Relax, Your Government is Keeping You Safe From Crotch Metal

Flew to Ohio. Flew back from Ohio. Got strip searched in Ohio.

Okay, maybe not all the way naked, but it was close.

It was a lovely little family trip to experience a baby’s blessing and naming ceremony. You know, one of those delightful days that make all the other days—worth it.

This delightful day happened in Ohio. We don’t live in Ohio. We have to fly to Ohio from Florida to experience this delightfulness. We could drive, but we’d rather ride Florida alligators in public without pants.

On the way back from Ohio, in the Dayton airport, we were shuffled into the regular person line by TSA. Usually, we get to go through the pre-check line because our Poppy is a travel diva who doesn’t have to be a “regular” person due to excessive perks.

What I learned being a regular person:

The fancy, expensive, taxpayer funded scanner machine is easy to confuse. I confused it with plastic sparkles on my sweater, which it detected as plane exploding metal. The next thing I know a TSA-stranger-lady is asking me if I would like to go in a private place to have my breasts touched.

Tempting! But no. I turned my head and said, “Get it over with.” TSA-stranger-lady patted down my confusing plastic sparkles and then moved on to my chubby thighs. I said, “Hey, there aren’t any sparkles down there.”

It’s possible TSA-stranger-lady did not care.

She waved me through after checking my hands for powdered sugar. (That was a near thing. I had some dreamy chocolate covered strawberries at my daughter-in-law’s house.)

Shaken, I straightened my sparkles, looked over my shoulder, and saw my seven-month pregnant daughter having her crotchal area checked for metallic objects. TSA-stranger-lady had my daughter’s shirt pulled up to Heather’s nipple region and was running her hands over my sixteenth grandchild. Heather started to cry.

That’s when I yelled, “Cry, Baby! Cry! You cry right now!”

Stripped of her dignity and Ugg boots (made in Australia and purchased by the above-mentioned travel diva) Heather tried to put her footwear back on after the TSA-stranger-lady got through with her and went to smoke a cigarette, but the pregnant chick couldn’t bend that far, so Conner, her twelve-year old, steered her to a plastic airport chair and put the boots back on his mother’s feet.

“Mom,” she sniffled, “the machine thought I had metal in my crotch.”

“It’s broken. Let’s go home.”

So, at this fine season of peace on earth, good will to us, please be advised your government is working hard to keep you safe from my plastic chest sparkles and the pregnant chick’s crotch metal.

Merry Christmas,

Linda (You Missed a Spot) Zern