You know…it occurred to me the other day…I never got my trip to Disney World. We were going to go, and I don’t know what happened…perhaps my back surgery? Here I go with the CRS again because I don’t recall why we didn’t follow through with the plans for this trip.
So I was thinking…what a great trip to take after this semester of school. It will be mid March and barring any more of the bad weather FL is getting currently, should prove to be a good time to go. Note to self: when is Spring Break again? No doubt, the same week I want to go.
The biggest problem? I only have a week between semesters. That means the big issue must be faced…I have to get on an airplane. Those of you who know me know I do not enjoy flying, no matter how short a trip. Our last plane adventure was a trip out to Seattle which took five of the longest hours of my life while I rocked back and forth in my seat singing Roy Rogers and Dale Evans’ Happy Trails To You in my head to keep from noticing that I was actually on a plane. I didn’t eat anything and I didn’t drink anything. I wanted to rip my seat table from its upright position and jam it into the overhead tv screen showing Shrek and wipe the grin off that danged donkey’s face. Fly much? Devoted Spouse had to pry my fingers off the armrest and my seatbelt was on so tight it created a muffin top over my jeans. I’m not kidding — I am not a good flyer.
Now – this trip was BEFORE all the airport security stuff – we didn’t have to take off our shoes; we didn’t have to put stuff in teensy plastic bottles in a ziplock back – we just went through the gates and got on the plane.
What really has me concerned now is what if my airport or the airport on the other end has installed one of those x-ray machines where you walk in and raise your arms and some supposed TSA person anonymously hidden from anyone’s prying eyes sees your body in all its glory — just like when as kids we used to use the bizarre foot x-ray machine in the shoe stores. Only this time some stranger in some room is looking at everybody’s personal stuff – what modern science refers to as ta-ta’s, whiz-whangs, hoo-hoos and that place. I know these technical anatomical terms can be upsetting, but we are all adults here.
I trust two people in the whole world to view my private and personal pieces parts: my doctor, and Devoted Spouse. Okay, she’s not a person, but EmmaLou, Golden Destroyer is also included in the group. If I catch her tweeting about it, she’s toast and she knows this.
Anyway – I am not going to walk into that machine and have my ta-ta’s broadcast across some 60 inch high definition screen in a back room of the airport where some flunkie named Booger is sipping Mountain Dews and downloading images to his hidden laptop for his later viewing pleasure. Nope – not gonna chance it. I don’t care what the media says about the security of this process and how images can’t be kept but will be immediately destroyed. Uh-huh – let’s see a few celebrities get in these machines and you watch this stuff show up on the net – I’m telling you this is a bad, bad idea.
That leaves two other alternatives — one is the “pat-down”. Now that means some woman, and I’m assuming it will be a woman, has the right to run her hands all over me, up and down and all around the corners and edges. Ick. Touch my ta-ta’s and I’m takin’ you down. I will allow wanding — that’s it. Nobody touches me unless we have a close personal association, or, heaven forbid, I’ve been arrested for something. Again, this does not include Devoted Spouse or EmmaLou, Golden Destroyer.
One idea left: we have to drive to FL, dash in to the hotel long enough to take a shower, run to Disney World, see a few things, dash back to the hotel to grab our stuff and throw it in the car and get back on the road to make the 14 hour drive back to Ohio. pant, pant, pant – I’m exhausted.
By the way, if I ever happen to run across Mr. Osama Bin Laden, I’m gonna kick him so hard in his whiz-whang for causing me this stress, he’ll wonder where his hoo-hoos went.