Surrender Dorothy

I am preparing to take a flight.


I longingly recall days when you threw a bathing suit and a random bunch of stuff in a bag and dashed out the door and screamed into the airport with barely enough time to sprint to the gate and breathlessly check in with the airline staff moments before they sealed the door to the plane.


And then sat in your seat in hopeful anticipation of the drink cart and whatever meal was being served before the movie was shown while you snuggled up under the airline-issued blanket, head on the pillow they also provided, and if you were up all night writing a paper, caught a little shut eye under the eye mask so you could arrive refreshed in Fort Lauderdale.


If only.


I am not complaining. This is not going to be a civil liberties rant. It is unfortunate that there is so much pre-fight rigmarole and checking and re-checking and screening and scanning. But it is more unfortunate that its genesis lies in acts of pure hatred that will scar the American conscious for decades to come. My generation’s Pearl Harbor. Perhaps more infamous. Who dares compare?


But things have gotten so intense and so unpredictable with the pre-flight checklist that no one really knows what they are supposed to do. I recall my sister, who bravely flew to Huntsville, AL days after 9/11 (flying so soon after being the brave part, not Huntsville…) and being indignant that her bag search yielded a menacing pair of tweezers that she had to forfeit if she was going to board the plane. She reluctantly gave in but was incensed at the infringement on her rights to perfectly face-framing brows.


Now, thanks to people like the Shoe Bomber and other loons who make unbalanced lunatic threats to our collective airborne safety, things like lip gloss, too many ounces of hair gel, and even real live eating utensils are considered weapons-grade materials. Look out! I may actually cause some real chaffing with my butter knife!


So while on a little trip to a local drug store to buy last minute incidentals for the trip, I picked up one of those little kits with the “approved” sized bottles that you can pour your products into rather than have to make room for the sure-to-leak full sized bottles in your checked baggage. And I picked up a pack of the quart sized bags the stuff is all supposed to go in.


And I got to thinking, if there is a limit on the volume of liquids and gels, is there also a limit on the number of these little bags that one can pack? Because presumably, if you packed 10 baggies filled with 3-4 ounces of some incendiary fluid, couldn’t you little by little concoct a little Molotov cocktail in spite of the safety measures?


So I went on line to see if I could get a little advice…and know up front if I was going to get nailed for having curling balm AND straightening serum and would have to make a choice.


And do you know, for all my searching, I could find nothing, not a word about how many little bags of little bottles one is permitted to jam into their carry on.

I did however, find some other handy advice about what you cannot bring in your carry on baggage:

1 – A grenade (Whew! Glad we have some clear direction on that!)
2 – A machete (Damn. Wasn’t counting on that restriction)
3 – A scythe (I’m sorry Grim Reaper. No flying for you.)
4 – An ice pick (So therefore no impromptu in flight lobotomies)
5 – Nunchuks (So I would assume ninja throwing stars would be no-nos as well)

But before I remove my jewelry, my wallet, my shoes, my belt, my scarf, my coat, and surrender anything remotely capable of becoming a weapon, I have to get past the sentry with the black light pen who will be examining my papers. And here is where I get to hand in and explain my license with my married name and the flimsy little paper card documenting my legal name change, which became official one month after I'd renewed my license, natch.

Joy goes first. The sentry has a sense of humor at least. He remarks on her her destination. She says "Girls weekend." He tells her to be good. She says, "Not a chance." Laughs all around.

My turn.

I hand him my license and name change. He gets out the pen and is waving it over them sort of intently. He unfolds the preposterous little paper card. He holds it up to his face as though he is Mr. Magoo. Then holds it away, looking perplexed.

I speak up. "Driver's license and name change."

He looks up. "Congratulations?" I think he thinks I just got married.

"Divorce."

"That's what I meant."

I smile. "Lost 180 ugly pounds and the boring last name in the same whack of the gavel."

He laughs.

He gestures toward Joy. "You with her?" he asks.

I nod still smiling.

"I'm not even going to tell you to be good."

We high five. Not a chance, friend. Not a chance.