Beat

That, I am.

Being in one place for no more than 24 hours -- with errands geographically distanced, and requiring important and prompt decision-making -- before flying of to the next, only to be greeted with a whole new set of errands, which might I add, demand what seems like unending time, is taking its toll on me.

End result is my being totally spastic. And by that I mean not having the sense to check in hand-luggage full of new toiletries, which the morons at the departure gate were all too ready to dispose of.

I call them morons not because they cannot exercise discretion to see clear as day that my very expensive facial and hair products are explicitly not the ingredients to making a weapon of mass destruction. I am not calling them morons either -- though they are that and more -- because their backs stiffened as my bag went through the x-ray machine and they pounced, I kid you not, way too excitedly on it, shouting: "Bottles! Bottles! YOU! Your bag?" Because naturally, the entire lounge need be aware that this is how a terrorist disguises herself as some common passenger with the brain size of a pea to try and smuggle liquid onto the plane right in front of their noses.

They aren't even being bestowed morons for wanting deliberately, I swear, to make you feel as though you are being purposely uncooperative and highly secretive, never mind that I am taking everything I think they may remotely want to inspect, out of the bag for them. I'm not calling them morons because they feel the need to have two pairs of hands digging intrusively into my puny little hand-carry like hunting dogs after game in a rabbit hole, and hold up triumphantly a small giftwrapped box, with which one exclaims: "Liquid! Liquid!"
I correct them: "No. It's a bar of soap."
Moron #1 shakes the box vigourously while Moron #2 looks on. It makes some noise. They look at each other. "Liquid!"
Me: "No. It's not."
Moron #1 and #2 stare perplexly at box with a look that must indicate a combination of their putting on their superhuman powers of x-ray vision, coupled with their supreme stupidity. They continue looking suspicious. "Liquid?"
Me: "NO! IT IS A BOX WITH SOAP IN IT. THERE IS NO LIQUID IN THE BOX!"

They put the box back into my bag looking very cheated, and proceed to categorically look over each bottle like my shampoo and conditional and saline come in the most exotic, never before seen packaging. Each bottle is turned over and over, and I half expect some announcement for a new discovery which will benefit the human race at large to be made any second. Finally, I am informed, in tones laced with infinite grace and mercy, that I may keep my perfume, but that everything else will have to be binned because they exceed the allocated weight allowance for liquid brought onboard. While saying this, the morons keep eyeing the bin behind them. The lid is held down by a heavy metal arm and the bin kept, of course, under lock and key. Who knows what biomedical waste some passenger might accidentally chance upon otherwise?

By this point I am livid with their wanting to dispose of my things, and I propose I go promptly back and check my entire bag in.

And what response do I get?

Well, they don't know for certain that I can do that, but they don't know for sure either that I can't. They just think I mightn't. Obviously, they don't care for me to try.

I refuse to give in and stare squarely at them. They refuse to budge.

Said conversation repeats itself way too many times for anyone of average intelligence to have patience for. These officers here must be a special breed.

I make known with no uncertain terms how ridiculous I think they are, furious at their execution of matters probably more than anything.

Moron #1, gleam in eye, and eagerness plastered all over his slimy face: "So I throw ah?"
I glare at him.
Moron: "I throw away?" That eye glints.

I leave my shiny, new, expensive bottles of product on the bench, snatch my bag off the counter in a huff, and storm off without a word. Ok, maybe I gave them one last good glare, too.
If I didn't, and opened my mouth, I would definitely be shouting that: "YOU AREN'T EXACTLY GIVING ME A CHOICE YOU DIMWIT, WHY ASK?"

Don't get me started on what happened onboard.

If I sleep until the sun sets today, I am going to do it without a hint of remorse.