Dena Taylor’s Musings

TSA Bob: Alright people—you know the drill. Laptops in trays. Shoes off. Plastic bags with liquids and gels out where we can see ‘em. A smile wouldn’t hurt either…

Woman: Gawd, here we go. (Puts plastic bag in tray, on belt.)

TSA Screener: Whoa-ho-ho! What’ve we got here?

Woman: Shit. Shit. Shit.

TSA Screener: M’am?! Is this your plastic bag.

Woman: Er, yes. It is.

TSA Bob: Alrighty, if you could step aside, please.

Woman: Sure. Yeah. There’s nothing I’d rather do…

TSA Bob: Sorry?

Woman: I said, sure, no problem.

TSA Bob: Hey Joe?! We’ve got a plastic bag with a five ounce tube of, uh, looks like, a VA-GI-SIL?

TSA Joe: A VAG-I-WHA?

TSA Bob: VAGI-SIL!

Woman: I should have thrown that away with my frickin latte cup–damnit!

TSA Bob: Says it’s for “VAGINAL ITCHING AND IRRITATION.”

TSA Joe: Ooohh. Huh. Well, how many ounces you got?

TSA Bob: Five. Five ounces of VAGINAL ITCHING GEL.

TSA Joe: Well, whose VAGINAL ITCHING GEL is it?

Woman: Mine…it’s mine.

TSA Joe: M’am, is it medically necessary for you to have this VAGI-SIL VAGINAL ITCHING GEL? Are you saying you have VAGINAL ITCHING?

WOMAN: Um, yes. But there’s less than five ounces there. Dickwad.

TSA Joe: So, you’ve used some of the VAGI-SIL VAGINAL ITCHING GEL and there’s not a full five ounces?

Woman: Yes! I have used an ounce or two and it is medically necessary. Dumbass.

TSA Joe: Well, m’am, is it one or two ounces of VAGI-SIL that you’ve used?

TSA Bob: Yeah, we need to know just how much of the VAGI-SIL VAGINAL ITCHING GEL you’ve used.

Woman: TWO! ALRIGHT?! I’VE USED TWO OUNCES OF THE VAGI-SIL VAGINAL ITCHING GEL, OKAY?! MY VAGINA ITCHES, ALRIGHT? I DON’T KNOW IF IT’S FROM WEARING NYLONS OR AN ALLERGY TO THE BOWL OF PHO I HAD FOR DINNER BUT MY CROTCH ITCHES, AND I NEED THE RELIEF!

TSA Bob: Geez lady. A simple one or two ounces would have sufficed. Joe, let’s let the lady and her crotch cream through. It’s obviously bugging her.

TSA Joe: Alright, m’am. Please get your ‘gina gel and other belongings and have a nice flight.

Woman: Thanks. Thanks a lot. Jackhole.

Young pair at neighboring table.

SHE: “Have you ever heard of that term, ‘love-in?’”

HE: No, no. What’s that?

SHE: It’s a hippie term.

HE: Oh. What does it mean?

SHE: They said it a lot in the 60’s–you know when people get together and get high and stuff.

HE: Oh. Hmm.

ME: I could use a hit right now.

MOM: So, Susie’s husband Jerry has sore feet.

ME: Interesting.

SISTER: Yeah, fascinating.

MOM: And he went to the doctor and found out he has Plantasia Fantasia.

ME/SISTER: hysterical laughter

MOM: Whaaa?

ME/SISTER: “Plantasia Fantasia!?”

MOM: Well, what’s it called then?

ME/SISTER: PLANTAR FASCIITIS! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

MOM: Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Master Avoider has been vanquished–at least as far as I’m concerned. My Colleague of Honor–with a Just Heart (and deeper reserves)–has come to my rescue; volunteering to make payment on Master Avoider’s behalf and engaging in the Battle for Reimbursement on his own. May the Force be with you Comrade! And may Master Avoider lay down at your feet, signed check in hand, tail between legs, regret upon lips.

So there is this Entity that owes me money. It is huge. It is loaded. And it is fast approaching 90 days past due. It won’t acknowledge my existence. No quick email to say, “Sorry dude, we’re backlogged.” No “Sorry but I have a family of parasites shacking up in my lower intestine and can’t seem to stay at my desk long enough to sign a check.” No “We lost your invoice somewhere in the damp hollows of our earthen cave, can you please resend via peregrine messenger?” But today, after practically scaling the walls of the Entity’s tower, an email appeared from the Master Avoider. The Avoider, with a heavy sigh (yes, I could hear it in email), said that he didn’t know from which dark chamber the money will come. And since he doesn’t know, he doesn’t have an answer. And since he doesn’t have an answer he saw no need to email or call. There will be a meeting, though. A magical meeting where all the Lords of Cash Flow and the Avoider will convene around a boardroom cauldron and conjure up the Cash Fairy who will wave her amber wand and reveal the bank account from which the lowly will be paid. It may take weeks. It may take months. I may see him in Hell, but the Avoider has spoken.

So I sing to the tune of Jackson Browne’s “Stay”:

I can’t wait
Just a little bit longer
Don’t make me wait
Just a little bit longer

Now my landlord’s gonna mind
And AT&T and State Farm are gonna mind
If you take too much more time
Giving me the money that is mine
So I can, PAY my bills

Oh won’t you pay-ay-ay?
Don’t take any longer-er
Please, please pay-ay-ay
Say you will-SAY YOU WILL!