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

DON ARGO AWARD WINNING LITERATURE

When readers read, writers rejoice. Thanks Red-headed Book Lover for the great review!!!

Don Argo Award Winning Literature

Gaslighting

Gaslight is an old, old movie. It’s a classic. It’s an old classic. The beautiful Ingrid Bergman is in it. She’s a classic.

In the movie, her husband tries to drive her insane by moving stuff, hiding stuff, and dimming stuff. The movie coined the term gaslighting or to be gaslighted. It means trying to drive people crazy by means of moving stuff, hiding stuff, and dimming stuff like the gaslights.

Since the invention of the lightbulb, people (mostly my husband) try to gaslight people (mostly me) by acting like they’ve NEVER heard people (again me) say that I need someone (mostly my husband) to change the lightbulb in the ceiling fan on the porch. Because if I change it I have to drag the ladder from the barn, climb to the shaky top, balance on the top rung, while holding the lightbulb in my mouth and . . .

It’s still dark out there on the porch when the racoons form a human pyramid trying to pick the lock to the office and get to the mini-fridge.

The gaslighting conversation goes like this. “Honey, did you change the lightbulb, so that I can fight off racoons in the night?”

Honey says, “What porch?”

Recently, Honey was in Australia. He called me and wanted to know if I wanted a pair of Ugg boots. I said, “No thanks. I think they’re ugly and they make me look like an Inuit Indian, but I could go for a pair of those backless, slip-ons they make.” I purposely did not call them mules because I was pretty sure he’d bring me an actual mule.

He bought a pair of Ugg boots for daughter # 1, daughter # 2, daughter-in-law # 1, and a neighbor lady. I received?

A bookmark.

Made of wood.

With a kangaroo.

Am I speaking English? Is he? Did my desk lamp just dim?

And don’t even get me started on how often he thinks he’s told me stuff because he thought it to himself really loudly, or is he just pretending to think stuff he never told me?

Gaslighting.

Linda (Light Bright) Zern