it that serious TSA?

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Security line

Flag of United States  , Arizona
Saturday, August 29, 2009

We waved all the way through security. It was like one of those stupid movies where two young lovers just keep looking longingly at each other while flashbacks of their times together play and happy music fills the air.
Longing music.

I started missing him as soon as I could not see him anymore. I would have stayed in that lovey dovey haze if it were not for Joe and Jane I-take-my-airport- security-job-way-too- seriously barking orders at me. I mean who knew that "regulations were now changed and my shoes had to go directly on the belt." Sorry. I mean is everyone aware that if one wire is on top of your lap top it must be sent through again or that they must give cough syrup a vapor test? Excuuuussse me.

I hate the security line. I always feel so dirty coming out of it. I have to walk, in bare feet, on nasty floors. I am always certain that I have caught some sort of incurable foot disease. My bags are trifled through by gloved weirdos. It's like they take pleasure in looking at the mascara I never use, caressing my rat-tail comb and touching on my old lady butterscotch disks. And then there is always some old lady who feels me up under the guise of checking to see if it's the under wire in my bra that is setting off the detector. (Perv)  I feel like it gets to the point that we may be going steady cuz she's already at 2nd base.


I am all about security, but I miss the days when you could bring your own water and entourage through the gate. Your friends and family could send you off with hugs and kisses. You could wear your shoes and shirt and still get service. Glasses and gold chains (I mean not like Mr. T but like Ice-T) were okay. Lotion and lip gloss were not considered lethal and no one thought of medication and baby formula as weapons of mass destruction. The TSA folks were just tired security guards or in the case of the Atlanta airport auction-speaking weed heads with tight pants and long weaves that admired your knock off purse...jeez. Where are they? Sadly those times have passed and we are stuck with the glorified yet gun less sky-mall cop armed with their wands, x-ray machines and their conveyor belts of terror.
So I get out of security and I am buckling and tucking and straightening and putting jewelry back on and that lovey dovey feeling comes back. I am so pathetic
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sakeeta on

I miss the good ole days of stress free travel too. However, I understand that this is for our protection and I have to go through it. Hell I was mad as hell in Jamaica when they told me I had to check my bag because I had 3 bottles of rum in it...I'm just sayin!

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