Your basic taxpayer train wreck

Okay, let's talk airport security. The suitcase has come out of winter hibernation and nothing has changed for the better in the four and a half months since I last stood half-nekked in a public place.

John's job requires frequent travel. Since my job is portable (gotta love laptops and hotels with hi-speed Internet!), I tag along to make sure he doesn't leave anything behind in hotel room drawers. We've visited some awesome places that would never have been on our personal radar -- the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, the Ritz Carlton in Kapalua, Maui, Toronto in the fall -- and some we'd rather forget. Three hours in the baggage claim area of Chicago's O'Hare, under a leaky roof during a thunderstorm, comes to mind......

Let's be clear here. I would rather not sit next to the person whose to-do list includes building a shoe bomb with hand lotion during the flight. Consequently, I'm not opposed to having my luggage pawed through by a pair of human salad tongs or my carry-on stuff x-rayed.

But is nasty a required job attribute for airport screening personnel? Or does the company arm patch on their sleeve covertly release mean-ness meds on a regular basis during their shift?

It's easy to identify those who don't fly much -- they're clutching too many bags to carry on and they develop whiplash trying to hear and see all the reminders about what can and can't go beyond the screening area. Then, they find themselves parked in front of plastic dishpan, looking like a deer in headlights. I don't get impatient with these folks. Their innocence makes me yearn for that wistfull era when flying was F U N.

Those of us who do this on a regular basis, spend the time in line shedding shoes, belts and metal jewelry. We arrive in front of the dishpan with our laptops and video cameras in our hands. And while I'm always prepared, the nastiest of the nasty screeners always find me.

My top three:

#1. Portland International, March 2003
Arrive at screening area, barefoot, clad in t-shirt and shorts. Carry-on bag in dishpan with shoes. Walk through x-ray.
Amazon woman, with fog-horn voice, holding my carry-on: "Whose bag is this?"
Anne: "Mine."
Amazon woman: "Don't zip the bag. We don't have time to unzip it if we have to search it."
Anne: "Sorry. I didn't know."
Arrive at gate. Discover wallet is missing when trying to pay for bottled water. Answer page from screening area.
Woman at Information Table: "If you zip your bag, the contents don't fall our during the x-ray process."

#2. San Jose, California, May 2003
I'm in line behind a woman in what I'm sure is a designer suit. The jacket is covered in big, brass buttons. (note: this airport serves people with mailing addresses like Carmel, Monterey and Pebble Beach) She can't remove her jacket because she has nothing on underneath. That sends the screener into a frenzy for someone with one of those bbq lighter wand thingies and I get accused of holding up the line.

#3. Phoenix Sky Harbor, March 2008
Arrive at screening area, stocking feet, jeans and t-shirt. Laptop, camera, jacket and funky clear plastic baggie with tiny tube of lip gloss in hand. One bin left. Extras are stacked behind the restricted area and I ain't goin there. Pile electronics, shoes and baggie in bin. Hope for the best for the carry-on.
Frizzy haired screener, holding my bin and yelling: "Whose stuff is this?"
Anne: "Mine."
Frizzy haired screener: "Laptops have to be in their own bin. Can't you follow directions?"
Anne: "There ARE no bins."

People, there has to be a better way................

In the beginning

I gave up considering myself more literate about computers than my kids, the day my son built me a new one years ago. Now that my other kid has started a blog, I guess I really gotta get on board.

I'm the writer, for God's sake. What's taken me so long? Good question.............

Well, for starters, I've often wondered who would care what I wrote about? I mean, I write for a living and I love what I do, but the thought of reaching a potentially larger audience than our paper's circulation, sorta intimidated me. Well, that and the fact that I've had three editors who would have sold body parts if I could learn the definition of "brief."

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Those of us who play with words, are never at a loss for them. We write on anything -- napkins, the back of receipts, airplane boarding passes. We carry and possess more pens than Office Depot. But I type faster than I do longhand, so a blog is actually going to unclutter my purse and car console of all those things I'm "always gonna write about."

So I'll start by introducing myself, which always seems like I'm writing my own obit. In the course of the last 30 years, I've had the same husband, two children, three dogs, five cats, two turtles, a goldfish, eight cars, two houses and one grandchild. I survived adolescence twice as a female -- my own and that of my daughter (I finally understood why some animals eat their young) and I've decided that the only way to get rid of grown male child is to move. I've also learned that I should have had grandchildren first -- they're all the fun without the work.

I'm a flip-flop-shorts-wearin-sun-baby kinda person, who gets cranky if it rains too much and runs to the nearest tanning salon with the best sale going. Guess it's no stretch, then, to say I'm on a life mission to find the eternal Margaritaville, complete with a bottomless glass of the same.

Okay, so no pictures yet. Gimme a break. I'm just glad I got this far.