TSA & The Fig Newton Incident

The Big Fig

My perpetually flabbergasted husband will confirm I’ve had more than my share of run-ins with TSA in airports from Cincinnati to Prague. Yet, I’ve never been arrested or even detained— so far.

The most innocent of these “Security Breaches” occurred in Cincinnati.

We were living in Ohio short term and would head back to Los Angeles as often as we could. But unlike the teeming masses at LAX, Cincinnati’s airport was usually half empty. Security lines were short, the agents were never in vein-popping “Robocop” mode (think Newark) and the gates were a hop skip and a jump away. Plenty of time to drop a mortgage payment at Starbucks and fly away. 

However, on one trip, after Bob sailed through security ahead of me I noticed that Tim and Tina TSA were sharing some Fig Newton cookies.  

No! Not this Newton!!!

“Oh. My. God. I LOVE FIG NEWTONS!” I shrieked loud enough for Tim and Tina to crouch into a wide stance with their hands white-knuckled on their guns. I was so excited I didn’t even notice I was about to get shot.

“Oh, my God! Fig Newtons! I can’t remember the last time I had a Fig Newton.  I LOVE FIG NEWTONS!”

They holstered their weapons realizing my outburst was merely a love fest over their indiscreet snack. (Yes, this airport is that stress free.) 

I see Bob in his sensible loafers racing toward the commotion as I calmly ask Tim and Tina, “Hey, you guys remember the Fig Newton commercial from the 70’s? With the funny, fat guy dressed like a green fig singing about Fig Newtons?”

“Oh, I remember that!” said Tim and Tina in unison.

That’s when I see Bob approaching security in a panic. “Marianne! Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Fine! Hang on, sweetie.” I said holding up a hand to him.  “Okay, here goes!”and I began to sing.

“Chewy, ooey, rich and gooey inside.  Golden, flaky, tender cakey outside. Wrap the inside in the outside - Is it good? Darn Tootin’! Do the Big Fig Newton! One more time! The BIG FIG NEWTONNNNN!”

Tim and Tina clapped and offered me their last cookie. I uttered “thanks”  as Bob grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the gates.

“Ha, Bob! That was so much fun, right?! Wanna sing it while I eat my Newton?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

So with a mouth full of my chewy, ooey, rich and gooey prize I sang it for the whole airport to hear.

Was it good? Darn tootin!

Why Steve Is Six Inches Short of a Full Sub

This is Steve...

My husband and I moved cross country this past spring which required a crew of beefy, tireless guys packing, hoisting and dismantling our house for three days.  I believe guys who bust their asses that hard deserve at least lunch on us.

Sandwich joints seem the same to me so I decided to order from the one with the funny commercials—let’s call them “Freaky Fast Frank’s.” From the minute I picked up the phone to order, let’s say, things got “freaky”…fast.

“Freaky Fast Frank’s, where everything is uh, delicious, and, uh, freaky fast, this is Steve.”

“Hi, Steve. I’d like to place an order to go.”

“This is Steve. May I take your order?"

“Yeah, uh, yes. I’d like three Lola Loves Turkey, two Cousin Vinnie’s, one Eat Your Veggies and two Tasty Tunas plus chips, pickles…

“Okay, three Lola Loves Turkey…what else?”

I could see this was not going to be freaky fast. “Okay, two Cousin Vinnies…one with no tomatoes.”

“Two. Cousin. Vinnies. No tomatoes.”

“Just one with no tomatoes. One Eat Your Veggies.”

“Just one no tomatoes. Anything else?”

“Yes, One Eat Your Veggies with hot peppers, please.”

“But no tomatoes?”

“No, not on the Veggie… I want tomatoes on the Veggie. No tomatoes on one Cousin Vinny.”

I slowed down to Steve’s pace for the rest as I repeated, “Two. Tasty. Tunas. Chips. And. Pickles. Eight large… iced… teas. By the way, I was trying to order online and I didn’t see iced tea on the menu. I assume you have iced tea?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I’ve never ordered online before.”

Of course, he hadn’t. This guy spent a lot of his time in general offline. 

“Okay that’ll be $82.60 and it’ll be ready in 10 minutes.”  

The minute I hung up I realized I was a sandwich short (the same could be said for Steve). So I called back.

“Freaky Fast Frank’s, where everything is uh, delicious, and, uh, freaky. This is Steve. May I take your order?”

“Hi,  I just ordered a minute ago and I need to add another sandwich.”

“What’s the name?”

“Oh, I didn’t give you one…but I just ordered 8 sandwiches.”

“What’s your address?”

“I didn’t give you one. We’re picking it up.”

Dead silence. 

“It was about an $80 order and I just placed it. I need to add another Lola Loves Turkey with chips.”

I just want some sandwiches!!!

“What was the name?”

“I. Didn’t. Give. You. One.”

“Um.”  

After a long pause, I realized I’d been put on hold. A different voice came back on the line.

“Hi, this is Rick. I’m the Manager. Can I help you?”

I told him I just wanted to add a sandwich to my order.

“Okay, what’s the name?” he asked. 

“I didn’t give you a name or, an address. Look the order was a minute ago for about eighty bucks. Just add a Lola Loves Turkey with chips. That’s it. One more sandwich, one more bag of chips and one more iced-tea.”

More silence. 

“Okay, got it. Steve! Did you find the order?” And with that, he hung up.

I went to pick up the order and things got even freaky-funnier.

Sure enough, Steve was at the register and he produced a box with the sandwiches and chips. “That’ll be $10.68.”

“$10.68? Are you sure? For nine sandwiches and nine iced-teas?” I looked around for a prank camera.

The manager overheard this and came careening toward the counter hip bumping Steve out of his way. “I’m sorry, ma'am. There appears to be a mixup with your order. The correct amount is $90.42 with the added sandwich and drink.”

With that Steve was back at the helm. “Uh, anything else?”

“Oh, yeah, where are our iced-tea cups?” I asked.

Steve blinked, “Um, I don’t think we have iced tea.”

I pointed to the two gigantic urns of tea at the beverage station. “Yes, you do.  Oh, and can I have a box for the drinks?”

“We don’t have boxes” Steve replied. 

I cleared my throat and pointed to the one I was holding with all the sandwiches.

Steve managed to find another box and I headed home. 

The movers thanked us for lunch and dove into their sandwiches.  That's when I heard one of them say after a big bite of his "Eat Your Veggies" sandwich, "Wow, that's weird! A veggie sandwich with no tomatoes."

Freaky. 

Why Can't I See My Potato?

I just got my insurance physical to reassure those soulless number-crunching bastards that I don’t have any pesky pre-existing conditions—like a heartbeat or occasional gas…or God forbid, BOTH. 

After every check-up, I hear another rusty nail being hammered into my coffin of denial drowning out my shouts of, “Back off, Reaper Dude! I’m not that old yet!”

During my exam, the 12-year-old Nurse Practitioner (a.k.a. Dr. Quinn, Medicine Child) took my blood pressure and babbled on about prescribing “her new fave BP med” to help with the one I’m already taking.

Great.  Please add another pill to the ones currently bursting out of my daily Pill Minder.  BTW, these are meds I can only recognize by their varied geometric shapes and pastel colors…kind of like a grown-up version of “Garanimals… Garani-Pills!

Okay, now Cindy-Lou-Who-Nurse-Practioner is gazing into my left ear with that ear-thing-a-ma-jig. I breathed a much-needed sigh of relief.  No one has ever found anything wrong using that ear-thing-a-ma-jig.

I was silently cursing my blood pressure update when I heard her Tinker-Bell-Just-Turned-30 voice, “Hmmm… there seems to be something in your ear.” 

Wait. Didn’t she just read that last paragraph?

“Something in my ear…like what? An earworm?  Please just tell me it’s not “ABBA!”

BTW, in my will I have a Do Not Resuscitate, (DNR) ) in case any ABBA song was to lodge itself in my ears.  I'll pull the plug myself if I hear even the opening notes of “Mamma Mia.”

“Nope. Not an earworm,” said the adorable toddler wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope.

“A growth? No way. What in God’s name ever grows in anyone’s ear except hairballs and wax?  Oh! Oh, wait!  I bet it’s one of my wax earplugs—thank you snoring husband. I could only find one this morning when I made the bed. I looked everywhere.  Sometimes I find them stuck in my hair. Gross, right?”

“Sorry. It’s a growth, I’m totally sure. I’m going to refer you to an ENT doc. And, I totally suggest you get a hearing test while you’re there.”

I totally called the ENT for an appointment on my way to my annual eye exam.

  

I read the eye chart at 20-20—thank you, Lasik.  But, when she peered into my eyes with her eye thing-a-ma-jig she had some concerns.

“The optic nerves can get larger with age.” 

Fuck.

I made an appointment for a glaucoma test and headed off to meet my husband for dinner.

I regaled him with the various enlarged things growing inside me as he flagged the waiter over to order drinks.

“Sweetie, I’m sure you’re overreacting.”

“What?” I said a bit too loudly.  “Speak up. I have a growth in my ear.”

I fished my reading glasses out of my purse and perused the menu.

“To hell with my high cholesterol, I’m ordering a steak medium rare with creamed spinach and a baked potato. You only die once,” I joked trying to recover my aging sense of humor.

I put away my glasses as the waiter arrived with our dinners. 

Bob offered a toast, “May this dinner be just what the doctor ordered! To your health, sweetie.”

Clink. Clink.

I grabbed my knife and fork to dig in.  That’s when I realized something was not quite right.

“Bob! Bob! I can’t see my potato. Why can’t I see my potato?”

“Marianne, it’s pretty hard to miss a baked potato.”

I picked up my plate and held it out in front of me.

“Do you see it?  Is it there?”

“Yes, Marianne.  It’s bigger than your steak.” 

“Are you sure?  Oh, wow. There it is! It’s huge. I’ll never finish it.”

He shook his head, "Are you, done? Can we eat now?” 

I sniffled back tears and retrieved my dinner.

“I’m sorry, Bob. I knew I couldn’t read my menu without my glasses but I… I never thought I’d need them to…to…read. My. Potato.”

With that, I quietly sobbed into my napkin, then dabbed my eyes and put my reading glasses back on.

It really was a lovely potato. 

Comedy Writer Seeks Job As A Funeral Attendant

Photo by Rhodi Alers de Lopez on Unsplash

While looking for work as a comedy writer, I registered with online job sites “Monster” and “Indeed.” 

The algorithms they use spit out jobs based on my keywords, “Comedy” & “Writer,” that are funnier than most anything I’ve written.

Here is a sampling of some jobs I’m considered qualified to do:

Cafeteria Food Service: As tempting as this one is I just can’t rock that hairnet. 

Low Voltage Technician: Perhaps this is a job requiring me to find fun ways to teach kids why they shouldn’t put a fork in the toaster?

Dermatologist:  Why not? I never went to medical school but I could write funny Excema prescriptions. “Apply cream on the affected area twice daily while patting your head & rubbing your stomach. It won’t cure your rash but it will take your mind off of it for a few minutes.” 

US Navy Surface Warfare Officer:  Something tells me these folks found out I dated a Navy Midshipman in the ’70s.  That certainly qualifies me for this job since I was in high school, he was in college, and I wouldn’t let him go below the surface. Guess it was kinda like warfare. 

However, the winner in future job suggestions came from the “Ohio Means Jobs” career assessment questionnaire. According to my answers, I’d make a great “Funeral Attendant.” 

I generally don’t find funerals funny. But I was morbidly curious why I qualify to be a Funeral Attendant. I assumed this job wasn’t for someone who merely attended funerals—like a seat filler at the Emmys. 

I found out that Funeral Attendants are responsible for placing the casket in its proper place; arranging floral offerings or lights around the casket; directing or escorting mourners; closing the casket, and storing funeral equipment.

Nothing about this job involves comedy... or, does it?

Perhaps I could tell jokes about a wailing Italian Grandma trying to climb into Grandpa's casket. Although this might sound like a macabre scene from "The Godfather,"  I actually witnessed this at age nine at my own Grandpa's funeral.   Hmm, "tragedy plus time equals comedy?"  Would have worked in "Moonstruck."

Okay, here's a making funerals funny option! How about me playing "Truth or Dare" with the pallbearers?  TRUTH:  Did you ever get a cramp and drop a casket?"  DARE:  Did you ever think about... (Okay, let's skip this one.)

Finally, how about me as Funeral Attendant who pulls my master "Martha Stewart" impression and loudly berates the Funeral Director for serving stale cookies and lukewarm coffee to the bereaved?  Can't you just hear her screaming, "If this person weren't dead they would be after choking on these expired Chips Ahoy! Or they would have died from the shits after drinking this Folgers crap coffee you're serving. NOT a GOOD THING!"

I'm pretty sure none of the above is going to happen--but you never know.  

Apparently, the only real criteria to be a Funeral Attendant is, ironically, being a warm body.  

Maybe it’s time to reconsider that hair net.  

ID 51445354 © Cory Thoman | Dreamstime.com