Some thoughts on being frisked by airport security...

So there we were, we three -- Noah in a stroller, hubby and I each carrying our carry-on bags, and desperately trying to put everything into those little plastic bins that might make the metal detector go off, in addition to stripping off our shoes in close quarters, folding the stroller, and trying to explain to a 3-year-old to go through the weird doorway and wait on the other side for the next one of us to come through, while the one remaining tried to shove the stroller through the xray machine somewhat like shoving a large onion into a Thanksgiving turkey.

And it should be no surprise that SOMETHING had to throw off those amazing coordination efforts -- and it was me. I went through the metal detector and it went off. I took everything out of my pockets, all my jewelry off -- everything into a tiny bin to go through the xray machine. And then it went off again. And they asked me very sternly NOT to touch Noah, and to go sit in the sequestered area for more *ahem* personal attention. Hubby managed to get all of the rest of our cargo together, stroller reassembled, and maintain calm with the 3-year-old, while I sat in a chair with my feet in the footprints in front of it and prepared for the worst.

A very considerate and respectful woman in her late 20s, I'd guess, came over and respectfully and apologetically told me that she would have to wand me down, and *gasp* possibly touch me. As she wanded, I remembered the barette holding my hair out of my eyes, and I called it to her attention. Sure enough, the wand went off as it passed over my head, and she checked out the barette, but she also at that point had to complete a full-body scan with the wand. And politely explained that if the wand went off anywhere else, she would have to *eek* touch me, but would use the back of her hand whenever possible, so I wouldn't feel it was too intrusive. About the third time she explained that she would be as respectful as possible, I stopped her.

Her: "Ma'am, I'll have to touch you now, because the wand went off near your armpit, but I'll use the back of my hand just enough to determine if it was your underwire that set off..."

Me (interrupting): "Honey, you do what you need to. I completely understand."

Her: "Yes, but I want to be sure that you don't feel that this is too intrusive..."

Me (interrupting again; such a rude wanding victim): "Okay, listen -- I've given birth. You can't do anything to me that, let's be honest, hasn't been done before."

Her (laughing): "Well, no one's told me THAT before...."

Me: "They're probably thinking it."

Her (laughing): "Okay, so I'm going to have to check inside the waistband of your pants..."

Me: (Dissolving into hysterical laughter)

It was as fast, painless, and polite as a frisking could be, and dare I say it? I almost enjoyed the opportunity to interact with them a little more than "Okay, here are your shoes back."

That was the outbound trip. On the inbound trip, we came through Newark, and after being in the UK for two weeks, I just have to say that this was NOT the first vision of the US that I wanted. With the exception of the one woman who helped us find the tram to the other terminal, I have never encountered such an unhelpful bunch of "customer service" professionals in my life. For example: After coming through customs (for which we had to pick up our checked bags, go through a tremendously huge line, and then go re-check our bags, on a one-hour layover), we were confronted with a sign that read "Go to the left if your departure is in less than one hour. Go to the right to exit the airport, or for departures after more than one hour." Our departure was now in 30 minutes. The "customer service" rep barked "To your right" at us. We looked at the sign. She sighed heavily. "TO YOUR RIGHT. KEEP MOVING." We read the sign again, and I cocked my head like a puppy. "Our flight is in 30 minutes," I said calmly. She sighed like I was trying to get away with something sneaky. "Oh, alright, go to the left." We tossed our bags back on the conveyer belt and took off at a dead run for our gate, arriving just at the end of boarding....

But not until we'd encountered their security checkpoint. Similarly, someone was barking instructions. We walked up, she checked our passports, and then pointed to a long line waiting to go through the air-puffing device. I thought "oh God in heaven, how are we going to get Noah through THAT?" But we began unburdening ourselves of our jackets, shoes, carry-on bags, crashing the stroller into compact mode... Then it became clear that there was another line that was shorter, to go through a second metal detector. They diverted us around the puffy-machine to a hidden metal detector (presumably because of the presence of 3-year-old), and grunted at us until we went one by one through the machine, then didn't like how we'd done it and we had to go back and they grunted impatiently to do it again, and then once we'd all passed, someone back in the line barked something about the bags not going through the xray machine, and we had to go BACK out through the metal detector to (I can't even understand this) push our bags up the conveyer belt manually to the xray machine, and then go through the metal detector AGAIN. And THEN we ran madly for our gate, arriving at the tail end of boarding for our flight. Only to discover that on this commuter flight which had one seat on one side of the aisle and two on the other, somehow they'd booked our tickets in sequential rows of the one-seat side, so that our 3-year-old would be, and who would possibly allow this, sitting alone. Fortunately the others on our flight were more accomodating than the security staff, and allowed us to swap seats.

But perhaps I digress. OUTGOING security, at any rate, is just as lovely as it can be - enough to make you want to write a glowing note to someone's supervisor, or send a holiday card to the security agent herself.

Inbound through New Jersey? Welcome to the US, m*therf&cker. Just keep moving.