Easy Cheese: Public Enemy Number One

Today was the day that Mini Me left for her mission trip to Jamaica.  Preparing for this trip has made me realize just how involved the whole air travel process has become since 9/11.  Aside from the standard stuff, like making sure your suitcase stuffed with over 2400 crayons, 100+ dum-dums, and other miscellaneous VBS supplies doesn’t exceed the 50 pound weight limit, there’s the maze of items you can and cannot take in your carry-on.  Prohibited items include such seemingly innocuous things as Easy Cheese and hand sanitzer—or any liquid, gel or aerosol–in larger than a 3oz container.  It’s good to have a list of stuff like that, because I never would have suspected that Easy Cheese was an Al Qaeda approved terror device.  Perhaps they’ve planned to coerce the pilot into submission by threatening to put cheese on the wrong side of his saltines.

I need to know these things, because I might not figure out that something like that was contraband.  However, there are other items on the list.  Items that made me chuckle, because I thought, “Does anybody really need to be told that it’s not cool to pack that in their carry-on?”  Seriously.  Um, does anybody not know that their can of gasoline is NOT going to make it past security?  Or that dynamite and hand grenades are not okay—even in your checked luggage?  Or that meat cleavers, ice picks, and sabers may not be stashed in the overhead compartment?  Do they have a lot of trouble with people wanting to carry their axes and cattle prods onto the plane these days?  Sheesh!

But the worst part about this whole security business these days is that no long can you see someone all the way to the gate and watch them take-off.  So, there we were, saying goodbye in the security line.  It went something like this:

Me: “It says your hand sanitizer has to be in a Ziploc—did you put it in a Ziploc?” 

Mini Me: “I don’t know.” 

Me: “Okay, where is it?” 

Mini Me: “In the last zipper in my backpack.” 

Me (trying to dig through a wad of smashed granola bars in an overstuffed backpack pocket): “I can’t find it…which zipper?” 

Mini Me: (exasperated sigh as she takes off her backpack) “Here, let me look.  Here it is, in a Ziploc.” 

Me: “Okay good.  Well, it’s your turn.  Be good.  I love you.” 

Hubster: “I love you..See ya in two weeks.”

 

I waited to cry until we got to the parking garage.