I Heard There Will Be A Conga Line At My Funeral

My friends are looters and zombie killers. But apparently? Also sentimental. Please consider the recent conversation below Exhibit A.

Me: Okay I need your opinion: free skydiving lesson was offered to me -- not off a plane, into a tube. Take it?

A: Do it!

Me: What if I told you the instructor was in training? Still do it?

A: It's in a tube... What could go wrong?

Me: I don't know, I haven't had a freak accident before. I'm not sure how they go down.

A: Do it!

Me: If I die, not only do you HAVE to come to my funeral, but also give a euology (and pronounce it like Zoolander) about how beautiful and kind hearted I am. You may not mention that I gave you instructions on what to say.

A: Okay.

Me: You want me dead. I knew it.

A: I do. I want your iPhone.

Me: When I jump to my death under your orders, please help yourself.

A: Okay... what else do you have that I want?

Me: My hair?

A: Maybe.

Me: Hey! Don't be mean! You love my hair and would want to save it for the baby.

A: I'll make a blanket for him with it.

Me: That is the perfect legacy.

A: We will have a conga line at your funeral!

Me: I want to come! Maybe we can have a fake funeral where I show up. Surprise! Not dead! I feel like maybe people would be mad instead of joyful. Because I have terrible friends.

A: We would be confused. And think you were a zombie. And kill you. You would be bald.

Thanks. I love you, too.

Diary of An Angry Black Woman (Who Isn't Black)

Airport security -- no one's favorite, but never been an issue for me.

Take off your jacket? Okay! Remove your jewelry and belt? Sure thing. Kick off the shoes? Of course -- did that back at check-in. Pull out everything you packed and dump each item into separate bins? You got it -- I was hoping to lose something today anyway.

But last week, I got a pat down.

OF MY HAIR.

This hair.

After walking through the security conveyer belt, throwing my hands in the air (like I just didn't care) for the body scanning machine, and walking forward, I was informed that my hair was suspiciously full and lustrous and they had to pat it down.

They *might* have left out the compliments, but I was fairly confident that was why... they're a jealous bunch, those TSA people.

I'm not going to lie, it was a disappointing experience. There was no awkward massage of my shoulders or anything. When my co-worker got patted down, he got the full body treatment (women discriminated against again!).

But today, my friend sent me an article from the TIME website: "Woman Calls TSA Hair Pat Down 'Racially Motivated.'"

Oh.my.goodness. The same airport? The same pat down?

It's obvious: the TSA thinks I'm black.

It's not the first time this mistake has been made.

I thought the pat down was funny when it was just hair jealousy. Now that I know it's because I'm Jewish-and-confused-for-another-minority? Now I'm enraged.

I'm going to have to talk to some media about being singled out for my poofy full, lustrous hair.