This Makes Me Go Ha Ha Ha Inside My Head.

So I had something in my head that I wanted to post about. I had thought about it at some point during our journey home from Arizona, but upon arriving back at our home I promptly forgot about it. I remembered only today, a full week later, as I was reaching into my purse for my nail glue that oh yeah! This is what I wanted to post about.

No no no, I don't want to post about my nail glue. Well, actually, I take that back- it does involve nail glue. You know, the super strong glue that you buy to reapply fake nails? Oh yes, I've stuck my fingers together (accidentally, I swear!) with this stuff many a times- this nail glue and all of its great bonding strength.

Husband and I deem ourselves lucky to live in an area near DIA- the Denver International Airport for those of you not in the know. DIA has efficiency down to a science. You know exactly how early you should arrive for your flight (two hours early on a Monday or a Saturday; substantially less any other day of the week not including holidays). You know exactly how to check-in for your flight, when to present your ID's, exactly how the line will security will be (the security guards always a bit cold and unresponsive), and exactly how the boarding of the flight will go. You know that the sandwiches at the Paradise Bakery in terminal B are the best, while the food court in terminal A is a bit lacking. It goes the same every single time. There is absolutely nothing unexpected about DIA.

So we are always a bit taken aback whenever we fly out of an airport that isn't DIA. Efficiency? Organization? Cold security guards that act like they have their panties (or boxer briefs, sorry) in a twist? These things simply don't seem to exist at other airports.

We arrived at the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport two hours before our flight last Monday night. Even its name (Sky Harbor) suggested an air of sunny disposition and lackadaisical easiness. The check-in process at the Frontier counter was nothing short of a clusterfuck, with several of us left to scratch our heads in confusion as we checked-in but had no one to take our bags. Oh! Okay, we had to take our own bags and walk them over to the luggage check ourselves, someone finally explained. Whatever, not a huge deal. No one checked our ID's. Hm. I guess I could be whoever checking whoever's bag, but no matter. As long as my bags ended up where I was heading (back home, motherfuckas!) then who cares.

We trudged up the escalator and decided to hang out for awhile in the main area before heading through security, not quite sure what offerings would be presented to us beyond that point. When we finally decided to go through security I was met by a very friendly security guard checking the boarding passes. I squinted at him, unsure what to do with a security guard who was chatty, animated, and gasp- smiling.

"Heading back home?" he asked.

"Yup." I said, handing over my ID and boarding pass in confusion. Was he talking to me? Really?!

"Oh. I'm sorry." he said, smirking and barely glancing at my ID. Oh right. He gets to stay in warm, sunny Arizona while Husband and I were flying back into the arctic tundra currently known as Colorado. Sorry, I am so sure.

The security line (not lines, but line) was short; I piled my purse and flip flops into the bin and shoved it through. And hold my breath, hold my breath, hold my breath- I passed with flying colors. Ever since being yanked out of line in San Francisco while trying to catch a flight to my own freaking god damn wedding in Hawaii ("Ma'am, you hiding a bomb in that wedding dress? Who is this David Bridal, is he your thug ringleader?") I've always been a bit nervous in security lines. It is hard going through life constantly paranoid for no reason, sure, but I feel that I do it with heart-pounding-sweat-inducing finesse.

So it wasn't until I got down to our gate at the Sky Harbor airport and decided to pop some Dramamine I had stashed in my purse (I am a wimp, what can I say?) that I realized, in a bit of horror, exactly what I had done: I had gone through security with several liquids still inside my purse, including a Tide to Go pen and my nail glue.

Well, huh. I'll be damned. At DIA I would have been yanked aside; meticulously searched and thoroughly questioned. What was I planning to do? Why was I hiding a Tide To Go pen and nail glue? Was I planning on glueing everybody's eyeballs shut and removing stains from their shirt? AND WHAT KIND OF NAME IS CHLOE ANYWAY, WHAT TERRORIST STAIN FIGHTING COUNTRY ARE YOU FROM?!

In Arizona? Not a big deal. Not a big deal at all. I had slipped right through security. Nobody was going to thwart me and my comedic yearnings of having terrorist ambitions (THE INSANE STAIN DESPERADO, they'd call me). Nope, nobody cared as I stood near the drinking fountain, pills in hand and grinning in glee. And why would they? They got to stay in nice, sunny warm Arizona. As the security guard checking our boarding passes said to me: they were sorry that I had to leave.

Really sorry, I am sure.