Despite getting worked up about airport security, both legs of my trip were using old school scanners. The new scanners were in place, but dormant in Ft. Lauderdale. In fact, a TSA agent told us that when they do use them they don't put small kids in them--not because of safety, but because "kids can't keep still for 10 seconds."
As result, WonderWife™ and I were left with a lot of displaced anger. We had whipped up a nice frothy head of agitation in the days leading to our trip. I decided to take mine out on Florida drivers, whom I've come to realize over the years are just about the most inconsiderate in the country. I'm not sure how WW™ ultimately coped. Maybe that's why she was "accidentally" kicking me in the middle of the night.
So at the end of it all, we survived a grand total of 11 hours in airplanes, 4 hours in terminals, 7 hours in the car, two great-grandparents, 2 grandparents, 2 siblings, 2 spouses and 4 kids under 5.
I still contend that the TSA thing is a big issue that will continue to be hashed out both publicly and privately, but for now I've got to shake off the tryptophan coma and let go of my dreams of my mom's candied sweet potatoes and get back to my normal life.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Scanners
It didn’t dawn on me that our annual Thanksgiving family trek across the country would be more difficult this year until WonderWife™ brought it up.
“What are your thoughts on the new airport scanners?” she asked me one morning over breakfast.
She was referring to the new TSA full body scanners that bounce x-rays off the body in order to take a full, revealing image of airline passengers. Many people are up in arms over the invasion of privacy. Passengers can forgo the scanner, but are then subjected to a rigorous pat down that is reported to be so invasive, some who have gone through it are threatening to sue for sexual misconduct.
Personally, it’s not the the picture that bothers me. I don’t care if there’s some anonymous image of the outline of my stuff in some back room of an airport. I’m sure out there somewhere there is clear footage of me picking me nose while speeding along the freeway. What gets me is the safety issue and how it affects my kids.
The TSA says they’ve done studies and the findings show that there is “minimal risk” from the machines. Depending on whom you listen to the scanners give anywhere from one thousandth to one fiftieth the amount of radiation one would receive from a standard chest x-ray.
I want to believe that these machines are safe, but the cynical part of me doesn’t know if I should be so sure. Airport security has been a frustrating joke over the last decade. Our government’s reaction, over-reaction and sensitivity to any threat to national security have only made things worse. Its like they don’t really know how to keep us safe, but they’re really good at making it look like they’re keeping us safe.
In September 2001, I was working at a building where there was a security booth to the entrance of the building’s parking lot. Employees had company-issued ID cards that granted us access to the facility. After the shock of 9/11 wore away and the panic set in, security got tight. Suddenly our ID cards weren’t enough. We had to show photo IDs while the guards used mirrors to check under our cars. What used to take anywhere from 15 seconds to 2 minutes to enter the lot would now take 30 to 45 minutes.
This was back in the pre-kid days when I actually worked out instead of making excuses why I couldn’t. I showered at the gym and would drape my towel over the front seat of my car so it wouldn’t get all funky inside my gym bag, which I placed on the front seat. As a result, the bag would end up being covered by the towel. Despite all of the newly installed “security measures” at the building, not once did the guards ever ask to see what was under the lump that was obscured by the towel in the front seat of my car. If I had wanted to do damage to that facility, it would have been laughably easy. It incensed me that all of the security that was eating up precious time was all for show.
I find myself thinking about this whenever I’m queued up in the terminal, shoes and belt in hand, pants sagging, digging through my bags to fish out my electronics. I realize that there are real stakes when it comes to airport security. I would be naive to think that there isn't a need for it. However, from the vantage point of the average passenger, modern airport security seems like it’s all defense and no offense. It can also be frustratingly inconsistent from location to location. I can't help but stand there in line wondering how much of it is like the security of my former workplace—just for show.
The new big, scary scanners aren’t helping. They make a bold statement about the lengths being taken to keep us safe, but are they really safe? Was the old system so flawed that we have to go to these measures? Or are we being asked to trade our health for perceived safety? There’s no way to be sure that sometime in the future these machines won’t be found to be bad for us. It wasn't too long ago that people thought cigarettes were ok.
This is really the crux of my problem—it boils down to the safety of my kids. I care less about x-rays bouncing off my middle aged skin, but how will it affect my young children? It feels like us parents are facing a Sophie’s choice this holiday season: Do we expose our children and ourselves, both literally and figuratively, to potentially harmful rays? WonderWife™ and I strongly believe that the alternative—having our kids fondled by some bored TSA agent in rubber gloves—is actually more harmful.
There are people who say that the solution is not to fly. But that’s incredibly impractical when you live 3000 miles away from your closest family and only have a scant few days off in which to see them. It’s a shortsighted solution that would rob my kids of their grandparents and cousins. Sadly, the TSA and the airlines know that we passengers don’t have any other choice and they don’t seem to be making it any easier on any of us.
But they put on a good show, don’t they?
“What are your thoughts on the new airport scanners?” she asked me one morning over breakfast.
She was referring to the new TSA full body scanners that bounce x-rays off the body in order to take a full, revealing image of airline passengers. Many people are up in arms over the invasion of privacy. Passengers can forgo the scanner, but are then subjected to a rigorous pat down that is reported to be so invasive, some who have gone through it are threatening to sue for sexual misconduct.
Personally, it’s not the the picture that bothers me. I don’t care if there’s some anonymous image of the outline of my stuff in some back room of an airport. I’m sure out there somewhere there is clear footage of me picking me nose while speeding along the freeway. What gets me is the safety issue and how it affects my kids.
The TSA says they’ve done studies and the findings show that there is “minimal risk” from the machines. Depending on whom you listen to the scanners give anywhere from one thousandth to one fiftieth the amount of radiation one would receive from a standard chest x-ray.
I want to believe that these machines are safe, but the cynical part of me doesn’t know if I should be so sure. Airport security has been a frustrating joke over the last decade. Our government’s reaction, over-reaction and sensitivity to any threat to national security have only made things worse. Its like they don’t really know how to keep us safe, but they’re really good at making it look like they’re keeping us safe.
In September 2001, I was working at a building where there was a security booth to the entrance of the building’s parking lot. Employees had company-issued ID cards that granted us access to the facility. After the shock of 9/11 wore away and the panic set in, security got tight. Suddenly our ID cards weren’t enough. We had to show photo IDs while the guards used mirrors to check under our cars. What used to take anywhere from 15 seconds to 2 minutes to enter the lot would now take 30 to 45 minutes.
This was back in the pre-kid days when I actually worked out instead of making excuses why I couldn’t. I showered at the gym and would drape my towel over the front seat of my car so it wouldn’t get all funky inside my gym bag, which I placed on the front seat. As a result, the bag would end up being covered by the towel. Despite all of the newly installed “security measures” at the building, not once did the guards ever ask to see what was under the lump that was obscured by the towel in the front seat of my car. If I had wanted to do damage to that facility, it would have been laughably easy. It incensed me that all of the security that was eating up precious time was all for show.
I find myself thinking about this whenever I’m queued up in the terminal, shoes and belt in hand, pants sagging, digging through my bags to fish out my electronics. I realize that there are real stakes when it comes to airport security. I would be naive to think that there isn't a need for it. However, from the vantage point of the average passenger, modern airport security seems like it’s all defense and no offense. It can also be frustratingly inconsistent from location to location. I can't help but stand there in line wondering how much of it is like the security of my former workplace—just for show.
The new big, scary scanners aren’t helping. They make a bold statement about the lengths being taken to keep us safe, but are they really safe? Was the old system so flawed that we have to go to these measures? Or are we being asked to trade our health for perceived safety? There’s no way to be sure that sometime in the future these machines won’t be found to be bad for us. It wasn't too long ago that people thought cigarettes were ok.
This is really the crux of my problem—it boils down to the safety of my kids. I care less about x-rays bouncing off my middle aged skin, but how will it affect my young children? It feels like us parents are facing a Sophie’s choice this holiday season: Do we expose our children and ourselves, both literally and figuratively, to potentially harmful rays? WonderWife™ and I strongly believe that the alternative—having our kids fondled by some bored TSA agent in rubber gloves—is actually more harmful.
There are people who say that the solution is not to fly. But that’s incredibly impractical when you live 3000 miles away from your closest family and only have a scant few days off in which to see them. It’s a shortsighted solution that would rob my kids of their grandparents and cousins. Sadly, the TSA and the airlines know that we passengers don’t have any other choice and they don’t seem to be making it any easier on any of us.
But they put on a good show, don’t they?
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Table Scraps Volume #6: Outgrowing Stuff
I do a lot of writing. Sometimes the words don't add up to full blog posts, even though I like what they have to say. Occasionally, I will put them out as little bits I call Table Scraps.
I was tucking Sprout in on one of those rare nights when she actually let me tuck her in. I turned on her noise machine--the one that plays ocean sounds that she has been using since she was first born to help her get to sleep. She suddenly bolted up, pointed at it and said, "off". She had outgrown the noise machine.
We took down the last baby gate in the house. The covers have come off of the oven knobs. The colored blocks I used to motivate the Bean to crawl sat in a pile with slightly chewed board books ready to be donated. These are the last vestigaes of my kids' lives as babies. Each milestone we pass and each thing we remove from our house is another piece of their childhood that will never come back. When we dismantle the swing and take the high chair to the curb, I realize that I will never use them again.
We took down the last baby gate. And as the covers are taken off doorknobs and as locks are removed from cupboards, I realize that these are the last vestiges of my kids’ lives as babies. Each milestone we pass, each thing we remove from our house is another piece of their childhood that we won’t get back. The last time we’ll need it. Sprout is the last child I will have and as she grows up and no longer needs baby things, they will be gone from my life forever.
I’m counting the day until we can get rid of the diaper genie.
____________________________________________________
I was tucking Sprout in on one of those rare nights when she actually let me tuck her in. I turned on her noise machine--the one that plays ocean sounds that she has been using since she was first born to help her get to sleep. She suddenly bolted up, pointed at it and said, "off". She had outgrown the noise machine.
We took down the last baby gate in the house. The covers have come off of the oven knobs. The colored blocks I used to motivate the Bean to crawl sat in a pile with slightly chewed board books ready to be donated. These are the last vestigaes of my kids' lives as babies. Each milestone we pass and each thing we remove from our house is another piece of their childhood that will never come back. When we dismantle the swing and take the high chair to the curb, I realize that I will never use them again.
We took down the last baby gate. And as the covers are taken off doorknobs and as locks are removed from cupboards, I realize that these are the last vestiges of my kids’ lives as babies. Each milestone we pass, each thing we remove from our house is another piece of their childhood that we won’t get back. The last time we’ll need it. Sprout is the last child I will have and as she grows up and no longer needs baby things, they will be gone from my life forever.
I’m counting the day until we can get rid of the diaper genie.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sleep Study
It seemed like an ordinary hotel room. It was small and simple, adorned with the basics—a bed with crisp white linens, dresser, TV. I lay in the unfamiliar bed, my struggle to sleep complicated by the series of wires that were attached to various parts of my body and connected to a machine that would monitor my vitals. I couldn't help but notice the faint glow of the video camera mounted to the ceiling of the room, an unsettling reminder that somebody would be watching my every nocturnal movement. As the clock slowly ticked, I knew that I was very far away from sleep.
I was doing this as a last ditch attempt to save my marriage. Okay, that may be a bit drastic. But I need to find a solution to my problem for myself and the woman who shares my bed...most of the time.
You see, I snore.
Loudly. Obnoxiously. Incessantly.
I awaken every morning groggy, confused. I feel heavy, as if a wet blanket is holding me down. I always look next to me to see if my wife is still sleeping, or if my sonic bellowing has chased her from the bedroom to the couch. Those mornings leave me feeling guilty and helpless. WonderWife™ seems to take this all in stride, but often says that if we had the means, we would have separate bedrooms. This, along with the fact that I am prone to wake myself up with my snoring, bothers me to my core. Her attitude is great, but I’m secretly afraid that another 10 years of her being constantly chased out of her bedroom will start to cause untold damage on our relationship.
This is why long after the sun went down one night, I drove to a medical building in order to be hooked up to medical equipment machinery and sleep in a foreign room while being watched all night. The sleep study will show if I have sleep apnea—a potentially dangerous condition where one stops breathing periodically during sleep. I'm not a medically trained professional, but I'm confident that not being able to breathe rates pretty high on the list of things that are bad for you.
If I have apnea there are a few treatments available—none of them pleasant. They include wearing some sort of oxygen mask every night or a surgery where they would slice my soft palate and remove a part of my uvula, which not only has the distinction of being incredibly painful but has only a 50-50 chance of working. If I don’t have apnea, these options are still available to me, but not covered by insurance, meaning it would probably be cheaper for me to buy that extra bedroom for my house than it would to pay for any treatments out of pocket.
The sleep study is a last ditch attempt to find a snoring solution. Not to be too glass is half empty, but I’m confident that I don’t have apnea. A sleep study years ago showed that I didn’t have apnea. I don't think much has changed.
I slept fitfully through that night and woke up groggy and confused as usual when the technician rousted me at 5am to remove the wires from my body. It will be about two weeks before I learn if there’s anything that can be done to give everyone in my house more peaceful sleep. At this point, I’m willing to try just about anything.
I was doing this as a last ditch attempt to save my marriage. Okay, that may be a bit drastic. But I need to find a solution to my problem for myself and the woman who shares my bed...most of the time.
You see, I snore.
Loudly. Obnoxiously. Incessantly.
I awaken every morning groggy, confused. I feel heavy, as if a wet blanket is holding me down. I always look next to me to see if my wife is still sleeping, or if my sonic bellowing has chased her from the bedroom to the couch. Those mornings leave me feeling guilty and helpless. WonderWife™ seems to take this all in stride, but often says that if we had the means, we would have separate bedrooms. This, along with the fact that I am prone to wake myself up with my snoring, bothers me to my core. Her attitude is great, but I’m secretly afraid that another 10 years of her being constantly chased out of her bedroom will start to cause untold damage on our relationship.
This is why long after the sun went down one night, I drove to a medical building in order to be hooked up to medical equipment machinery and sleep in a foreign room while being watched all night. The sleep study will show if I have sleep apnea—a potentially dangerous condition where one stops breathing periodically during sleep. I'm not a medically trained professional, but I'm confident that not being able to breathe rates pretty high on the list of things that are bad for you.
If I have apnea there are a few treatments available—none of them pleasant. They include wearing some sort of oxygen mask every night or a surgery where they would slice my soft palate and remove a part of my uvula, which not only has the distinction of being incredibly painful but has only a 50-50 chance of working. If I don’t have apnea, these options are still available to me, but not covered by insurance, meaning it would probably be cheaper for me to buy that extra bedroom for my house than it would to pay for any treatments out of pocket.
The sleep study is a last ditch attempt to find a snoring solution. Not to be too glass is half empty, but I’m confident that I don’t have apnea. A sleep study years ago showed that I didn’t have apnea. I don't think much has changed.
I slept fitfully through that night and woke up groggy and confused as usual when the technician rousted me at 5am to remove the wires from my body. It will be about two weeks before I learn if there’s anything that can be done to give everyone in my house more peaceful sleep. At this point, I’m willing to try just about anything.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Being Me
“So where are you going tonight?” WonderWife™ asked me as I shed my work attire and donned my customary jeans and t-shirt.
“To Don’s house,” I said.
“That’s unusual. What are you guys doing?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“There’s no way you're leaving the house without telling me what you’re up to,” she said with a smile.
I covered my mouth with my hand and mumbled, “Mgoingtoplayvidgames.”
“I’m sorry…what?”
I took a deep breath. This was inevitable. “I’m going over to play XBox. A group of guys are getting on line to play. It’s Halo Tuesday.”
She gave me her signature “you’re such a geek” reaction, which is to roll her eyes, sigh ever so slightly and internally question how she could have possibly ended up with a guy like me.
“Have fun being you,” she said to me as I kissed her and headed out the door.
“To Don’s house,” I said.
“That’s unusual. What are you guys doing?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“There’s no way you're leaving the house without telling me what you’re up to,” she said with a smile.
I covered my mouth with my hand and mumbled, “Mgoingtoplayvidgames.”
“I’m sorry…what?”
I took a deep breath. This was inevitable. “I’m going over to play XBox. A group of guys are getting on line to play. It’s Halo Tuesday.”
She gave me her signature “you’re such a geek” reaction, which is to roll her eyes, sigh ever so slightly and internally question how she could have possibly ended up with a guy like me.
“Have fun being you,” she said to me as I kissed her and headed out the door.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Force May Be Strong With This One
WonderWife™ pulled an unexpectedly cool move today.
As I walked in the door this evening, the kids came running over to me and reached up their hands to show me what was inside. Sprout beamed as she showed off a pair of bunny figurines. In the hand of the Bean, I spotted a R2D2 figure.
“The Candy Fairy came!” he screamed. The Candy Fairy is WW™’s ingenious plan to get rid of the pounds of extra Halloween candy. The CF comes, takes your candy and leaves you a small (read: inexpensive) gift. The Bean had been diligently waiting for the Candy Fairy to arrive all week. He was actually aching to give up his sugary loot for a toy. “Look what she left me, Daddy! Star Wars!”
I looked up quizzically at my wife. She was wearing a sly smile—rather proud of herself.
The Bean immediately started asking questions about R2D2. Where did he live? Could we meet him? He told me that R2 fixes ships. When I asked him how he could have possibly known that, he said he remembered it from our ill fated Star Tours ride last Spring (a move that I feared would turn my kid off Star Wars for a few extra years).
Later on during a quiet moment, I turned to WonderWife™ and asked, “So why’d you do it?”
“I saw it,” she said. “And we didn’t need another car. So I bought this.”
She smiled at me and I smiled back, wondering if she knew that she had purchased the key that would allow me to open the door to Star Wars for my son.
As I walked in the door this evening, the kids came running over to me and reached up their hands to show me what was inside. Sprout beamed as she showed off a pair of bunny figurines. In the hand of the Bean, I spotted a R2D2 figure.
“The Candy Fairy came!” he screamed. The Candy Fairy is WW™’s ingenious plan to get rid of the pounds of extra Halloween candy. The CF comes, takes your candy and leaves you a small (read: inexpensive) gift. The Bean had been diligently waiting for the Candy Fairy to arrive all week. He was actually aching to give up his sugary loot for a toy. “Look what she left me, Daddy! Star Wars!”
I looked up quizzically at my wife. She was wearing a sly smile—rather proud of herself.
The Bean immediately started asking questions about R2D2. Where did he live? Could we meet him? He told me that R2 fixes ships. When I asked him how he could have possibly known that, he said he remembered it from our ill fated Star Tours ride last Spring (a move that I feared would turn my kid off Star Wars for a few extra years).
Later on during a quiet moment, I turned to WonderWife™ and asked, “So why’d you do it?”
“I saw it,” she said. “And we didn’t need another car. So I bought this.”
She smiled at me and I smiled back, wondering if she knew that she had purchased the key that would allow me to open the door to Star Wars for my son.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Bacon Flavored Update
We interrupt this blog to bring you breaking news in the world of bacony goodness:
The mad scientists at Jones have apparently created a bacon soda. I repeat, bacon soda. The people behind Bacon Salt have partnered with Jones on this one. Jones Soda is infamous for their annual holiday soda assortment, featuring flavors that were never meant to be carbonated (such as broccoli souffle and turkey with gravy).
If I may editorialize for a moment...Being somewhatinsane daring I once tried the Jones holiday sodas. Once. Never again. So as excited as I am to find and try the bacon soda, I'm not optimistic that it'll be very good. (Kind of like bacon vodka all over again.)
That said, if there are any sightings of bacon soda out there. Please let me know.
The mad scientists at Jones have apparently created a bacon soda. I repeat, bacon soda. The people behind Bacon Salt have partnered with Jones on this one. Jones Soda is infamous for their annual holiday soda assortment, featuring flavors that were never meant to be carbonated (such as broccoli souffle and turkey with gravy).
If I may editorialize for a moment...Being somewhat
That said, if there are any sightings of bacon soda out there. Please let me know.
Monday, November 1, 2010
In the Wake of a Sugar Rush
The Bean was a fire fighter. (“With suspenders,” as he would tell everyone.) Sprout was Strawberry Shortcake, whom she refers to as “Strawberry Girl.” Two days before, I told the Bean that it was almost Halloween. He gasped. “It is??”
The Bean began to instruct Sprout in all things trick or treat. “You knock on the door and you say ‘trick or treat.’ You pick out your candy. Sometimes they will just give you candy and you can’t pick. After you say ‘thank you’ and you go to the next house,” he patiently told her. Sprout nodded her head and seemed to get it.
By the third house, she really got it. Though she was struggling to keep up with the Bean. We had met up with a few friends in the neighborhood and the Bean was running a quarter block ahead yelling, “Come ooooon guys! Let’s gooooo!”
Sprout lasted a half hour on the mean suburban streets, dragging her oversized bucket filled with candy lethargically behind her. The Bean and I stayed out for an hour. It took fifteen minutes more to walk back to our house. It took me nearly that long to convince him that it would be okay for me to carry his heavy candy bucket.
The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of rustling. The Bean and Sprout had overturned their buckets and were surrounded by piles of sweets. They were rifling through their spoils, sorting them by color and smelling the candy through the wrappers. Together, they plotted which pieces they would eat that day and what they would eat the day after.
I watched them from a distance, smiling and thinking of the post-Halloween mornings I spent with my sister doing the exact same thing.
The Bean began to instruct Sprout in all things trick or treat. “You knock on the door and you say ‘trick or treat.’ You pick out your candy. Sometimes they will just give you candy and you can’t pick. After you say ‘thank you’ and you go to the next house,” he patiently told her. Sprout nodded her head and seemed to get it.
By the third house, she really got it. Though she was struggling to keep up with the Bean. We had met up with a few friends in the neighborhood and the Bean was running a quarter block ahead yelling, “Come ooooon guys! Let’s gooooo!”
Sprout lasted a half hour on the mean suburban streets, dragging her oversized bucket filled with candy lethargically behind her. The Bean and I stayed out for an hour. It took fifteen minutes more to walk back to our house. It took me nearly that long to convince him that it would be okay for me to carry his heavy candy bucket.
The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of rustling. The Bean and Sprout had overturned their buckets and were surrounded by piles of sweets. They were rifling through their spoils, sorting them by color and smelling the candy through the wrappers. Together, they plotted which pieces they would eat that day and what they would eat the day after.
I watched them from a distance, smiling and thinking of the post-Halloween mornings I spent with my sister doing the exact same thing.
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