Dick Move, Coat Check People.

Last month, Rand and I flew to Boise for the weekend to visit some friends, and ended up attending their daughter’s school fundraiser with them.

I know. Glamorous, right?  I got to hobnob with Idaho’s elite and get outbid on art created by 6-year-olds. In all fairness, the event was lovely (Ballgowns. Tuxedos. IDAHO. Do not ask more of life.) and when we left, we found that whoever was working coat check had placed little tubes of expensive hand cream everyone’s pockets. They smelled wonderful and looked like something you’d find in the regular-priced section of Anthropologie (which is literally the fanciest place I can think of). I realized they were TSA-compliant (less than 3oz) and they’d easily fit in my toiletry bag, so I figured I’d take them home with me.

Damn it. I just realized that I now can't re-gift these to any of my friends who read the blog. Poop.

Of course, I’d left my massive purse at coat check as well, but I didn’t think to look through it to see if anyone had slipped anything in there. I mean, why would they? Besides, my purse had been with my coat, and a lady only has so much lotion she can put on her skin before she gets the hose again.

When we got to the airport to head back to Seattle, Rand handed me my boarding pass, which I promptly misplaced (this a trait I inherited from my mother. She can literally lose something before you are done telling her the significance of whatever it is and why she shouldn’t lose it). I frantically began searching through my purse, and there, at the bottom of my huge satchel, I felt something.

“What the fuh …?”

It was a huge tube of lotion. Like, HUGE. Roughly twice the size of the other two that had been nestled in our coat pockets, and literally as BIG AS MY TOOTHPASTE:

The tube on the bottom is 4.7 oz, so I'm guessing the lotion is, oh, I'd know ... WAY OVER THE TSA LIMIT.

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That quarter is there not for scale, but rather because I like to show off my wealth.

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Now, obviously the folks at coat check had no idea that we were going to take a flight the very next day, and it was a lovely gesture to give us such a nice gift, but still. It seems like if you are going to start sneaking things into purses, you might want to give folks fair warning (Like, “There’s a surprise in your bag from us!” But you know, less sexual and creepy sounding). After all, my purse is roughly the size of a couch cushion. I can’t find things that I put in there, much less what someone else stashed without my knowledge.

I stood, just on the other side of airport security, somewhat freaked out. If I hadn’t lost my boarding pass (which I found, thankfully) and hadn’t rummaged into my purse, and hadn’t landed upon the huge tube of lotion, I might have found myself in a huge mess.

“Ma’am, is this hand cream yours?”

“What? No. I’ve never seen that before in my life.”

“It was in your bag.”

“It was what? Oh, yeah! I left my purse unattended last night. Someone must have put it in there without my knowledge or consent.”

At which point, an ill-tempered TSA agent would have treated me to a  a strip search and possibly a colonoscopy.

I know that the people at the event meant well. I know it was a nice gesture. And I truly love fancy hand creams and sweet smelling sundries (plus, dude, they’re pretty damn pricey). But still, Dick Move, Coat Check People. I don’t care how expensive health care is in this country. My next pelvic exam is coming from my doctor, and NOT from some underpaid agent working the security line.