Thanks TSA . . . . Next time can we go on a *real* date?
Friday in Newark Airport I discovered I belong to an elite group. Not one I joined intentionally, either. I belong to that select group of person who have "abnormalities" that are detected by the new millimeter wave scanners in use by TSA. So, in addition to the extra radiation dose, I can look forward to intrusive pat-downs every time I fly.
Unfortunately, I fly a lot. For those who don't know me well, I'm an international cat show judge. I've judged shows all over the U.S., as well as Mexico, Canada, South America, Europe, and Australia.
This was one of those nightmare experiences. I had to wait while they found someone to do the pat-down, and she was *not* happy about being interrupted at whatever task she was busy with. Meanwhile Mike (my husband) was busy trying to gather his carrying stuff and mine (and shoes and coats, etc), because I wasn't allowed to move (a bunch of stuff--we were judging in Moscow). They wanted me to point out my stuff, but I wasn't allowed to touch it. They were willing to let Mike take care of it, but they wanted my boarding pass and passport. Done. Off to the little room.
Me and two women in uniform. One to do the pat-down, one to observe. It began with questions, and it was clear from the onset that Ms. TSA was intentionally misunderstanding everything I said:
Ms. TSA: Are you sensitive to being touched in any particular area?
Me: No more so than any normal person.
Ms. TSA: *I'm* *a* normal person.
As she began, she patted me down with far more force than was necessary, making an intrusive procedure even more unpleasant. She did detail everything she was going going to do, ending every statement with "Ok?" I responded. Partly through she said "I've had enough of your talk." The whole experience left me shaken.
As I left the room, I saw another TSA agent?officer? walk past carrying a small bin with a quart bag of allowed liquids in it. Specifically *my* quart bag of liquids (Mike missed it trying to gather two peoples worth of stuff). I'm pretty stressed by this point.
Me: That's my stuff!
Mr. TSA: How do I know this is yours? (Turns away and hides it) What's in it?
Me: (frantically trying to remember) Two bottles of nail polish.
Mr. TSA: (checks bag) What color?
Me: (racking brain--I added them this morning) Clear and purple.
Mr. TSA finally surrenders bag to me, still in me socks and t-shirt.
I still don't know why they picked me out of the line for the special scanner--Mike in the black leather pants and biker jacket was skipped--maybe they didn't like my Dr. Who t-shirt? But apparently I've got an abnormality as a result of the surgery I had in September, so I might as well refuse the scanner the next time they select me--I'm gonna get the pat-down either way.
Can I send TSA my therapy bill?
Unfortunately, I fly a lot. For those who don't know me well, I'm an international cat show judge. I've judged shows all over the U.S., as well as Mexico, Canada, South America, Europe, and Australia.
This was one of those nightmare experiences. I had to wait while they found someone to do the pat-down, and she was *not* happy about being interrupted at whatever task she was busy with. Meanwhile Mike (my husband) was busy trying to gather his carrying stuff and mine (and shoes and coats, etc), because I wasn't allowed to move (a bunch of stuff--we were judging in Moscow). They wanted me to point out my stuff, but I wasn't allowed to touch it. They were willing to let Mike take care of it, but they wanted my boarding pass and passport. Done. Off to the little room.
Me and two women in uniform. One to do the pat-down, one to observe. It began with questions, and it was clear from the onset that Ms. TSA was intentionally misunderstanding everything I said:
Ms. TSA: Are you sensitive to being touched in any particular area?
Me: No more so than any normal person.
Ms. TSA: *I'm* *a* normal person.
As she began, she patted me down with far more force than was necessary, making an intrusive procedure even more unpleasant. She did detail everything she was going going to do, ending every statement with "Ok?" I responded. Partly through she said "I've had enough of your talk." The whole experience left me shaken.
As I left the room, I saw another TSA agent?officer? walk past carrying a small bin with a quart bag of allowed liquids in it. Specifically *my* quart bag of liquids (Mike missed it trying to gather two peoples worth of stuff). I'm pretty stressed by this point.
Me: That's my stuff!
Mr. TSA: How do I know this is yours? (Turns away and hides it) What's in it?
Me: (frantically trying to remember) Two bottles of nail polish.
Mr. TSA: (checks bag) What color?
Me: (racking brain--I added them this morning) Clear and purple.
Mr. TSA finally surrenders bag to me, still in me socks and t-shirt.
I still don't know why they picked me out of the line for the special scanner--Mike in the black leather pants and biker jacket was skipped--maybe they didn't like my Dr. Who t-shirt? But apparently I've got an abnormality as a result of the surgery I had in September, so I might as well refuse the scanner the next time they select me--I'm gonna get the pat-down either way.
Can I send TSA my therapy bill?