D was a hard one for me to narrow down, largely because there are so many great words that begin with d.
I mean, who knew that a deckle was the frame used to make homemade paper? Or that it can refer to the ragged edge of homemade paper? Or that defluvium refers to the medical loss of hair or nails? I mean, again, who knew there was a word for that other than balding?
But then I read daedalist (an aviator or pilot) shortly followed by dipsomania (an abnormal craving for alcohol) and I knew I had a couple of winners.
Because, honestly, nothing gives me an abnormal craving for alcohol like the thought of flying.
Seriously, I hate to fly.
And yes, I know it’s all very safe, and you’re more likely to die in a car wreck and blah blah blah.
But none of that matters because as soon as I get on a plane, I’m convinced that we are going to be the exception to the rule and plummet to our fiery deaths. I have been known to grip my grandmother’s rosary during take-off and moan to the person next to me “We’re going to die, sweet Jesus help us, we’re all going to die.”
Which is upsetting when the person next to me is my husband, good friend, or other family but I think it’s probably really disconcerting for complete strangers…although I personally think they should feel grateful for all the time I spend praying us into the air.
Drinking helps but only very little.
Another thing that I hate about flying are all the security measures. Which probably seems contradictory—I mean shouldn’t someone who is afraid of flying be glad that we’re taking extra care to keep dangerous subversives off the plane?
Unfortunately, whether it’s because I always look nervous or because I, apparently, am a dangerous subversive, 90% of the time that I fly, I somehow get called out of line to get the extra pat down. I’ve had my hands swabbed to test for dangerous chemicals, I’ve had my carry-on luggage searched, and I’ve been “hand-scanned” more times than I can count. Coming home from Sarasota a few weeks ago, something on MY HEAD set off the body scanner and the poor TSA agent had to run her hands through my hair.
It is interesting to note that my naturally curly mop top does NOT take well to being stroked with standard issue rubber gloves.
When she got done, I basically looked like a chia pet.
The worst time, though, was a few years ago when I went to Vegas with my friend Martha. I got pulled out of line by yet another security checkpoint supervisor because I had somehow set off the weird body scan thing they use now.
“It was probably triggered by the metallic threading in your shirt,” she said.
I agreed as politely as possible and even managed NOT to make any sarcastic remarks because TSA officials aren’t exactly known for appreciating humor on the job. And even I am not stupid enough to antagonize a person who could sign me up for a body cavity search.
“That’s really sensitive equipment,” I said.
She nodded and was almost apologetic when she explained, “We still have to check.” And then she said we could go into a private booth, if I wanted.
Which I thought was weird—and a possible invitation to the aforementioned body cavity search-so I said “No, here’s fine.” And waited for her to get out the wand and hand scan me.
The woman sighed to indicate I clearly wasn’t understanding her. “Ma,am,” she said patiently. “We have to search the area that triggered the alarm.” And then, since I wasn’t picking up on her hints, she decided to just be blunt. “Ma’am, I have to touch your breasts,” she said.
And, because I frequently have an inappropriate reaction to awkward situations, I started cracking up. “Oh,” I laughed. “I see…well, go ahead.”
“We can,” she reminded me “go to a private booth.”
I almost said “Why? So we can make out a little first?” But I stopped myself just in time and shook my head and said, “No, that’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I said raising my arms. And then, because I can only suppress my sarcastic side for so long and I am, apparently, stupid enough to antagonize a person who can sign me up for a body cavity search, I grinned and added, “Go ahead. Feel me up.”
But, dipsomaniac that I am, I kind of wish she had bought me a drink first.