My Husband the Pot Head

A huge, heavy box arrived today, containing yet more evidence of my husband's mid-life crisis.

From the box came the four biggest pieces of cookware Calphalon makes, to add to David's already impressive collection. I suspect it took two UPS guys to get it to the front door. I can't lift half the skillets. (I think that's what you call them.)

In a dishrack on the counter, Dave has lovingly arranged eight tempered glass pot/pan lids vertically in descending size order, like some kind of gleaming musical instrument.

"This one was free," my born-again foodie hubby purred, straining to lift a silver saucepan large enough to easily accommodate a cocker spaniel.

"That's great, honey," I responded, guesstimating that the massive utensil might allow us to prepare two boxes of Hamburger Helper at the same time.

I don't dare ask how much he had to spend to get that freebie, but I suspect we are now Even Steven on the Broadway show tickets I purchased online, when I unflinchingly clicked the "best seats available" button.

Having little interest in cooking myself, I maintain that David was sent to me from Heaven above. I've made a mental note to clean out the side of the kitchen cupboard that I have stuffed with craft supplies since the kids were in diapers. The least I can do would be to help make room for these massive tools of culinary artistry. Maybe even some groceries.

My mom was right: the way to a man's heart really is by way of his stomach. Even if he's the one doing all the cooking.

Flying Is No Fun Anymore, Part 2

Last weekend, Airport Security left a bad taste in my mouth. Literally.

The TSA folks took my toothpaste. They also absconded with my beloved tube of rich and creamy Gold Bond Lotion, the magical substance that keeps my collagen-deprived skin from looking like oven-roasted crepe paper.

I had assumed since the items were not really liquids and both containers only held small amounts of product, they would pass muster. Apparently not. Only Barbie-sized bottles of potentially explosive liquids, creams, and gels are legit these days.

"What happens to these things?" I asked, relieved that I didn't bring my Elizabeth Arden miracle elixir that costs as much as a one-way plane ticket. "Can I come claim them later?" (These days, I need every drop of help I can get in the skin department.)

"Nope," the burly toothpaste gatekeeper murmured seriously. "We get rid of them. We don't even donate them to charity."

Well, of course not, I thought to myself. I mean, they're potentially dangerous, life-threatening items, right? Imagine the carnage if a big tube of toothpaste exploded on impact at the local night shelter. There could be all sorts of terror lurking inside that crumpled tube. Nitro glycerin. Nerve gas. An atom bomb. I certainly hope the rejected toiletries are handled carefully by a properly-trained HazMat team.

I was also deemed a problem traveler because the plastic bag holding my creamy contraband exceeded TSA plastic bag size regulations. Not wishing to be a felon, I worked to suppress a snappy comeback when I heard these words:

"Um, ma'am — your Baggie's too big."

What? I beg your pardon?

I must have missed the memo saying it had to be one quart sized. After some discussion, and some peering into my supersized Baggie to determine there was nothing else in it, (Duh!) I was allowed to pass.

Kate was the next problem child. She held up the snakey line of cranky 6 a.m. travelers for a good five minutes by befuddling the X-ray machine with her mystery shoes, new ballet flats which had some kind of hidden steel-lined sole that the machine couldn't see through. After a good bit of head scratching from several TSA employees, a mother's plea that the child could hardly visit New York City barefoot, and a consultation with a supervisor, we were finally let through.

Later, I saw Kate pull a 4-oz bottle of spray perfume from her purse. I guess they overlooked it, even though I'm pretty sure it's a flammable liquid violation.

And sadly, not useful as a mouthwash.