Opinion | thesmartlychicago.com

Be water, my friend…in Australia.

January 19, 2011 By Melanie Myatt 1 Comment

Lately? I’ve been thinking about moving to Australia.

The consistent feeling of being out of control is starting to get me down. Here are just a few of the things that seem to be outside of my control these days:

The neighbors above us have three dogs. Since it is so cold outside, they let the dogs outside, leave the front door open and run back up to their warm apartment. Since it is so cold outside, the dogs are choosing to do their business on the front walkway. Where my kids have to walk to get to our van when we go to school. Nice.

The road I take every day to drop the kids off at school is fairly narrow, particularly with the snow affecting the effectiveness of people’s street parking. Why do drivers consistently think they should drive in the middle of roads like this, even when we need to pass each other? I have nowhere else to go, yet the other driver refuses to yield and make room for us to pass each other. I try hard not to be a cranky driver but dealing with this situation three times a day is wearing my patience a little thin.

Michelle Obama is waging a passionate war against childhood obesity (which I support). The schools send home newsletters reminding parents that their kids need to exercise during the day. Yet the school has cut out recess as a result of the cold weather. Surely there is a way to allow kids to run around the gym for 20 minutes a day (which is a deplorable amount of downtime for elementary kids). It is no wonder that my kids come home and start bouncing off the walls when they haven’t had any time to run around and burn off energy during the day.

My husband read a book about Bruce Lee in which he proclaims the virtue of being “like water, my friend.” I have tried to espouse this philosophy my self. Surely life is better when you flow around obstacles and obnoxious people, instead of letting them get you down. Unfortunately, after a little while, it starts to feel like there are more rocks and boulders than room to flow freely.

I’m trying to work on this because I recognize that I need to take control of my own feelings and attitudes. Sometimes, however, I just want to move to Australia…

Surely I can “be water” in Australia…

photo by RachelH_

You can find more of Melanie here.

Filed Under: Opinion Tagged With: Bruce Lee, exercise, Melanie Myatt; kids

My Stongly-Worded Letter to Ty, Manufacturer of Beanie Babies

January 14, 2011 By Faux Trixie 12 Comments

Dear Ty:

First of all, I know you are probably shocked to be getting a letter from a consumer, much less any mail at all, considering your company has not been relevant since 1998. I’ve browsed your current product line, and I have to say, unimpressive. You’re really just ripping off old ideas and making creepy dolls. The “Ty Girlz” line disturbs me in ways you cannot imagine.

However, I am not contacting you to wax poetic about your current products. I have a bone to pick with you. To understand why I am upset, we have to travel back to the late 90s. The grunge era was coming to end, Clinton was in the white house, our country was prosperous, and I was a teenager. I think you understand the awkward tension that comes with being a teenager. I was torn between the comfort of my childhood years and the hope of things to come. I had a new-found sense of freedom when I was allowed to stay out past 10 and was given use of my parents’ old car. I was making out with boys, wearing enough make-up to make me look like a geisha, and proudly flaunting my A-cup cleavage in cheaply-made baby-doll shirts.

As a teenager, I tried really, really hard not to be d-bag. I did not do juvenile things. In my mind, I was mature and above stupid toys and stuffed animals. I was above it, that is, until you hit every Hallmark store in Northern Illinois with Beanie Babies. These adorable, pint-sized stuffed animals in every breed of animal available, complete with a signature red heart tag were the perfect gift for a friend or current love interest. At $5.99, the investment was as minimal as the depth of most of my relationships, making the allegory of the toy to my social network an ironic icing on the cake that I only really appreciate looking back 15 years later.

Right, right, I’m rambling.

What drew me into buying beanie babies was your brilliant marketing scheme: “Collect TY Beanie Babies! They’ll be worth THOUSANDS one day! MAKE SURE NOT TO REMOVE THE TAG!” I was sucked in. Sure, I had a job, but making $5.25 slathering cream cheese on bagels barely allowed me to put gas in my car and buy a soda at the basketball game. I was 16. I needed sweaters from the Gap and Doc Martens and more, cheap baby doll t-shirts my parents thought were trashy (in hindsight, they were right. This is why I always trust my parents now). I hatched a plan. I invested in Ty with the dream of one day cashing in my collection for thousands of dollars.

I was careful in what beanies I chose, picking only the really cool, somewhat rare stuffed animals to add to my collection. Mystic, the unicorn, was an obvious choice. Not only did I have a secret unicorn obsession carried over from childhood, if real life was anything like the fantasy world, the unicorn would be the rarest, most sought after beanie in a couple of years. I also bought a tie-dye fish, a squirrel, a dolphin, and a few others that I heard through the grapevine would make my life gravy.

I dutifully kept those beanies in mint condition. I left the tags on. I displayed them proudly in my bedroom, and then, my dorm room. Do you have any idea the kind of humiliation a 19 year-old girl endures when she brings a cute frat boy back to her dorm room for the first time and there is a STUFFED UNICORN on her shelf? No? You don’t? That does not surprise me. You manufacture stuffed animals for 40 year-old women. Still, those beanies were worth a lot of money.

And then, much like the year 2008, Ty’s bottom fell out. For a fleeting moment, I would have been able to make $600 a piece off my beanies. Foolishly, I did not trade them in. No, I kept them, thinking they would only continue to appreciate in value. Instead, people realized what a racket it was collecting pint-sized stuffed animals and abandoned the beanie baby craze. I was not made aware that the novelty was gone until it was too late. By the time I realized what had happened, my gravy train had rolled out of the station, and I was left holding a Limited Bag containing Mystic, his friends, and my hopes and dreams.

The bag now sits on a shelf in my closet, between workout clothes and an iron. Those beanies are still in there, tags firmly attached to their stuffed buttocks, waiting for a new home with the schmuck who will pay $1,000 a piece. However, the outlook is grim; ebay’s going rate is $.99 for each one. If you ask me, that amount will simply not compensate me for the years of dedication, toil, and, frankly, embarrassment I put into my small collection.

Therefore, Ty, I am left with no choice but to demand you initiate a new marketing plan, making those beanies worth money again. That, or you can simply write me a check for what you promised the value would be in 1996. And no, don’t try some fancy legal argument on me about breach of warranty. You’re clearly in the wrong. The money can be sent via Paypal. In return, Mystic may or may not be let out of a plastic bag.

Cordially,

The Faux Trixie

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia, Opinion

2011 Resolutions

December 31, 2010 By Garima Nahar 2 Comments

By now, we all are stuffed with the food, we have all feasted on cookies and holiday desserts, we have met most of family and friends… and by now, most of us are ready to start considering New Year Resolutions which of course starts with loosing the pounds. Right?

Like all years, I make resolutions, think of things I really want to accomplish and at the end of year, I look back and rinse, repeat. But 2010 to 2011 transition will be different. My ‘resolution’ is to keep it different.

My resolution this coming year is to enjoy each day as it comes. It is to cherish the smaller things, laugh at the mismatched socks and really not wait to see how it all turns out. Life rushes past me, my calendar gets over booked and I struggle to balance the scale. The coming year- I will breathe more. I will learn to relax more. And that’s something I will strive to achieve. For myself and for my family.

It might be the Holiday Effect- the sugar high which is making me delirious. But I don’t think it will be that hard. Right?

So what are your resolutions? What are the small and the big things that you are looking forward to? What is it that will set 2011 different?

Filed Under: Motivate, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: Garima

A message from a professional fun person

December 23, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 2 Comments

Almost as prevalent as the “What are your plans for the holidays?” queries are the “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” questions. The most wonderful time of the year? Maybe for some, but for some, this question can stress one out. I can count on one finger the number of New Year’s Eves I have spent out of my home. Sadly, that year ended with me being unable to get a taxi when the bar closed, an episode of relief in an alley and a stern lecture by my clearly lacking-in-fun boyfriend at the time for said alley relief. (Seriously, YOU try drinking in four hours at an open bar, then forgetting to use the facilities before you leave, and then not being able to snag a ride home. What would you do?) The night was actually pretty great before I was given the various reasons why it was a poor life decision to relieve myself in an alley.

The several years after that were the lamest of the bunch. There was the year I broke up with my boyfriend and New Year’s Eve ended up being a long and tearful goodbye. The following two years I spent with the person who may have been the least fun person on the planet in the middle of two probably identical fights. (The boyfriend before that called peeing in an alley a bad life decision? Too bad he didn’t stick around to see the next few poor life decisions.) Needless to say, I went through a life change shortly after that in which I chose to kick all fun-haters to the curb. It wasn’t even a New Year’s Resolution. Nope. It was a good old-fashioned “wake-up call.”

The most fun I have had since the alley-relief evening was a house party two years ago followed by a Lost-watching marathon last year stopped only at midnight to toast with champagne and a smooch. We were back to the “Others” by 12:02 a.m.

New Year’s Eve tends to be a great let-down for most people. Amateur hour, as some folks affectionately refer to the evening. You see, professional fun people (such as myself), we can go out and have fun on the town whenever we want. We don’t have to wait for one night a year. EVERY night is going to be fun for us. However, I forget sometimes, that not everyone is a professional fun person like myself. Not everyone will drink champagne on a Monday evening because they like the tingles on their tongue. (I LOVE the tingles.)

I suppose I should get to the point here. Obviously, I know how to have a good time. I know that a bottle (or many bottles) of champagne and my myriad of beautiful friends and handsome boyfriend will make any evening worth having. Sadly, the pressure that is put on us for one night, New Year’s Eve, can make us abandon what we think is fun and try to fit into the “all you can drink” party fun mode. If staying home in your pajamas and having a movie marathon with some good food and good company is your fun, then do it. To adapt a little Forest Gump-ism, I will say this: Fun is as fun does. Perhaps you don’t think lots of champagne is fun (I call that sacrilege, but that is only one person’s opinion.) If going to bed early so you can participate in a New Years Day 5K is your thing, then by all means: DO YOUR THING. Honestly, it really is just another night. Ignore pressure, do what you think is fun. Me? I’ll be drinking champagne and kissing one very cute boy at midnight. Well, only if he behaves.

Clearly, I know what’s fun for me. Obviously. I am a professional fun person, after all.

Photo is property of the author.

Outrageous

December 21, 2010 By Amie Kus Curie 2 Comments

A lot of people are outraged over the TSA’s new Scylla/Charybdis policy (for those of you less schooled in the Homeric classics, the modern term is Rock/Hard Place, even though Charybdis was a whirlpool monster thingy and not at all a “hard place”) where the damned-if-you-do choose to have naked pictures taken of them and the damned-if-you-don’t get to third base with a stranger. Good times.

I, personally, am not outraged over the whole thing. I’m certainly not okay with it – it’s a huge waste of time and money, and is utterly ineffective at making anybody actually safer. But I’m not outraged. I’m glad other people are, and I will never ever tell them to stop being outraged over it, though many people seem to be doing just that. But I’m not outraged.

There is only so much room for outrage in a functioning person, to be honest. I can’t spend my entire life being outraged over every little thing. First, it takes up too much energy that is better spent living. More importantly, if you are outraged over everything, how will people be able to tell which times are the most important? Basically, if you’re angry about everything, you’re also truly angry about nothing.

My outrage lies elsewhere. I am full of outrage, directed at tons of different sources.

I am outraged that consenting adults are not allowed to enter into the legal relationships they wish to enter.

I am outraged that our government (elected by us) and our free press (supposed to keep our government accountable) keep lying to us, all the time.

I am outraged that our country and many of our states kill people who commit crimes.

I am outraged that we haven’t figured out a way to rehabilitate people and allow people who did wrong to safely reenter society, free from stigma.

I am outraged that capable members of our armed forces are being discharged, even if they didn’t tell.

I am outraged that somewhere along the line, education became a liability and science is disregarded in favor of fairy tales.

I am outraged by prejudice and how pervasive it seems. I am especially outraged by anyone who insists that prejudice is no longer a problem (or never was).

I am outraged people go to bed every night without enough to eat or a safe place to sleep. I am outraged that children are beaten and molested. I am outraged that nobody seems to care any time of year except now. I am outraged that schools aren’t safe or useful, that parents don’t help the schools anymore. I am outraged that our literacy rate is declining.

I am outraged that children are blamed and punished for their parents’ crimes.

I am outraged that women are treated as incapable of making intelligent decisions about their own lives.

I am outraged that religious people use their faith to do harm to others, whether with good intentions or not.

But outrage is exhausting. And it is easy for me — siting here at my computer in a warm building after a full night’s sleep with a full stomach and a paying job and health insurance (and dental and vision) and a legal federally-recognized marriage and voting rights and no worries about where my next meal is coming from or what I’ll be forced to do to sleep safely — to forget my outrage and continue in complacency.

But without outrage, nothing will ever progress. And that would be the biggest outrage of all.

Public domain image.

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Filed Under: Opinion, Politics

Exhuming Chivalry’s Ghost

December 20, 2010 By Faux Trixie 11 Comments

Chivalry is dead – at least in Chicago. As if city living weren’t hard enough, as a 21st century, independent career woman, I am also now totally “equal” to my male counterparts. After all, I invaded their secret boy’s club by obtaining a J.D. I compete with them for jobs. I can even support myself financially.

Yay for progress.

However, being equal apparently also means I am not longer entitled to simple courtesies that were once automatically afforded to my gender. No, I’m not talking about my car door being opened for me or my meals being ordered by my date. I don’t expect all archaic traditions to survive when texting has taken over the art of conversation and Facebook is only way I know what is going on in any of my friends’ lives.

No, my request is much simpler; I’ll explain:

This morning, I had court. I had to wake up and shave my legs to wear tights under my skirt suit. I had to dry and straighten my hair and put on make up so I looked like a presentable female. I had to play the part of the coy, sweet young lawyer.

In return, during my court appearance, my male colleagues:

1) Let the outside door slam in my face, despite the fact I was literally TWO FEET behind one;

2) Cut in front of me to go through the metal detector, even though I was clearly there first, and I simply had to place my purse on the conveyor belt to go through screening;

3) Hit me in the face THREE times in the court room with a giant messenger bag while standing in front of my chair, back to me, speaking to another attorney, adjusting a bag while doing so;

4) Stepped on my foot, with no apology;

5) Grabbed the two carbon copies of a court order, detached his copy, and placed mine back on the table even though I was standing right there.

I wish I was kidding. Worse? All of this happened in the course of 30 minutes. Even worse? This is an everyday occurrence, and it’s not just attorneys. It’s every man I have encountered as of late. I can’t remember the last time a man held open the door for me, gave up his seat on the train, or even just let me in the elevator first.

Conversely, who exactly did you think I was getting gussied up for? Myself because I like to feel beautiful? Well, sometimes, but realistically? I’m doing it because of social requirements. Trust me, my life would be much easier if I didn’t have to shave my legs, wax my eyebrows, dye, blow dry, and straighten my hair, apply make-up, wear heels and skirts, and act feminine. Sure, I’d probably be pretty gross to most people; but add up all those hours, I’d probably have an extra two days a month for me.

But I do it. Why? Because I think there is still something to be said for being feminine, just like I still think there is something to be said for chivalry. So, men, taking into account that you probably don’t want to look at or touch a bunch of women with hairy legs and armpits, ratty hair, and dry, pale, worn out faces, maybe every once in awhile, you can….

hold open a door….

let us in the elevator first……….

give up your seat on the train………..

ACT LIKE GENTLEMEN.

If you don’t, well, then I guess chivalry really is dead. And I’m not wearing make-up or a dress ever again.

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: chivalry, etiquette, feminism, gentlemen, men

Awareness is dumb. Try action.

December 14, 2010 By Amie Kus Curie 13 Comments

About a year ago, somebody sent me a message on Facebook. “Change your Facebook status to the color of the bra you are wearing to raise awareness for breast cancer. Forward this to all your women friends, but DON’T TELL ANY MEN WHAT YOU ARE DOING.”

…Because nothing says “awareness” like “secret”.

This year, it was changed up to suggest that women should update their status to say where they like to keep their purse. Except they should make it say “I like it __________” and nothing else, and again, secret from the menfolk.

Most recently, someone determined that we could all raise awareness for child abuse by changing our profile pictures to a cartoon we liked as children. Suddenly, my feed is full of Mickey Mouse and Charlie Brown. Sure, it’s better than a MySpace-style picture of yourself from a camera that you’re holding high above your head, but not much.

I have two major issues with these campaigns. First off, if you don’t get the message about why people are changing their status or picture, it does nothing for awareness. I noticed after the bra color debacle that many men were very curious about what the colors were for – so I changed my status to suggest that people donate money to a breast cancer organization rather than putting up the color of their bra in secret. Of course, I was promptly chastised by a female friend for letting men in on the secret. So much for awareness.

My second problem, and the much bigger problem in my estimation, is that awareness is meaningless. Sure, we’re all AWARE that breast cancer exists, that it’s probably not much fun to have, and that it kills people. We’re all aware that some children get abused. But so what? Big freaking deal. I’m also aware that it’s cold in Chicago in December.

Awareness does nothing. Being aware of a problem is not at all the same as creating a solution. So while we can all wear a pink ribbon for the month of October, or a yellow plastic bracelet, or plaster bumper stickers all over our cars, the problems still exist. There is still cancer. Children still get abused. All you’ve done is reminded us for a minute or two that it happens.

Instead of being aware, why not do something? I know it takes quite a bit more work than googling pictures of Mickey Mouse and changing your profile picture. It might cost a little money or time. But why not give some money or some time to a cause you care about? I promise there is one out there for you. Be part of the solution.

Image property of Amie.

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Filed Under: Opinion, Politics Tagged With: activism, awareness, facebook, truth

Not so fast, Creepy Christmas Tunes

December 10, 2010 By Faux Trixie 8 Comments

I am the biggest Christmas nerd there is. I’ve decorated my house, put up my tree, and made Christmas cupcakes. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that, every year, I watch every Christmas movie ever made while drinking spiced wine on my couch with twinkling lights from the tree beside me.

As part of my seasonal nerdiness, I listen to Christmas music pretty much all day at work from the Monday after Thanksgiving until big J’s birthday. For the most part, Christmas music is festive and uplifting and generally makes everyone happy. However, while listening to my Christmas playlist this morning, a few songs streamed through my speakers and caused me concern:

Baby, It’s Cold Outside: At first listen, it’s a cutesy little song about a boy who wants a girl to stay longer. In reality, it’s kind of super creepy. He keeps enticing her with more alcohol and not letting her borrow a coat. She pleads with him: “hey, my parents are going to freak out.” The dude’s response? He moves in closer and starts talking about her lips. Then, she notices something in her drink. It’s probably a roofie. Where I come from, that’s the start of an after-school special on date rape.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas: This song really fooled all of us. We think it’s this nice song about someone traveling home for the holidays, remembering all the fond times of Christmas past. We’re singing along, feeling warm and fuzzy, and then it gets to the end: “I”ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” So, really, it’s just a song about some sad dude who is all alone on Christmas, probably eating take-out Chinese on his couch and contemplating joining Jimmy Stewart on that bridge because now his Christmas sucks.

Frosty The Snowman: He’s jolly and happy until he MELTS and DIES. This song is horrifying. We are lulled into a nice, sweet story about a magical snowman who plays with all the kids and makes merry along his way. Then he realizes that he’s going to melt so he plays with the kids one last time. While I agree that the lesson of enjoying life to its fullest is an important one, it doesn’t exactly invoke Christmas Cheer.

Blue Christmas: It’s a break up song. Plain and simple. You can really substitute any holiday into the lyrics and it’d be the same idea. I’ll have a blue Easter, blue Yom Kippur, Blue 4th of July, whatever. Nice try, Elvis. You’re not convincing me to buy yet another sad love song and add it to MY Christmas playlist. Stop trying to harsh my holiday mellow.

Christmas is a Coming: Not everyone is familiar with this tune. The lyrics teach you that, at the Christmastime, the more you give, the more you get, urging the listeners to give what they can. Now, I hate to be cynical, because I’m sure the message is that you’ll get more on the inside, but at first listen? It sounds like the more you give to someone, the more you’ll get in return, especially when you consider the list of things urged to be given: a friendly dog (if you haven’t got that, a friendly cat will do), turkey leg, and a mug of cider. Also, who are the gifts being given to? Oh, the singer, of course. So really, the whole song is about trying to make us believe that giving this singing guy a ton of stuff will get us stuff in return. THIS IS NOT THE MESSAGE OF CHRISTMAS.

You’ve been warned; listen to your cheerful holiday tunes carefully, friends.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: christmas, music

Dear restaurant manager

December 6, 2010 By Garima Nahar 9 Comments

Husband: My wife and I had dinner at your restaurant last night. She is down with food poisoning, possibly Salmonella.

Manager: Oh, ok. Sorry about that. Let me send you a gift card for your bad experience.

Husband: That’s not what I called for, it was more to give you feedback for better food handling so no more cases happen.

Manager: Oh thanks. Next time you visit, please let us know, so we will take care of you. Meanwhile the gift cards are on their way. Thanks for the call.

Husband: Huh

I was sitting on the couch really holding my tummy and groaning in pain and got angrier. Not at the damn tummy or the possible E-coli/ Salmonella but at the easy-going behavior of restaurant manager.

Did he really think, after this episode, a customer would go back to order more food and cross her fingers that tummy survives it. Does he think we called to get money? For the record, the 30$ he did send across didn’t even cover half the bill of what we spend on dinner the night before. And let me not even start with the medical bills that have piled up.

We didn’t want to go down the road of formal complaint etc. We really liked this place and have had a couple of meals. We even chose this restaurant to celebrate our anniversary dinner in! We just wanted to give them heads up, to either look into it, take the batch of arugula leaves out or even just ensure better food handling. Whatever it is, so others don’t feel the impact of a food poisoning which lasted for over 4 days! Seriously?

Dear Restaurant Manager, You are sending me a gift card to compensate for what?

For me missing four days of work? Was it for me to spend two days at doctor’s office doing different blood work and stool samples? Was this for the embarrassment I faced to describe the texture/color/odor/ frequency of the crap coming out of my tummy to five different nurses? Was the card a compensation for my husband to run hundreds of errands for doctors recommendations to keep me hydrated, stay up the night rubbing my tummy, or for him to miss work or for my daughter to wonder, why mummy cannot hug me? Was it to cover medical expenses for all the checkups/ medications and specialists?

Seriously, what was it for?

I don’t get it.

Thankfully, five days out, I am better. Much better. Gaining strength and still on a diet of only yogurt and occasional crackers. I can now hug and kiss my daughter and play with her sitting down. I can help my husband a bit around the house. I can resume work and tire myself to compensate for missed deadlines.

But dear restaurant manager, please tell me, a simple apology or Oh we will look into it or We will double wash vegetables or anything else. Would that not be better than throwing a gift card our way and saying: “See you soon”

You really think, I will come again?

In Between: I still have the lovely gift cards on my desk, any takers?

Filed Under: Opinion

Freedom gropes

December 3, 2010 By BeaTEP 3 Comments

I’ve had really bad travel luck lately. Mister Me and I bought an all inclusive to Riviera Maya and crapped out with flights that had alternately too long and not long enough layovers. There is very little more frustrating than trying to convince a Customs agent not to send you through extra screening just because your flight started boarding before you de-planed.

Or so I thought.

Until I showed up at O’Hare yesterday. Of course, the security lines were endless. But, us business travelers, we know how to get through security at lightning speed, so I wasn’t worried.

Then I got pointed towards the full body scanner.

I saw those damned things on the Today Show. They digitally scrambled people’s naughty bits because the scan that thing spits out is not suitable for TV, y’all. Which means its also not suitable for some high school drop-out with a TSA badge. At least not when it comes to my body.

But I’d heard about that guy who tried to fight it and ended up with an $11k fine. So I sucked it up and submitted myself to the degrading visual undressing I usually associate with construction sites.

So fine, some guy is probably getting his jollies off to my rack in some clandestine TSA wank-it room. I can compartmentalize that thought long enough to get through the day’s meetings.

But no. TSA was not done with me yet. A female agent waved me through for a pat down.

I’ll let that sink in.

Yes, after a scan so detailed they can tell the current state of my brazilian wax, the TSA is still not convinced that I’m not packing heat. They were passing me around like the drunken coed at a frat party.

Faced with the choice between getting felt up or making a break for it and getting tackled and possibly tased, I swallowed my pride and let this lady cup my breasts. She seemed to take her job pretty seriously; she cupped tightly and rubbed in both a clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. And she didn’t even use the back of her hand.

I debated asking her if I could count that as my monthly self breast exam. I debated speaking to a supervisor, for at least an explanation of how I warranted both a nakey-Xray AND naughtier touching than I allow on a third date (humor me). I debated making a scene. But in the end, I shame-facedly collected my purse and continued to my gate.

TSA, you have won. You have bullied me into resignation. There is simply no other option. You may look at my lady parts, you may touch my breasts and you may demand that I submit with no more than a murmur.

But I’m raging inside.

Filed Under: Misc, Opinion, Politics