Cruise Control

I took friends to the airport and drove Jerry's space car with all the bells and whistles because it has easier access for luggage.  I got lost once (no surprises there), turned around and since I was then coming from the opposite direction, I failed to recognize the turn-off, so I drove right past it.  (That could've happened to anyone.)  In fairness to me, my guests were extremely entertaining so I was distracted.  Eventually they arrived at the terminal with plenty of time to wander around.  I think we were all relieved!

I decided to take the scenic route home, the same choice I always make.  I'm well acquainted with all the turns and there is little traffic.  Win, win. The ride in Jerry's car is so smooth it feels like you aren't moving at all so the only potential dark cloud was that I might end up accidentally speeding.  In our family circle I'm well known for driving prudently (think little old lady) and a ticket would lead to endless merriment and years of teasing at my expense.  I could do without that.  

Jerry's car has cruise control, so it seemed prudent to use it.  That way, I could sail right by any speed traps without concern.  The controls are on the front of the steering wheel and I fumbled around and pressed various buttons but nothing happened.  Since I was already driving, I really couldn't fiddle with them too much so I let the whole idea go and drove on.

A couple of minutes later, I glanced at the speedometer and was horrified to see that I was going over 70!  Of course I slowed right down to 45.  It's not in my nature to speed but it seemed like I was barely moving.  "That's how great the ride in Jerry's car is," I thought.  

It happened again.  This time, I was only going sixty though.  Still, 60 in a 45 would be a major ticket.  I have other ways I'd prefer to spend our money so  I slowed back down.  A short time later, I chanced to look in my rear view mirror and, much to my astonishment, there was a line of cars behind me. One brave soul passed me - even though he had to cross double yellow lines to do it.  The lady in the passenger seat seem to glare at me as they went by.  

This is one of my pet peeves, that people seem angry at those of us who obey the speed limit laws.  I was mulling over this phenomena when I realized, yet again, that I was going 55 in a 45 zone.  "It's a speed limit!  That means don't exceed it!" I chastised myself.  It's really so unlike me to go too fast. Normally I just stay a couple of miles under what the law allows and even then I feel guilty if I see a policeman driving behind me.

The speed limit was changing to 35.  To be safe I slowed down to 30.  It was amazing to me how my speed just kept creeping up.  This is just not a problem that I usually have.  I decided to keep closer tabs on it.  The line behind me kept growing and that was upsetting, too.  

The next speed check, I noticed it.  Right beside the digital numbers was a "km/h" display written in red. Underneath that it said (in letters so tiny that it would take an elementary school child to read), "Press to change to mph". When I pressed there, my speed magically changed from 34 km/h to 21 mph.

Wow.  When I had been driving 70 km/h, I was actually driving 44 mph - and when I slowed down to 30, I was going 19!   

No wonder people were glaring at me.

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

Pre-check

2013 was a traveling year and our final plane trip was the first weekend of December when we were Salt Lake City bound.  Every airport visit has a story and this one is no exception. 

Snowy Salt Lake 

My husband sailed through airport security in the new TSA Pre-check Lane; he didn't have to take his shoes off or empty his pockets and he got to keep his jacket on.  Their line was short and soon he was on the other side, waiting for me to finish going through the scanner and put my shoes and coat back on. 

The x-ray machine was slow.  Finally my bag caught up to me and just as I was reaching for it, an airport employee swooped in and grabbed it.  As he carried it to the end of the table he said, "There's something in your bag.  I'm going to have to open it."

Panic washed over me.  Then dread.

Did you know that David Letterman used to be a grocery-store bag boy?  One late-night I saw him pack a brown bag and then cut away the sack.  When he removed it, the groceries retained the shape of the bag.  It was amazing.  Clearly he was not just a bag boy.  He was an exceptional bag boy.

Well I don't mean to brag but I'm the David Letterman of luggage; no space is unused.  When the suitcase is opened, the contents mushroom out like lava erupting from a volcano - or one of those magic sponges that grows when you put it into water.  I had visions of being unable to replace the contents of the bag after the security guard was finished with it.  

And there were Christmas gifts in my luggage. Wrapped Christmas gifts.  Worse, they were to my son from his "Secret Santa" and I had no idea what was in them.  I felt guilty.

The man was very gentle.  He gingerly felt all around the perimeter of the bag.  "The underwire in my bras!"  I thought.  "Those pieces of metal are big enough to be ninja weapons." In my mind I had already solved the puzzle when the guard passed over my bras and took out a present.  

I steeled myself for the question that never came.  Instead of asking me what was in the box, the guy just put the package in a bin.  Then he sent the bag and the bin through x-ray again.

That did not do it.

For a second time, he carried my bag to the table and felt through it.  He added two beautifully wrapped books to the bin.  (Secret Santa may not want to pay postage on his [or her] gifts, but she [or he] doesn't scrimp on wrapping paper.)  For the third time, my suitcase and the bin went through the x-ray machine.

For the third time, my suitcase failed.

As he carried my luggage back to the table again, we both knew that my beautiful packing job was about to be destroyed.  Frankly, I was surprised it had held up this long.  "I'm so sorry," he said, "but there's a mask in this bag."  (A mask?  Huh?)

"It's near the bottom of the suitcase and it's covering what might be under it."   He felt through the suitcase and dragged out the final wrapped gift.  X-ray again.  Back to the table again.

The guy couldn't have been any sweeter.  He was apologizing over and over.  "It's in the bottom of the bag."  He said.  I sensed that he was afraid to dive into the final frontier so, like Little Jack Horner, I just plunged my hand in and  pulled out…..

….a bag of Geechie Boy Grits!

Our kids are foodies and what says southern better than a bag of grits?  It was

the perfect hostess gift.  As soon as my uniformed friend saw what I was holding, he smiled.  "That'll do it,"  he said.

This time my bag sailed through the x-ray machine.  My BFF tried to help me stuff the wrapped gifts into the bag and then we crammed the clothing back on top.  We muscled the zipper closed.  We said our good-byes, he went back to work and I wandered away to find Jerry.

As we walked to our departure gate, Jerry wondered aloud how much time the pre-check lane had actually saved him, considering he had to wait for me anyway.  I wondered if the grits were still edible.  

Does sending grits through an x-ray machine five times classify them as irradiated food?