The other day I received a phone call. It was a survey. Yes, one of those. And since the husband works with his clients in the development of intricate surveys to measure popular opinion, I usually feel compassion for whomever the survey-conductor is and participate.
This particular survey was conducted by someone with an accent. I believe he was Indian (as in the dot, not the feather). And so, it made for a little extra hard concentrating and listening on my part.
He explained the survey would take a few minutes and then began by asking my age range. I fell in the 25-40 bracket. Kind of a broad bracket, but whatever. And then he asked my gender. Female, of course.
And then he asked if I was a freakin' American.
What? Did I hear that correctly? I asked him to repeat.
And he again asked if I was a freakin' American.
That's what I thought he said. So, just to confirm, I asked one more time if he would repeat the question.
I am positive he was thinking, "lady, this is not a difficult question"- and so he asked me one more time-- "Are you a freakin' American? Or are you Hispanic or Caucasian?"
Oh, K, got it. I told him I was Caucasian.
To which he replied, "Are you sure you are not A-freecan American?"
And I replied, "Yes, positive. I am Caucasian."
Then he tried to convince me that I was African American. And I assured him I wasn't. And he didn't want to talk to me after that. Because I was the wrong color.
And I hung up the phone and giggled.
Oh, one more thing. I voted today. After all, I am a freakin' American.