A seasoned traveler, I cleverly circumvented the standard, one-hour+ international check-in line in Atlanta with e-ticket and a single, FAA-approved carry-on bag. For the record, I knew the restrictions on carrying liquids; I was prepared with baggies and all. I stood in a monstrous, unorganized, slightly hostile security line for at least 35 minutes. And just when I thought I was in the clear, I was hand-picked for a “random in-depth search.” I had 40 minutes to exchange some money and get to my plane, at the furthest concourse in the airport.

Why did they choose me? I am not sure, but it could have been any of the following reasons:

I was the only white woman in that particular line.
I look like a Columbian drug mule with cocaine-filled condoms up my ass.
TSA Officer X was just dumped by an Amazonian blonde and sought misguided revenge on me.
The perverts wanted me to take off near all my clothes (and I had several layers on—I was going to sub-artic Canada!)
I was suspect, because who flies to Canada for just one night and is not up to sinister business?
I look like one of the Taliban because I had a scarf around my neck.
Security does not wish to appear to be racially profiling potential transportation terrorists, so they have a quota to occasionally harass a Chalk-Asian American every few hours, in order to be politically-ERECT. And I was going to be their token Whitey.

Well, they pulled out near all my personal hygiene products and claimed they were over the limit (which is 3 oz per container.) I argued that even though the bottle said 4.5 oz, if they were to measure the contents, there were less than 3 oz of facial soap in the container. Therefore, technically, my toiletries were legal.

“What, are you worried I am going to give everyone on the plane a facial?”

I told them I am going to a job interview and thus my appearance was critical. The male guard smirked. I then argued that airport security needed to get their “shit” together (my exact words) because they are not in fact against liquids but liquid containers, because there was less than 3 oz of body lotion in that particular tube.

ME: “Do you have any liquid measuring devices?”

TSA Officer X: “No, and I don’t like your attitude.”

ME: “Well, I am just warming up and if I, in fact, miss this flight on account of this random (said with a sneer) search, and thus miss my job interview, I am going to come back here and heckle you all night. That is a promise.”

So they confiscate 60% of my personal hygiene products (approximate cost of items: $55.) However, they do not take my toothpaste (which I argued was a semi-solid), nor my little scissors (this would be critical in Ottawa.)

As I leave, I shout to the entire security circus: “Well, you need my personal hygiene products more than I do!” And then I ran to the train to get to my concourse.

Needless to say, at this point, with less than 20 minutes to get to my plane, and needing to exchange some money along route, I am in a foul mood. Therefore, when Telex charged me $6 US in order to exchange $20 US into Canadian dollars, I was furious: “Well, if you are going to fuck me over, you might as well wear a condom.” The Telex dude could not respond.

I RAN to my gate (yes, the furthest gate in the terminal) to discover the captain and one flight attendant were MIA, but believed to be somewhere in the airport. So our plane was delayed for 45 minutes on account of missing airline personnel. Little did I know that Delta consistently runs late. I now refer to them as “Delinquent” Airlines. And when I finally board, still fuming about the airport security theft of my toiletries, I discover I am all the way in the very far seat of the plane, where the seats do not recline, because they are up against the toxic-smelling lavatory. I can not sleep, I don’t want your lousy peanuts, and I am VERY tempted to smoke in the john just for the hell of it.

INTERMISSION:
Once I got into Ottawa (well after 1 AM)—all went well, despite my less than 4 hours of sleep—including the interview. I also got a rare chance to see my good friend, Phillipe, in Quebec.

THE RETURN:
When I arrived at the airport in Ottawa, I no longer held a grudge against the TSA abuse and robbery in Atlanta, because my interview went well and my general assumption that Canadians are a much nicer (less paranoid) people than my own. I was wrong.

Coincidentally, in the Ottawa airport security line, I was hand-picked for a “random in-depth search.” Well, I flipped out.

This time, my TSA Officer was a woman. I screamed, “Oh, are you picking me because I am a natural blonde?” (She plainly was not.)

“Mam, are you going to be difficult?”

“I was randomly selected for search on my way here and now, less than 24 hours later, I am randomly selected again—this is uncanny, and insulting. I came here for a job interview.”

She gave me some rehearsed speech about random searches and then abruptly seized my remaining toothpaste and scissors.

“Atlanta let me take on the toothpaste and scissors—why don’t you guys get your shit straight!”

“Mam, I will not tolerate your language.”

“I will not tolerate another rude violation of my personal property and space by rent-a-cops on a power trip. Now, you will never have to buy toiletries again—is that a perk of the job? Is that in the job benefits package? I INSIST you give my shit to homeless people!”

At this point, I have everyone’s complete attention, including two police officers and a US Customs official.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes, Atlanta confiscated $55 dollars worth of my personal hygiene products, but allowed me to board with my toothpaste and the mini-scissors. You guys are now taking away the last of my toiletries—I mean how am I going to trim my vagina now?!” (And I am shouting.)

Some memorized response from the police officers and a warning to “calm down.” So then, I took out my baggie of mini-shampoo, highly valued anti-bacterial hand-wash and mascara (my only items left), opened it up and dumped it out on the conveyor belt and shouted, “Take it all! Take it fucking all! And give it to homeless people!” and bolted for the US Customs line. I think the Canucks were just relieved to get me out of their country, because they did not bother to stop nor arrest me.

So next time, I fly, I have a new plan: I am going to bring a 20 oz bottle of KY-Jelly and a double-ended, 12 inch black dildo (and put some sticky stuff on it) in my carry-on—so when they pull me over for a “random search”, I will get to say: “Don’t you want to take my dildo?! It really is explosive!”

This is Kelly of the Pattersons—flying the un-friendly skies.

Originally from Washington DC, Kelly has worked as a writer, editor, and international development specialist on four continents so far. Most recently, she worked four years in rural South Africa setting up community-based healthcare and rural development systems, and yes, she lived in a hut. And just to spice it up a bit, she starred in two regular (horribe) TV shows in South Korea. Kelly’s only child is her 8 year old, pet rescue dog named Oscar Wilde.