All’s Well That Ends Well

After a whirlwind trip down south, I’m back–which is lucky considering I almost didn’t make it through security at DCA.

Personally, I think I’m a pretty good traveler.  I’m careful to follow the 3oz rule, I always disrobe before going through security and I make sure any loaded weapons are hidden in my traveling companion’s bag.  Well so much for thinking it all through…

I arrived at the airport in a pair of slip-on shoes, a sundress and a denim jacket.  Quite frankly, I was beyond pleased with my apparent ability to be one step ahead of the system.  No doubt I would go flying through the metal detector while everyone else floundered around with shoe laces, belt buckles, and (heaven forbid) the laptop they forgot to TAKE OUT OF THE BAG.

With jacket and shoes removed, I zip through. ” BZZZZZZZZZZZ.”

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to step back through.”

 Wha…?

“Are you wearing a hairpin?”

A hairpin?  Look at my head.  I’m sporting Peppermint Patty circa 1975.  There is no hairpin.

“Perhaps it’s your watch.”

I could almost buy that.  I mean, forget the fact that I chose it because it was especially dainty and highly unlikely to set off a metal detector…this is DCA and they could probably detect the metal piece from your braces–you know, the one you inadvertently swallowed in the 6th grade when you weren’t supposed to be eating jawbreakers but you did anyway.  No doubt, your mother said it’d stay in your stomach forever…along with the watermelon seeds and the chewing gum.  I get a bellyache just thinking about it.

As it turns out, it wasn’t my watch.

And at this point the woman behind me counters in a loud voice, “It’s probably your UNDER WIRE BRA”

Nice try, Lucy, ‘cept I’m not wearing a bra!  And yes, I do realize this public pronouncement would mortify my mother.  As would the knowledge my panties didn’t match.  Thankfully, she was spared the public humiliation of identifying me by my drawers. 

I, however, was not spared the public humiliation of a complete body search. 

No doubt, I looked like a criminal.  Braless and bare-footed in a Lily Pulitzer sundress… a sundress, I might add, with metal ribbing.    Yep, you read that right.  Metal ribbing.  The kind a magnetometer’s wet dream is made of.  You have to wonder what the person who designed it was thinking…I’m willing to bet they weren’t thinking about catching a plane.

 What do they say about the best laid plans?

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Over-Pollinated

There is one thing I will never understand.  I don’t care how many experts say it’s possible or how many women claim to have had the experience in the checkout line at Wal-Mart (and, for some reason, this does seem to happen at Wal-Mart more than most places)…

How can a woman waddle around for nine months with a baby in tow and NEVER know it?  For the love of God…you’d think you’d have some sort of clue before the cleanup in aisle 4.

I’m commenting on this because there was a story in one of the British papers yesterday about a girl who went out for a night on the town with her girlfriends, dressed like a bumblebee (and no, that’s not my commentary, she was really dressed like a bumblebee), went home at the end of the night and, lo and behold, popped out an unexpected little pollinator!  Hello 20 year hangover!  I’ve had a bad night before…but never quite that bad.

I get that some women don’t have normal cycles (rest easy male readers, I’m not going any further than that)…but all women have boobs and no matter how much we pray to the man upstairs to enhance them, it ain’t happening without Dr. 90210 or SAY IT ISN’T SO, a B-A-B-Y!  So, if one day you see me out sporting DD’s and I start talking all manna from heaven and I must be a late bloomer nonsense, do me a favor:  Dress me up like a bumblebee and send me to Wal-mart.  At least I can do some last minute shopping while I’m there.

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Contrary to Popular Belief…

 Adding fresh pineapple to a drink in no way guarantees pineapple flavor…or any flavor for that matter.  Trust me on this one.

For those who are surprised by my love of cooking…you may also be surprised to learn I have a sous chef.  Yes,  that’s right.  A Sous Chef.  My life is just that glamorous.  Okay, maybe not.  But I do occasionally have a kitchen assistant and he is the first to bring me back to reality when I allow myself to fantasize about becoming the next Julia Child.  This usually happens with the phrase: “What is that mess you’re making?”  Over the years (and I added that just because he cringes when I tell people how long I’ve known him), I’ve found his willingness to expand his involvement in the kitchen is dictated by three things:  The use of Bacon, Sharp Knives and Excessive Heat.

Last night he was lured in by sight of a whole pineapple.  Read: Sharp Knife Needed.

I should note–there was a brief protest over the fact there were no dancing hula girls accompanying said pineapple.  (Just a suggestion Dole Foods…)  Thankfully the protest ended when, with one swish of my hips, he realized a man must be careful in what he wishes for.  It was amazing how quickly his concentration was restored.

If the truth be told, this pineapple was a little past it’s prime.  Naturally I didn’t tell him this because he was doing such a good job of cutting it.  And let’s face it:  I enjoy tormenting him that way.

But all was not lost.  After all, there’s nothing a little vodka can’t bring back to life, right?  WRONG.  After five minutes of pineapple mashing, vodka splashing,  and blender whirling, it was still as tasteless as a pretzel at a baseball game.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  Enter the Creme de Banana.  Reserved for those moments when we’re overtaken by the urge to set the kitchen on fire, it held real promise.

One shot.  Nothing.

Two shots.  Maybe…

Three shots and it was starting to have potential.

That, my friends, is how to make the most of a bad situation.

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