Attention Birmingham: I want my POD back.

I've met countless mixed-breed kids here in Birmingham. In fact, there are so many Indian-Whitey married couples with blended doobies that we're just blending in. Having "Caucasian" Kaila as my daughter isn't even something remarkable. No one here mistakes me for her nanny. They simply assume I'm the mommy. How presumptuous! Where's the fun in that?

I miss the attention I used to get being an interracial couple whose genes didn't co-mingle in their kids. Now I'm left wondering what I can do to stand out again since I'm such an attention seeker. I was considering a face tattoo, but that might not look so great at PTA meetings. Plus, I can just hear my Mom.

"You look like IDIOT! Are you eating? You look skinny. Sit down. EAT. You still look like IDIOT, but at least you will be healthy! Here. I found your brother's ski mask from high school. Wear it so you won't shame the family."

I was also considering divorcing Mike and marrying a Black man. But, that might not be "different" enough. I might have to go Aborigine or !Kung Bushman. On second thought, I actually like Mike so scrap that idea.

I'm in a pickle. No. I'm not in a pickle. I'm treading water in a sea of diversity and drowning. Fast. Somebody throw me a point of difference. My current branding strategy is failing faster than New Coke.

When we moved to Chagrin Falls, I stood out in a crowd and people got to know me fast:
"Hey, did you meet the new girl?"
"Who?"
"She's Indian. Two kids. Husband's white."
"Oh, yeah. Of course!"

Now, interracial seems so passé. Standing out is a challenge:
"Hey, did you meet the new girl?"
"Who?"
"She's Indian. Two kids. Husband's white."
"You're funny. Can you give me a little more to go on? What's her address?"

When Mike and I got married 10 years ago, I never thought I'd live in a town where blending is commonplace. Desperate, I emailed some of my favorite Vanilla wafers to get their thoughts. Who better to help me figure out how to stand out than my white g-friends? Hippie chick, my tall blonde buddy, had a great idea. She suggested I get the biggest boob job ever. I could be the only Indian girl here with humongous hooters. Not bad, I thought. Mike should go for that. Sure, buying a point of difference is an incredibly slippery slope. What next, the Paris lip, abdominal etching, a face transplant? I don't care. I want my POD back!