I liken airport security to a hell that plays the same episode of Masterpiece Theater in an endless loop. Only in this episode, Dame Judy Dench has a four ounce bottle of shampoo that is always considered a weapon of mass destruction.
Having flown seven times in the past three months, I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with the whole charade. I’m done taking my belt off. And my shoes? You, suited gentleman who accosted my carry on apples, can keep them.
Two Thursdays ago, I hightailed it down to Los Angeles for all of a five hour stay. Business. A day that began with me summer-saulting out of bed at 3:30 am to catch a 7am flight. That damn cell phone is always just a smidgen farther than my wingspan allows. Two Starbucks Venti black coffees and a two and a half hour plane ride later, I was greeted in baggage claim by a driver displaying a placard with my name on it. Let me say that seeing my name printed on a sign, being held by a hair-slicked and suited gentleman, makes me feel a little like Will Smith must have when he showed up on Uncle Phil’s doorstep in Bel Air. Maybe just uncomfortable letting him tote my Jansport. I will admit to doing my best rendition of Kim Kardashian at LAX, though. Oversized black shades, the big bouncy hairdo, and a larger-than-Santa’s-sack purse. Wishing I had a rear end to match.
My stay in the City of Angels was truly five hours long. Barely enough time to develop a drug addiction and dine at the Ivy. But, short as it was, I got quite a bit accomplished. My to-do list included a rack of designer clothing, me trying on seventeen outfits and flinging each one out of the changing room like Joan Crawford in “Mommy Dearest,” getting my hair done, my makeup shelacked on, and pretending to have some sort of confidence and grace. The last one was a doozy.
Just when I thought I was doing well, I received a stern talking to from the makeup artist about craft service being off limits for the rest of the day. Apparently buttery flakes of croissant really adhere to MAC lipstick.
When all was said and done, I was whisked back to the airport and onto a plane home to Seattle. I waltzed through the front door of my apartment and told Daniel a story involving a flutter of paparazzi, cameras flashing, a go ’round with Brody Jenner, the Viper Room, caviar, and champagne. Then we ate Domino’s.