Call Security! Please!

I'm flying Tuesday, so I'm getting ready for what I assume will be a high level of pre-holiday security. My three ounce tube of toothpaste, my mini shampoo, my assortment of lip glosses -- they're all in a drawer, ready to be placed in the one gallon plastic bag I will no doubt forget to remove from my carry-on when I'm busy taking off my shoes and my belt and my watch and putting my laptop in its own bin. And I'm considering a bikini wax just in case I get thrown into the full body scanner or selected for the titillating pat down by the lesbian TSA agent. I wouldn't want to offend.

Ah, if only they decided to use volunteer firemen for the airport security detail. I'd even wash my hair and put on a little makeup. Last week, I was being wooed on a cyber dating site by Chicago cop (obviously not the Jewish site). He really got my attention when he told me one of his best buddies is a fireman up in my neck of the woods. Well, I could already smell the wood burning in my head, devising a plan to meet the hunky cop for the sole purpose of getting an introduction to the guy who could be the one to hose me down. (Don't ask -- I have no idea what the heck I meant by that remark.)

Not that the hunky cop was anything to sneeze at. He appeared to be in great shape, and there is something to be said for a guy who would probably not run you over trying to escape an intruder in the house and might even kill the guy with his bare hands for you. Ha, talk about a fantasy. The guy also mentioned all the time he spends with his kids, who are still on the youngish side. Now there's definitely something sexy about a manly man taking care of kids (my husband used to claim the best way to get picked up in a bar was to bring a baby with you; even if it's not yours). Puppies work too. But let's face it, when you're fifty-one years old and you've already got two out of the house and one who will sprint out the door in three and a half years, the last thing you want or need in your life is someone else's little brats, no matter how big the guy's biceps are. Sexy as the whole caretaking thing might be, I gotta say -- send the kids to mom. So what if she's in rehab -- a couple of thirty day stints and she'll be good as new.

Even my dreamboat fireman would have a tough time convincing me to take on extra offspring. My demands on fantasy man would be pretty extensive, and I'm not sure how healthy it would be for the kids' psyches to have to watch their dad set off the smoke detectors every night, spread ashy makeup all over my face, and carry me out of the house to safety, my head thrown back and my hair sweeping the sidewalk as his concerned eyes gaze at me lovingly. Especially when the kids believe he's left them inside to burn. And of course they'd blame me, the evil stepmother. Who needs that crap?

Yep, children should just be seen and not heard, and, preferably, in a bar or someone else's house. If my fireman ends up having kids in his truck, I'm just going to have to fly solo. But there's no reason to stop hoping a dreamy and kidless one will be waiting for me at airport security, and I will be waxed and ready.