As you may have noticed I haven’t quite settled back into a blogging routine since coming home from my trip. A whirlwind of things to catch up on, a new treadmill to walk on (it feels like cheating, but at least I’m walking every day), etc. etc.

Anne wants to know: Did my snack stash for son and self to eat on the planes pass TSA inspection? Yes, they did, but not until after a conversation that went something like the following. Up front I will stipulate that I brought at least some of this on myself by trying to sneak a sealed bottled water through in my backpack. Naturally, as the bag came off the belt, the kid manning the inspection point (he must have been all of nineteen years old) said he was going to inspect it. He pulled out the water bottle, I feigned ignorance and an apologetic manner, all looked to be well … then a chick who had manned the X-ray monitor when the backpack went through nosed her way behind him and said, “There’s some other stuff you need to check out in there, too.”

Damn it. Now I was actually kind of puzzled–what else could be a problem in there?

Mr. Nineteen began pulling out the plastic bags I use to compartmentalize stuff inside my backpack. He dropped one on the belt–bang–and I looked up quickly. It was the bag containing the Bean’s Leapster. “Easy!” I protested. “That’s electronics.”

He wasn’t apologetic. My blood pressure rose.

Then he started pulling out the snacks–individual portions of sealed pudding, applesauce, and diced pears–and I felt the dread. My son is a grazer who eats more or less when he announces he’s hungry, and I don’t feel comfortable on the 2000-plus-mile airline trips we regularly take without a pack full of little snacks we can mix and match when he chooses. We typically have some dry stuff like goldfish and cashews and cookies, but I rely heavily on those little packs of pears and applesauce–and have never had a single problem taking them through security before. On several trips, in multiple airports, nobody has ever so much as looked in the bag.

Mr. Nineteen: “There’s some liquid in here.”

Me, instantly angry: “That’s not liquid, that’s food.”

Mr. Nineteen, with the pedantry that characterizes the petty powermonger everywhere: “Applesauce counts as a liquid.”

Me, gaping in disbelief: …

My mind immediately jumps ahead to the ounces limit. I’ve never had to deal with it before–I simply don’t take liquid in carryons, aside from when I’m feeling criminal and thirsty and try to get the water through. I thought the limit was four ounces, so I stared at him belligerently.

Me: “That’s less than four ounces–” [reaching for the applesauce to check its amount on the label.]

Mr. Nineteen, jerking the applesauce out of my reach: “PLEASE don’t touch the items in the inspection area.”

Blood pressure soaring. Me, decidedly snapping now: “It’s MY STUFF. THIS IS RIDICULOUS. It’s under four ounces.”

Mr. Nineteen, smugly: “It’s three-point-eight.”

Me: …

Mr. Nineteen: “The limit is three-point-four.”

I’m screwed now and I know it. That doesn’t halt the belligerence. Now I just want him to be done, quickly, and get his disgusting mitts off MY STUFF.

Me: “A little consistency would be nice. They didn’t stop me for this stuff on the way out. There’s liquid in the pears too, so if you’re going to throw it all out let’s get on with it–” [side trip to recover straying four-year-old.]

Mr. Nineteen, impassively picking up a pudding and beginning to discourse on it: “I think this might be over the limit too.”

Me, staring incredulously, as any moroncretin can see the containers are roughly the same size: “But you don’t know.”

Mr. Nineteen: “Since it’s not printed on the label, I have to use my judgment.”

Me: . o O (Does your vaunted judgment enable you to process the idea that these items are factory sealed for the eating pleasure of a four-year-old, that I currently am in possession of a four-year-old, things of this nature?)

Me: “Fine, if you’re going to throw them away, you’d better get the pears, too, they’re packed in liquid, let’s get on with this–” [reaching for the pears.]

Mr. Nineteen, practically having a conniption: “PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE ITEMS IN THE INSPECTION AREA.”

Me, completely snapped off at the base: “IT’S MY STUFF. THIS IS GETTING OUT OF HAND, DON’T YOU THINK?”

(Bear in mind not many of the words I actually said to him bore any relation to the words I was thinking inside my head.)

Mr. Nineteen: “SUPERVISOR.”

Supervisor, a laid-back middle-aged guy, ambled over. Mr. Nineteen fussily began to show him the snacks in turn. Supervisor passed them all with a wave of his hand. “Sure, she’s got the little guy there. Sure, those are fine. Yeah, she can take those.”

Me, attempting to gather up my things from the dorkwad I seriously want to throw to the floor at this point (and I could’ve done it, too, but then somebody would’ve had to bail me out of jail and my friend in that city was at work and who would’ve looked after four-year-old?…): “Thank you. No, I’ll do this. I’ll put them back in. GIVE THEM TO ME [he didn’t]. Sorry for the unpleasantness [I wasn’t] but I’ve never had a problem before. And I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch things [nor do I care, IT’S MY STUFF, ASSHOLES] because I’VE NEVER BEEN INSPECTED BEFORE [slight untruth; I’ve never been harangued over contraband before but I have had the bag opened and its contents rifled].”

Mr. Nineteen, attempting to make it seem as though he hadn’t called over Supervisor just to get me in more trouble: “I just called him over to see if these snacks could go through.” Suuure you did, punk. You were bound and determined to do everything in your power to let me keep my son’s food, weren’t you? Riiiight, sport, keep telling yourself that. I doubt Supervisor was fooled either.

You know, I actually do feel guilty when I show them my temper, because I know they’re doing their jobs. Many of them do it in the most offensive way possible, however, and it just makes me boil. How hard is it, really, to say the following words: “Sorry, ma’am, it’s one of the rules that you’re not to touch this stuff when we have it out for inspection; can you tell me what you’re trying to show me?”

A little tact. And did I mention the consistency? Multiple airports, no problem. This day, because one X-ray chick got her panties in a wad, big problem. Either enforce the rules or don’t. Make me understand what is and is not okay for me to carry for my son to eat, before I leave home and my only option is to enrich the convenience stores around the gates. Sheesh.

I’m back from my trip, up early due to the time change, actually getting a few things done before 10 a.m., which is nice. Back with fresh grievances against the TSA (did you know that sealed, in-their-original-individually-sized-containers applesauce and chocolate pudding, aka my son’s food during all-day travel ordeals, are liquid and gel, respectively? I didn’t, despite having taken these items on numerous flights before without incident. I do now), back to the usual routine … just back.

Lileks says he doesn’t know anybody who can eat a box of saltines before they go bad. At Chez Anwyn, soup is consumed is vast quantities that mow through a box of saltines in far less than a month. Plus the fact that one of the Bean’s favorite dishes is egg salad on a cracker.

Anne’s daughter Lily wants for her spring break … to stay home. Well, I guess we’ll be doing the same thing since we just took a week’s vacation when it wasn’t actually spring break.

And Rachel Lucas (surprise, surprise, surPRISE!) hates “MommyBloggers.” You mean, like, telling the story about how when I viewed Sunny’s campaign video, my son requested repeated (and I do mean REPEATED) viewings of its predecessor, “Sunny Pesters Digger,” and then proceeded to act it out with me:

Son: “I’m Sunny. You’re Digger.”

Me: “Okay.”

Son: “I will bark at you, and you growl.”

Me: “Okay.”

Son: “Ruff. Ruff. I’m pestering you, Digger!!”

Me: “Growl.”

There you go, Rachel, that one’s on the house. MommyBlogging comes at a premium around here. Son sends his love … for Sunny and Digger.

J.K. Rowling sues publisher RDR Books and “feels betrayed” by Harry Potter Lexicon founder Steven Vander Ark because they intend to publish a print version of the same name. Seems Rowling was “accepting” of sites such as the HP Lexicon and others while they were thousands of dollars’ worth of excellent free marketing for her books but not so much now that they plan to publish a book that people will have to, you know, buy with money.

Rowling said she was especially irked that the site’s owner and the lexicon’s would-be publisher, RDR Books, continued to insist that her acceptance of free, fan-based Web sites justified the efforts.

“I am deeply troubled by the portrayal of my efforts to protect and preserve the copyrights I have been granted in the Harry Potter books,” she wrote in court papers filed Wednesday in a lawsuit she brought against the small Muskegon, Mich., publisher.

She said she intends to publish her own definitive Harry Potter encyclopedia.

“If RDR’s position is accepted, it will undoubtedly have a significant, negative impact on the freedoms enjoyed by genuine fans on the Internet,” she said. “Authors everywhere will be forced to protect their creations much more rigorously, which could mean denying well-meaning fans permission to pursue legitimate creative activities.”

Poppycock. Is there a copyright violation in the intended work, or is there not? If there is, then for sure there is a copyright violation in the web site, which therefore should have been shut down by legal force years ago. Something doesn’t comprise “legitimate creative activities” when free (and free marketing) on the web but amount to copyright violation only when there are royalties involved. That she would begin to object only when royalties were involved is only too human-nature obvious. And she has a somewhat overblown concept of authors’ rights if she expects to be able to trample what even she describes as “legitimate” work in the name of preventing outright copyright violation.

Is there a copyright violation? I don’t know (insert I Am Not a Lawyer boilerplate here). But on the surface it seems that if there is, then that standard would surely apply to sites like TheOneRing.net and the books I helped create based on that site. So what if Rowling plans to publish her own encyclopedia? Reference material can be copyrighted but surely not the right to create reference material. Suddenly half of academia would be out of business. Fiction utilizing the characters is different, but a publisher would have to be crazy to put any of that (mostly) swill into print for cash. And nobody really believes that upon publication of Rowling’s own encyclopedia, anybody would say “Oh, well, I already bought Vander Ark’s website in print form, so I don’t really need the definitive word from the author herself,” do they?

She added: “I find it devastating to contemplate the possibility of such a severe alteration of author-fan relations.”

Which is just a sentimental (or, in the British, treacly) way of saying “Our relations will be lovely so long as you do nothing that irritates me, whether it’s actually illegal or not.” Nice.

To the auction house with his “pretty cunning, don’tcha think?” hat, once again to benefit the Marine Corps-Law Enforcement Foundation. Adam Baldwin continues to part with his mementoes for a good cause. Good man.

Via Whedonesque.com.

Goodbye and best of luck, Bryan; hello and best of luck, Captain Ed.

“But most Americans can distinguish between the transience of policy failure and the permanence of the national ideal.”

And the rest of the article is a must-read (seriously, go read) but can be summarized like this:

“… and the Obamas can’t.”

And should he be elected, that is the truth that will be validated about the people who vote him and his socialism into office.

H/t Hot Air headlines.

…continues to prove his awesomeness by preparing to report for his National Guard call-up to be deployed to Iraq. I wish him effective commanders, efficient subordinates, and a safe return after work well done. Rachel blogs as though she has a spine of solid steel and I suspect she’ll need it all during this time. Strength and good cheer be yours, Rachel, and Godspeed, Rupert.

Taking the Bean to see his grandparents for a week or so. Be good.

Keep bringing the crazy, Michelle Obama. By the time you’re done you’ll have even Ann Coulter backing John McCain. As for the substance of your remarks, Ace pretty much speaks for me too, give or take a couple of details about balls. Also over at Ace’s, Jack M. with the prediction that will make me his devoted epic-poem slave should it prove true.

Remember the rant about my central post office (might I add, my annex post office in my grocery store is nothing but sweetness and light–they give my son cheerful and exciting stamps on his hand whenever I take him in! Nevermind that the ink is likely meant strictly for paper use and thus runs all over if he so much as waves his hand in the breeze or, God forbid, touches his shirt! Nevermind that, because we are speaking nice about the post office today, lest we be visited by More Wrath of the Post Office Deity)? In the two weeks following that rant, the following three things occurred:

**A package mailed to me on Tuesday, February 5, the same day as the rant, took two weeks to get here from St. Louis. Two weeks! And though the ship method was one of the less expensive ones, it still wasn’t cheap or anything like it.

**A birthday card mailed to my mother three days before her birthday, containing cash in a denomination I wouldn’t normally send through the mail, took a week and a half to get to her. The cash was intact, though. I consider it kind of a warning shot across the bow (Straighten out your mouth or next time we’ll take your mother’s birthday money, unnerstand?).

**A credit card bill, mailed more or less a week before it was due, returned to me the day after it was due–sheared in half. I kid you not, it looked like somebody simply picked it up in both hands and r-i-p-p-e-d right down the middle. This abomination (but only the one half–invoice, check, and all) was placed into an outer envelope with a letter wrapped around in bland bureaucrese–“We are sorry for the damage to your mail … yadda yadda.” Next time we’ll burn the whole bill and you’ll never know it was lost until the late fee shows up on your credit account, got it?

And did I mention how much I used to enjoy the post office in my small, friendly hometown? They’re great, hardly any lines and helpful people eager to handle your package with the utmost in delicacy, even if they charge the same heinous rates as the big surly post office here–talking nice about the post office today, see?

All of which leads me to the Quote of the Day, from my friend Aughey who sent me the two-week package: “The shipping was ridiculous considering how long it took to get there. I think I could have strapped it on the back of a horse and slapped its butt and it would have gotten there sooner.”

Why the devil can’t they leave bad enough alone?

Maybe, if you cross your fingers, a ticket even more of us will have an even harder time voting for and may sick up a little if we do so. Thanks, haters!

Happy Valentine’s Day.