Security Details

I was overweight. Me and my luggage. The agent behind the airline counter said I should remove something otherwise it would cost me $200 in fees. “Do you do liposuction?” He had no sense of humor. I lugged the bag over to a scale and hoisted it on with all my might. I was only 7 pounds over the permissible 50. “Cut me some slack,” I thought with my heart pounding. I was facing a 14-hour flight. What was a measly 7 pounds? I looked over at him. He pointed to a sign that said, “50 lb. limit.” I pulled out my make-up bag. That did the trick. But now my purse was so heavy it threatened to pull my shoulder out of its socket.

Even with TSA pre-check and an escort from CLEAR, my purse was pulled off the conveyor belt for inspection. No kidding. It overflowed. The agents were looking for a sharp object. They decided it was the camera lens I was carrying for a friend. I knew it was my nail file and dagger attitude. IMG_3973

When I got to the gate, or tried to, there was another security check with pat downs, checking of bags and screening for chemicals on my clothes. I went through that twice. I ran upstairs to buy another purse to divide my overload in two places. Both times I had to go through security. That’s the price you pay to fly to Israel.

It made me ask why we don’t do this in all our airports. Why only on flights to Israel? It’s because Israel demands it. So why don’t we? We’re too lenient and too trusting. TSA isn’t going to catch every bad guy in the first run through. We need two screenings, especially one just before boarding. That way we can x-ray your therapy dog and your neck pillow.

Calvin says, “That would mean I’d get x-rayed again, and that slab of bacon I stole from the fridge would be discovered.” beagle





A Shot in the Shoulder

I visited an orthopedist today for what I diagnosed as a rotator cuff sprain in my left shoulder.

He wouldn’t take my word for it, so I had to get x-rays to prove I was correct.

The x-ray technician looked like a teenager. I asked for a thyroid shield. He reluctantly produced one, but wasn’t happy with the idea. “What if it shields some of the views and then we have to repeat the process?” he asked me with a smirk. I wanted to smack him. I gave in. Probably a bad idea but it was better than having to take three additional pictures if he was right.

Then he said, “Don’t worry, it’s a low dose of radiation.”

“So come over here and stand with me,” I said smirking back as he ran behind the protective wall.

Three x-rays later I was in the examining room being interviewed by the orthopedist. “What did you do to yourself?” he asked as he looked at the pictures.

“I played polo and lost, and when I dismounted my horse bit me in the shoulder.”

The doctor’s eyes got as big as the knee facsimiles on his counter.

“Just kidding. I don’t know what I did. I woke up one day with my shoulder aching and it’s been complaining ever since.”

“Hmm…well I can offer you drugs, physical therapy or a cortisone shot. What will it be?” He sat there staring at me like a bartender while I processed.

None of the choices appealed to me.

“Drugs go all over your system,” he said doing circular motions over his chest and stomach with his hands. “Physical therapy might not work. The cortisone shot is localized and will take down the inflammation, which you certainly have after your run-in with your polo partner.”

I gave in to the shot.

He rubbed novocaine on my shoulder and shot the liquid into the muscle, like a vet with a horse.

“Call me in a few weeks. I’m going on a fox hunt to England.”

Calvin says, “Hey, take me with you! I’m closer to the ground. I can sniff out that fox faster than my paisano pack.” beagle