TSA

I recently got promoted at work. I was a semi-grown up and now I am a REAL grown up. Neat, huh? I agree. Part of being a real grown up is that I will need to travel some for work. To ease me into this slowly, they sent me on the first trip with another real grown up, whom I shall call C-Dizzle.

C-Dizzle is a master at the travel game, so I just did what she did and followed her around. Literally, I followed her around the airport like a puppy. She kept trying to say things to me and I would try to catch up really fast to be next to her instead of behind her. ANYway, we got to the security check point and got separated. I tried to stick with her, I really did. But when the burly security man says "YOU GO THERE" and points to the opposite line of your travel buddy, you do not argue.

So I go to the other line and put my bag, shoes, kidneys, etc. on the belt. Then I am directed to the Temple of Doom. Yes - I got sent, for the very first time, to the body scanner.

This is the part of the blog where you should click here and press the blue button (make sure your sound is up) to understand the full horror I was experiencing.

I do not like the body scanners. Even after they fixed them so they can't see you in your underwear, I have had an unnatural fear of these for years. If Daniel and I fly somewhere, he volunteers for the body scanner so he won't have to talk me down from the proverbial ledge for the entire flight.

But I was very good and went through it. And I got stopped. Dang it all.

"What do you have in your back left pocket?" the very tall TSA lady asked me. I do have to say I was impressed with the accuracy. I wanted to tell her so but I felt like that wasn't the time. I might write a letter, though.

HOWEVER, I would have to include in my letter the rest of the incident...

"Oh, it's my license. I just had to show it for the first checkpoint and there was no time to put it in my bag," I said, cheerfully but not too cheerfully just in case this lady didn't care for pep. Then I took it out of my pocket and the lady jumped a little. Maybe I was supposed to let her do it?

She then told me she was going to have to pat me down. Erghhhhh, no. But she was already doing it, lightly brushing my left cheek with the back of her hand. My butt proved satisfactory (it always does) and I thought I was done. Oh, how naive I was. She made me raise my left hand above my head and she brushed her fingers down my arm and side. It tickled. I giggled. Apparently giggling is unacceptable to the TSA because she glared at me.

Then came the strangest part of all: She started poking her fingers through my ponytail. I know my hair is thick but is it really bad enough that I could hide a weapon in there? Because if so, she just gave me a great idea. She tugged on my ponytail and was finally satisfied that my CVS-brand ponytail holder was, in fact, docile.

She yelled "I NEED HANDS" in no particular direction and told me to go stand in front of another lady. This one at least smiled as she wiped my hands down with something. I realized she was checking for gun-powder residue and other explosive stuff. And this is where I truly started to panic.

See, my husband Daniel is a gunsmith. A gunsmith who likes to (safely) experiment with how to make things blow up. This means that any given day of the week I am putting away guns, chemicals of unknown origin, pointy objects covered in black stuff, and tubes of something science-y. And so my thought process went like this: Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Should I tell her before she even runs the test? No, no, that would look too suspicious. But what if it turns up something? What if I can't remember what Daniel was playing with the other day? Was it magnesium? Marbles? Mangos? Something. Something with explosives. And he had me practice shooting the pistol... would there still be GPR on my hands? Is that even a possibility? Do people still use gun powder? It seems kind of old-fashioned. Maybe it's just a phrase. Maybe they just call it that beca - 


"Uh, ma'am?"

I tuned back in to the TSA lady to see her staring at me.

"You can go."

Oh. Well, good.

Stupid body scanners.

A Documentary on Dana Scully, or, How to be Knocked Out in Three Easy Steps

Lately, Daniel has been on an X Files kick. So we've been watching all of the episodes. If you don't know what The X Files is, let me sum it up for you: Two FBI agents look for aliens after lots of strange things happen to or around them. It's weird.

However, the weirdness is nothing compared to the stupidity perpetuated by one specific character: Dana Scully, one of the FBI agents on the show. 

"I was supposed to look sexy but I got distracted."

It is incredibly hard to watch her on the show and remain silent. She is dumber than a sock and dresses like Hilary Clinton - that is, when she's conscious, which seems to be rare. What's that, you say? You want a list proving this? Okey dokey. 

1) The pantsuits. Oh, sweet cheese and crackers, the pantsuits. This woman wears pantsuits like it's... 1993. Okay. Fine. But still - who looks good in shoulder pads? WHO, I ask you? No one. Especially not in the ones that make you look like a football player. Maybe she's trying to go for a more masculine look so the other FBI agents will take her seriously. What she doesn't know is that the suits are only just masculine enough to make her look like a transvestite. 

Look at those things. They take up half the shot.

2) The complete and utter lack of belief in all things paranormal, in spite of the fact that THOSE ARE THE CASES SHE WORKS. ON PURPOSE. She is a medical doctor who became an FBI agent - the assumption we're supposed to make is that she's smart. Unfortunately, she is not smart. Quite the opposite, in fact. Because no matter how many times she sees an alien abduct a kid or an invisible elephant trample a dude or find a bunch of dead people with Alien-esque plants sticking out of them, she insists that it's all a big scientific misunderstanding. "No, no, I know his head was turned into a jelly bean in front of my very eyes. I have seen this before - it's JellyBellyItis. Very tragic." Moron. Conveniently she is never around to see any of the alien activity for many episodes, thus attempting to solidify her status as a scientific genius. All it really does is make you wonder why she is never there for the important things. Which brings me to my next item...

3) Scully is without a doubt the worst FBI agent I have ever seen. She is always at a loss for a weapon when trouble comes her way - too bad that standard FBI-issue gun isn't nearby since you dropped it in the shower earlier like a champion. And when she does miraculously hang on to her gun, she holds it like a limp noodle and kind of just waves it toward the attackers, as if she is hoping it will start firing on its own. 

She also gets knocked unconscious about three times per episode. Once by a little girl. I get it; she's the girl on the team and it's the 90s and life is always more exciting when someone's unconscious.But they are the F. B.  I. I would hate to have to explain to a child's parents that I didn't rescue their son from a kidnapper because I tripped and fell over my own gun after I dropped it because loud noises scare me. 

"What's that? You want me to hold on to your gum? OH, gun. Uh-huh. Then what? Okay, which part is the trigger? And then I impress him?? OH, arrest him. Okay. Do I tell him I work for the FBI or is that a secret?"

So if you decide to watch, prepare yourself. It isn't pretty. Her suits certainly aren't.

And Then There Was Limb

Yesterday at approximately 8:40 pm I stumbled upon a scene that led me into the seedy world of arborists and foliage. I was outside, innocently waiting for my dog to finish conducting business with the lawn, when I stumbled upon this horrific sight. Be warned - this image is not for the faint of heart.

That, my pretties, is a tree limb. I know. I am still getting over the shock. It was laying on our fence, gasping for life, hanging on to the threads of leafy goodness. We did what we could, but it was too late. 

But Leroy the Limb will get justice. My crack team and I have done some initial research into this issue and have put together a list of likely suspects:

Suspect #1: The Neighbor's Tree

Ah, yes. A tree of unknown background, swaying carelessly in the wind. Is its carelessness due to its innocence? Or is it because it knows we'll never get enough evidence to prove its guilt? There is a broken off limb on this tree, but it is conveniently too high to investigate at this time. Well-played, tree. Well-played.

Suspect #2: Our Tree

A tree of three trunks, this particular tree already has some scars from previous incidents. It sits with arrogance, daring someone to cut it down - what does it care; it has two extra trunks. The perfect candidate to cover up a heinous crime.

Suspect #3: Michigan

Like this one needs any more explanation. 

So, who was it? The Neighbor's Tree with the missing limb? Our Tree, with its arrogant extra trunks and bad attitude? Our dog, who generally causes destruction everywhere he goes?

Stay tuned as we delve deep into the world of trees, plants, and justice.  

My husband would be an awesome serial killer

Many of you have heard my tale of how I almost shot Daniel. It all started when I heard scary noises on the roof, and ended with me pointing a loaded gun at my husband. Afterward, he told me that the noise was probably raccoons - we live near a wooded area and they apparently enjoy trees. I don't know; I don't really know much about raccoons. Except that they make good hats.

Fast-forward to a couple of weeks ago, where I woke Daniel up in the middle of the night (which is hilarious to witness, by the way. I highly recommend it. He's a flailer.) after I heard some scraping sounds on the roof. I'm no 'coon expert but these footsteps were heavy and seemed to be in the attic space above our ceiling. Raccoons would likely be on the actual roof. The attic space is used by the complex and is padlocked shut; we can't use it. I was convinced that a tiny little person (or a tall person who didn't mind rolling around up there) was living in our attic, waiting for us to leave during the day so he could steal our things and eat our cookies. But when Daniel checked the attic space, the padlock was closed and from the looks of things, no one had been there in quite some time (thanks for all that maintenance, apartment complex). Curiouser and curiouser.

Keep fast-forwarding to tonight. Daniel and I were sitting on our respective couches when we both heard a scraping sound above us. I jumped up and shouted "SEE I TOLD YOU IT'S A PERSON THEY MUST BE LIVING THERE WE'RE GONNA DIE WHY DIDN'T YOU LISTEN TO ME AHHHHHHHHHH" and then literally jumped up and down for a second in anticipation of running for my life. I was wearing my zebra-striped fuzzy boots again so I was totally ready.

Daniel goes and loads the pistol, finds the flashlight, and goes out to our porch. I was instructed to stay inside and guard the cat, which I later realized was code for "Kristen is bad at being sneaky." It's true. I am the least sneaky person ever. My four-year-old nephew is sneakier than me. So Daniel is out on the porch, moving around like a ninja, ducking and weaving and matrix-ing and at some points moonwalking. I am inside, my face pressed to the glass, and Batman beside me with his face on the glass. He likes glass. He started licking it. I didn't lick it but I did draw a little smiley face in the fog my breath left.

After nothing happens for a minute, Daniel says loudly, "Must be nothing, I'll come inside." Being the extra-helpful person I am, I flipped on the porch light, opened the door, and asked why he was coming in. If he hadn't had a gun in his hand I'm sure he would have facepalmed - he was apparently trying to trick the unseen robber into showing himself. Oops. In my defense, Daniel knew I wasn't sneaky when he married me - I was always very open about that.

So now he has to sneak back onto the porch, and I see him unload the gun, then load it back really loudly - this, I discovered later, was to strike fear in the robber's heart. Then Daniel looks at me, points to his eyes, points to me, points to the left, and points up. I thought he was having some sort of attack, so I just stared at him from the other side of the glass door. He motioned again. I stared some more. He motioned so wildly I thought he might fall off the porch, and then it hit me - he wanted me to go over to the window and see if I saw someone on the roof. Ohhhhhhhh. I couldn't see anyone from the window, so I made my own crazy gestures back - I waved my arms real wide and shook my head, like I was begging a plane to not come in for landing. He got the message and I went back to the porch where I could see better.

Finally, we were ready to give up - and then I heard the noise again. I made the airplane motion and pointed to the ceiling, and I could tell Daniel heard it, too. He looked at the roof and jumped (like he was scared, not off of the porch). I also jumped and stepped on the cat. My bad. I should join the CIA.

Daniel called me outside and told me to look at the roof. I looked at the top of the roof - nothing there. He then told me to look underneath the roof, in the rafters. And sitting there, looking ever so slightly chagrined but not really all that sorry, was a masked... raccoon. A raccoon. A raccoon who had figured out how to get into our rafters and subsequently into the attic space. A raccoon who had then invited his friends and had commenced partying over our heads for the last month.

So it turns out no tiny people are living in the attic. Which is a relief. I guess if I had to choose between a dwarf robber and Roscoe (the raccoon - I named him after my great-grandfather!), I would pick Roscoe. He's kind of cute. In a creepy, please don't dig through the ceiling and jump on me in the night kind of way.

But the most important lesson learned is this: Daniel is a flippin' ninja. I dare you to rob us. No - I double-dog dare you. NO. I TRIPLE-DOG DARE YOU. But be warned, though you may not see it coming, though you may never hear the footsteps of the one responsible for your demise, though you may think your crimes will go unnoticed, heed my words: Daniel and Roscoe are watching.

How I almost shot the sheriff

Okay, I didn't almost shoot the sheriff. I don't even know who the sheriff is. But I got you here, didn't I? And I did almost shoot someone, so don't leave. I have candy...

So, a few background details. I have a cold. To combat this cold, I have been taking cold medicine. Genius, right? Cold medicine has a weird effect on me recently - I get a liiiiiittle loopy. Not like I think my elbow is my new best friend Henry kind of loopy; more like I probably am not making the soundest decisions kind of loopy.

The next important detail is that Daniel got a new gun recently. It's one I can use easily and since there have been a few burglaries in our hood (don't tell my mom! Mom, if you read this, I'm just kiiiiidding) I made sure I was really familiar with it. Don't cross me.

That brings us to Saturday night. I had taken the cold medicine, and Daniel went to go get dinner as it was getting dark. There had been roofers on our roof earlier in the day. So there I was, watching TV - not Dr. Quinn, thankyouverymuch - when I heard some scraping noises on the roof and on the walls outside. I figured it was the roofers and turned up the TV. When I heard it again, I realized that roofers probably don't work at night, and maybe it was the cat. The cat was sitting next to me. Hmm. Then I saw police lights on the road outside, and from there it took me .328 seconds to decide we were being robbed... from our wall and roof, two stories off the ground. I warned you about the bad decision-making.

I called Daniel and heard the glorious ringtone I chose for him go off in our room - he had left his phone at home. Okay, no problem. I decided I need a plan of action. First, I put on a jacket, then figured I should get some shoes I could run in. I chose my zebra-striped fuzzy boots/house shoes with the pink trim. No reason to look like a bum while I'm escaping, right? Then I got the gun, and went to our deck door. I shouted "WHO'S THERE" in my most menacing tone (which I realized later probably sounded like a very scared, possibly drunk child). No answer. So I threw back the blinds and opened the door while preparing myself to bring somebody DOWN if I had to.

No one was there. Were they hiding? Had they heard me shout my scary words and decided not to mess with this? That was probably it, but just in case, I looked extra-dangerous as I locked the doors and told Batman not to worry.

That's when I heard the footsteps. If there were a soundtrack to this story, this would be the DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNN track.

Now if you heard someone pounding up your steps in a seemingly angry/robbery fashion after all this, would you think it was your husband returning home with dinner or an evil bad guy who had narrowly escaped your clutches on the porch and was now back for revenge? Exactly. So I did what any reasonable and slightly inebriated person would do - I hid behind our loveseat with the gun in my hand. As I heard the lock turn, I thought It's weird how the robber found a key. Then as the door opened, I popped up, heart pounding, bravery churning, ready to run as fast as my zebra boots would take me, only to come face-to-face with... Daniel. Most of you probably saw that coming so I had to add the extra tension.

To Daniel's credit, when he walked in the door to find his wife pointing a gun at him, he didn't flip out. He just stepped to the side, walked over to me, and after I told him what had brought me to this situation, nodded and said, "Good job - I'm glad you were prepared," and we went about our business as if it was totally normal for one of us to think the other one was going to steal our worldly possessions and worthy of pointing a loaded gun at. Eh. Just another day in the life for the Elevelds.

Interestingly enough, today when I was cleaning - okay, looking for my pajamas - I didn't see the gun. Daniel must have moved it. OR WE WERE ROBBED. DUN. DUN. DUNNNNNNN...