys were making fun of me last time for being a slut because I was wearing animal print and only black girls wear animal prints."

I laughed and indicated that I believed there may be some truth to that statement (but really? Animal prints are for all men. For the record.)

From there the conversation was overtaken by boyfriend whose thesis is "never trust a black man."

Several comments were exchanged during this little smoke break while we were outside that made me feel increasingly uncomfortable. I voiced my opinion that this conversation is based on stereotypes and is racist and in many cases is incorrect, citing my experience with Philadelphian strangers. 

Boyfriend comes back as if an hour's worth of words had been held back and I had hammered just the right point to break the dam. 

It becomes evident that my experience pales in comparison to his. That is enough said. I apologize about halfway through the rush of words and thank him for sharing (which was really a hint that I had gotten his point and wanted him to stop talking and get on with my life). He continues sharing. 

Have I spoken yet about people who lack the actual tissue in their brains that regulates conversation? For example, most importantly, detecting the other person's interest level and attention span. Also, allowing the other to talk. And listening. And also having a purpose for talking (as opposed to talking for the sake of talking). 

Sometimes I forget to whom I've said things and to whom I haven't yet. 

I hope to be thought an excellent conversationalist. 

An excellent conversationalist knows how to gracefully back out of an unpleasant and fruitless conversation. 

I am not yet an excellent conversationalist. 

Now comes the funny part: I brought this event in my life into conversation with my parents. 

And my mom says,

"You know,

You lived in Africa for a while."

There are black people in Africa. This is funny. There are no white people in Africa except me. 

I had a large sample of people to study from. I met some people I wouldn't trust, and some people I would trust with my soul in a cardboard box for 500 years. 

Never trust a black man my ass.

Epidermis

When a motorcycle and a car interact, the car generally wins, I think. 

In the same way, when a shoe interacts with a foot in such a way that it rubs off a few layers of the epidermis, it seems as if the shoe has won. 

I will not allow the shoes to win this war. They have won battles, but my feet are resilient and they will fight back. 

These two pairs of Goodwill black flats are just the ticket to dressing for success. 

I will not let my $6.48 go to waste. 

I paid a lot more for a piece of shape wear that looked like a vintage-y high-waisted swimsuit bottom. Modest and unique, but worth it only if I use it enough. 

Just like them shoes. 

I went swimming outside for the first time this summer not long ago. The blue is incomparably happiness-filled and faceted with light. There are bodies of water indoors, but to stretch out in this water under the sun brought back so many memories of summers passed where I would swim alone at Aunt B's pool and let my thoughts wander as the solitude and he coolness of the water and the form of the swimming took over my consciousness. 

Lately, I've been craving French fries with ranch dressing. Is ranch becoming more popular in the world, or had it always been this popular? Or is it just becoming a larger part of my life as I grow older?

Ketchup (please don't make me spell it the right way) just doesn't compare. 

McDonald's had caught on. They charge extra after two packs of ranch. Two packs is enough for no one. (Or at least not enough for me.)

Maybe fries will pass and another food will occupy my mind. 

Whenever it's time. 

Flashing Lights

The other day I brake-tapped someone for the first time. 

That's a thing, right?

Where someone's driving too close behind me and I send a message to them by tapping my brakes several times and driving slower than i was before until they get the picture and "get off my ass" as my friend would say?

It was partially successful. He slowed down for about two minutes and then I didn't have the heart to be that annoying brake-tapper in front of a whole line of cars. 

It's so much easier to try and appease the cars behind me and drive as fast as I think they want me to. 

I drive fast a lot and on multi-lane roads get out of the way of people faster than me, but man, if I'm on an unfamiliar curvy road, you'd better believe I'm gonna drive however dang fast I want to. 

(Oh, and when the speed limit decreases, if I remember, I sloooow down just to be legal as well as annoying/a reminder of the limit to cars behind me.)

Speaking of getting out of the way leads me to think about switching lanes, which in turn causes thoughts in my mind about turn signals. The other day, I didn't use my turn signal for the first time and I felt like such a hypocrite for hating on all of the people who I frequently witness failing to use their turn signals. 

I thought this was something we learned in driver's ed. 

I thought the turn signal thing is right next to your ring finger so you can flip it up and down without thinking. 

I thought that people forgot to use their signals once in a while and it was very infrequent. 

I was wrong. 

People, in fact, either did not attend driver's education, have broken turn signals, have very bad muscle disorders of the left hand, or, out of hatred for the lives of other drivers on the road, 

They have made the conscious decision never to use their signals. 

This. 

Is an abomination. 

On another note about flashing lights, we all know about school zones and the flashing lights that warn all vehicles to drive at 15 miles per hour, especially around elementary schools, during times when kids are outside and thus more able to run out into the roads in an effort to end the misery. 

My gov/soc teacher told me that people who happen to live within school zones can't run in their yards faster than 15 miles per hour. This made me curious as to how fast a human can run. 

It's nice that the community cares enough about not hitting kids at 35 miles per hour and hitting them at 15 instead. I can tell because we all obey the rule. We don't even go the typical ten above. I like to think it doesn't all have to do with not getting ticketed; I think the community cares about our future generation and thinks of the elementary school as a sort of little treasure box with fragile and valuable boys and girls inside. 

I'm always so proud of the cars that get into the left-turn lane. That means they're a parent about to drop a kid off. You go, mom, dad! You had a kid and by taking on that responsibility you are heroic!

School's out, and the lights are off for ten heavenly weeks. As I tear through the school zone at 35 miles per hour, I think of how much it sucks that I'll still be in beauty school when the light begins flashing again. 

My mom told me I need to talk with mentors about how to like school better. 

I will. 

Funny

The other day I was thinking about men. 

This is not unusual. 

But assessing my man situation, I decided I needed to be pursued by men instead of pursuing them. 

Fat chance. 

Mom always says I shouldn't have to always be the one to drive to other people's houses; they should want to come to me too. Well, besides the fact that guys aren't allowed in the house, I'm pretty sure I would have no friends if I didn't drive to them. Because they're worth it to me but not the other way around and that's okay. 

Just as long as we get to see each other. 

I have this habit of watching my phone as if it's a flower growing. If I wait long enough and water it (and maybe watching will help) I'll be rewarded with a flower opening in front of my eyes. Or in this case, a text message from someone I want to hear from. 

(This is a negative way to waste time and thought energy.)

So anyhow, I start playing out these scenarios in my head of men pursuing me. Two of them. 

On my lunch break, in the park, I walk by a semi-suitable man and picture him running up behind me and saying, no lie, "I was dared by my friends to ask out the next girl I saw walking barefoot and it was you."  And I almost expected it to happen. It didn't. 

At the end of my day, as I strode to the back of the lot, I spotted a guy about my age or a little bit older who may or may not have been watching me from the hot environment of his car. As I neared my own car, I could swear it was he who moved his car from the previous spot right into the one next to mine. Without a glance in my direction, off he goes to planet fitness and I begin to imagine that every day he sees me walking to my car before he goes inside to work out and he's finally starting to get closer to me. Maybe he'll follow me home. Maybe tomorrow he'll park next to me and say hi. Maybe someday we'll get married. As he sauntered into the distance I watched him incredulously. It must have looked like I was checking him out. I don't even remember what he looked like. 

So I got into my car and probably that day turned the air on full blast and it probably started working right as I turned into my driveway. 

I am thankful to God that my family has Glorious Window Units That Work. So when I go inside my car sweat evaporates and I am happy. 

I like to spray perfume in my car so it smells extra-nice. It doesn't have bad smells in it, but it's kind of a non-elegant car so to make it smell elegant is a nice idea. It doesn't seem to be working anymore. Perhaps the summer heat is attacking the scent molecules? Maybe I should spray it in my vents. 

Speaking of vents, there's an air vent-grate thing right where customers stand while they purchase items at a consignment shop I, well I don't frequent it, so I guess I occasion it. Of course I didn't notice this grate and was wearing heels and the heel went right through and the rubber coating of the heel was stripped off and I haven't gotten around to gluing it back on. 

My natural reaction to everything is to make a very surprised-sounding "oh!" And I found out that the nice older ladies who run the shop never noticed the grate either. 

It was a very funny incident. 

Bubble Lips

I have recently discovered the joy of Instagram. It is a website where I can take photographs and share them with the world, and where the world shares pictures back with me. 

I have found that I actually enjoy looking at the photos other people post instead of only being concerned about my own witty, or interesting, or thoughtful images. This makes me feel that my use of Instagram is a positive way to waste time. 

On this site, I came up with a name: LadyCashew. I should have just made it my real name so as not to confuse people. I'd rather they know who I am. I don't even like cashews even more. But there is a girl who has found and followed me who had a great name: Bubble Lips. I don't know if I have ever met her since her name is so ambiguous and in fact if the photos I see are selfies, she is a 12-year-old, lipstick-wearing woman with a mature sense of humor who likes my face paint. I am flattered. 

Speaking of lipstick - a moment not to be trivialized by a thumbnail-sized photo on a phone screen - one of my best friends got her makeup done professionally done  recently at school during our makeup unit. 

We all have to get our makeup done but this is is a pre-trained makeup artist demonstrating makeup application for the rest of us and this girl is the one who always makes jokes about her appearance and pretends she's accepted the way she looks. 

(The problem here is the word "accepted" because that implies that there is some horrible void or imperfection that actually exists in her appearance.)

When the artist finished, the girl started walking towards the bathroom and we were all so excited for her to see herself. "Stop it, you're gonna make me cry!" But she was already crying. 

Her makeup was fine though. 

The artist is a fellow student of ours. As she came into the bathroom we all left. I was the last to leave. The two of them don't socialize much but the hug between them was better than in the movies. I had to leave, it was so beautiful. 

I don't know if she knew why she was crying. 

But I feel like she has a really hard life and does her best with her son and her mom and her work, and school, and to her, she feels like it's not good enough. But when her classmate put all that love into her face, it said, "you're worth the effort, girlfriend, and this is what you look like on the inside."  

I think she looked beautiful. And she was radiant like someone who's awesome should be. 

The next day she was back to normal, but I don't think anyone cared. We all think she's beautiful with or without. 

I hope she caught a glimpse that day of how radiant she always is though.