Traveling home from Disneyland was more hectic than the arrival. Here’s the thing that happens at every airport: Mike gets screened. He had hip surgery four years ago due to years of marathons and other intense running (from the po-pos!), which left him with a metal joint in his hip socket. The metal ball sets off the detector every single time so I know that we’ll get separated and I’ll be left scrambling to gather the bins on the conveyor belt while he’s being felt up. At the Seattle airport, they actually made him roll his underwear over the belt and pull the fabric forward so they could, in Mike’s words, check out his package (and they weren’t even UPS! [also Mike’s words, ba dum dum]).
While the LAX TSA agent was going to second base with my husband, the agent in front of me clutched Nathan’s diaper bag, and sternly asked, “Do you have any liquids in here?”
Then I remembered that I had asked Mike to pack a water bottle and he must have forgotten to empty it. The man unzipped the bag and pulled out the bottle, holding its neck like a hunted rabbit. “Whose bottle is this?”
“My husband’s.” I answered.
The man frowned and repeated, “Whose bottle is this?”
I repeated in the same, unconvincing high-pitched tone, “My husband’s?”
He shook his head, looked directly at Nathan and said, “I’m going to try this one more time. Whose bottle is this?”
“It’s his!” I exclaimed, pointing at Nathan. “My son did it!”
The agent laughed then and granted us permission to leave the area. I was so relieved because the more he questioned, the more I was having flashbacks of that Claire Danes movie, Brokedown Palace, and I’m too fragile for Thai jail!
This is just another example of how slow-witted I am around people in authority. I can’t joke around with people with the power to arrest me, especially if I try to ensue hilarity with, “It’s my water bottle! DON’T TASE ME BRO! HAHA!” Actually, I think anyone who does utter the phrase, “Don’t tase me bro!” should actually get tased because while I am against violence, I am all for irony.
And in other travel misadventures, this is how I found my luggage at the Seattle airport: the whole front pocket ripped out.
Alaska Airlines was supposed to give us a free replacement but could not find a similar sized model. I have to call bull on that excuse because how much luggage goes through that terminal in one day? I rounded it up to “a lot,” or more specifically, “a hell of a lot.” (That’s my college degree working!) We received a coupon to get the luggage “repaired.” I doubt this can be salvaged, but if I do take it in, I had better see some Project Runway finalist sewing away at the suitcase, and if possible, make it Santino. He’s my favorite.
I’m just glad I didn’t use that pocket to store all my dirty underwear. It would be embarrassing to stand there at the baggage carousel as the contents of my luggage scattered along the conveyor belt. I’d go, “Wow, that’s weird. I have glittery panties that say, ‘15% Angel’ too! Wait! Those are my 15% Angel panties!” I’d have to laugh along with the other people there and wait until they were gone so I could pick them up (ironic panties don’t grow on trees, you know) and no one would know that I was the unfortunate owner. Also, they wouldn’t be able to look at my 15% Angel panties, then at me and think, “What happened to the other 85 percent? Oh that’s right. Her ass probably ate it.”