“TSA really means ‘Tough Shit Assholes’” – Anastacia Campbell
I’m standing behind a man who doesn’t understand the difference between gallon and quart. He then takes approximately 53 years removing his belt and shoes. By the time he steps foot to the other side of the metal detectors I have gray hair, seven grandchildren and a walker has magically appeared by my side.
When it is finally my turn, I expeditiously remove my Vans, belt and blazer. My boarding pass is in my right hand and my left hand is doing a really shitty job at being a makeshift pair of suspenders. I shuffle through and get to the other side peering through to my suitcase. I begin to think the sweet thoughts of exploring future options of doing what the kids call ‘checking luggage’. But the kids aren’t anal-retentive assholes afraid of losing their precious pink and black Chuck Taylors or the world’s greatest bra. So I suffer.
I keep peering as TSA lemming #1 stares at the contents on the x-ray. TSA lemming #2 then puts it back through. I’m still clinging desperately to my pants and feeling anxious because I only have an hour until my flight and I’ll need to sit and breathe for 45 minutes. I can feel each and every neuron spontaneously imploding because my lord, there is absolutely nothing in that bag that would warrant 17 searches and the use of a dog. So the bag goes back through again and TSA lemming #3 (How many TSA agents does it take to go through a Samsonite?) says that she needs to physically go through my bag.
PHYSICALLY GO THROUGH MY BAG immediately causes my left eye to twitch and I have to resist the urge to kick her in her giant head (dude, it was HUGE). She unzips it and actually removes each item of clothing and I lifting up my shirts and inspecting each and every shoe with a magnifying glass looking for a ‘piece of metal’. She starts to interrogate me as to the whereabouts of this mysterious piece of metal all the while removing my underwear and bras from the mesh pocket. I continue to stand there gripping my pants and boarding pass while the people in line behind me start to shift uncomfortably. She is still looking for the ‘piece of metal’ because the metal is in there and it is probably wrapped up in my boy cut underwear or perhaps I hid it in my Hope in a Tube or perhaps it’s embedded in my t-shirt.
She literally has the entire contents of my meticulously packed bag splayed out for the world to see. I am actually getting physically ill watching her take every item out, unfold it, then haphazardly toss it back in because do you know how long it took me to iron my ‘I Love Ghana’ tee? And yes, I do own several pairs of hot pink panties and all of Albany probably knows my cup size. She then shrugs and says “Thank you”. I give her the my best, I hope someone drops an anvil on your big toe and that your car gets hit by a Mack truck transporting a mobile home and you break your hip on a patch of ice, white hot, fiery glare of death. Because “Thank you”? Really? I roll my eyes and she has the audacity to say, “You could be a little more polite”.
I am so sorry. For some reason my politeness factor takes a giant leap out of the window when I’m standing in the middle of the aiport with my pants halfway to my ankles and everyone in the greater capital region knows that my ass and boobs really are that large and that I wear a lot of mesh because it makes things airy. My bad.
Brotherly Love
“You can fall in love at first sight with a place as with a person.” ~Alec Waugh
After every other step I took in Philadelphia this weekend, I would stop, look around and declare my undying love for the city. There was a brief moment while at Lori’s when I started to suggest that maybe she should get a roommate. And that roommate should be me. Lest one think that I’m destined to live in suburban upstate NY for the rest of my life, you would be wrong and/or high. Philly is the size of DC but lacks the job factor and the oppressing heat and humidity come in July. It’s that type of humidity that you step into and you can feel it surrounding as it asphyxiates. As you are choking on every last word, the humidity is making you its bitch.
Someone recently asked which of the cities I’ve visited would I actually live in. DC, San Francisco, Chicago, Madrid, Brussels and Atlanta made the cut. The thought of living in Manhattan with several million other people all up in my personal space and breathing my air makes me violent. Philly wasn’t even on the list and had been shamefully forgotten until walking around yesterday afternoon. But the part that really drew me in, the part where I realize that I’m slowly turning into an actual adult that takes cost of living very seriously; was when I got my check after spending Saturday night out where I had more Grey Goose and sodas than I care to remember, two shots of patron silver and a giant ass plate of pizza tater tots (that last part is proof that there is a God) and my bill came out to like 13 dollars and some change. Love means never having to say you’re sorry. It also means being able to buy four drinks with a five dollar bill.
And now I get to tell people the story of that time I made out with Philadelphia.