Bubble Gum Rap

One of my absolute most favorite occurrences in average, daily life is a freakishly sunny day. Anyone who lives in Portland knows exactly what type of day I'm talking about: After weeks of dreary gray rain and days of what my ex and I used to call skyless days -- skyless because the dreary clouds blend into the gray world around us, eliminating the horizon that cuts the realm between heaven and earth -- we Portlanders will wake up to a bright burning orb shining rudely without invitation into our early morning eyes (Which, as we all know, are the windows to our yet-to-be-caffeinated souls) that forces us out from under the layers of covers we hibernate beneath in a confused state of being:

"Is the sky...blue?" One might ask upon rising out of bed looking out the window at a crisp, cerulean sky.

"What, what is that?" One might respond, pointing out at that strange glowing orb smiling in the sky.

"It's...it's the sun!" The two realize simultaneously in such loud wonderment and awe that an observer might believe the pair were pointing at something they'd never seen before, like a zombie or a non-scary clown or that age-old flying pig.

But no, they're looking at the sun. But I digress. Today's post isn't about waking up to the sun, even though I did indeed, wake up to the morning glory of the sun. Today's post, as foretold by it's title, is about enjoying the first sun of the month in my most favorite way: Rocking out and bumping to rap music while wearing Lady Gaga sunglasses during the drive to work in my 2006 white (and dented and dirty) Hyundai Elantra.

Like any awkward white person, you can imagine I look like Michael Bolton from Office Space except cuter, more caffeinated and hopefully, a little less dorky.

Sidebar: If you haven't seen Office Space just stop reading right now and watch this. Then proceed. End sidebar.

Of course, as I was told today by Clara at work, the 'hardcore rap' I listen to on the radio is in fact, bubble gum rap.

"Oh sweety," Clara, who is the most mom-like figure of all of my friends; she's the sweetest, most caring, most understanding and helpful person who always has your best interests at heart and, as I've mentioned before, doesn't get grossed out when you're a pitting-out, stressed-out, shingles-covered disaster, said. "I'll have to show you hard-core rap."

(I should also mention that Clara has admitted to having days of Christmas music on her family's iTunes)

But until she schools me on what hard-core rap really is, I'm going to keep bumping to my bubble gum rap -- the four or five same songs that play on the radio during the one o'clock and six o'clock hours while I commute to and from the alternative medicine clinic. I'll be a gangsta-g-gangsta with Snoop Dogg while I'm in an Empire State of Mind with Jay Z and, as of recently, being Mr. Flinstone like Lil Wayne (cause I can make your bedrock).

Yes, I know I'm a white girl -- and an awkward and skinny one with short, pixie hair at that. I guess it's the middle-class suburban upbringing in me that feels like a total badass whenever MIA Paper Planes comes on.

I just toss my hands like I'm busting a cap while I'm stopped at a red light until a car pulls up next to me carrying a 20-something-year-old guy who looks at me, smiles and then busts up into unforgivable laughter.

Bubble gum rap indeed.