Beware of the little blonde! Her makeup is deadly.

Earlier this week, while rushing to make it to my temp job on time, I was stopped by NYPD for a random bag check. I've seen this on the subway platforms before: Puffed up, macho police officers standing behind a table, stopping people to check their bags for... drugs? Bombs? An inappropriate abundance of lip gloss? I don't know. All I care about is making sure they don't stop me so that I won't miss my train. Such would not be my luck on this sweaty early Summer day when the black long sleeved shirt and jeans I picked out that morning were all wrong for the humid heat. Was that what made them stop me? Long sleeves and jeans on a hot day? Did I look as if I might be concealing something in my sleeves? Or was it the heavy eyeliner I was wearing? Maybe I looked like an emo kid who might blow up the SoHo station. Or maybe it's just that I'm a cute little blonde with big boobs and the officers wanted to get their rocks off?

One of the reasons I hate traveling is because of the ridiculous security checks in airports. Whenever I'm in one of those lines, stripping off my coat, taking off my shoes, emptying my pockets into plastic bins, I feel like a crazy person. For one thing: Um, hi! COULD IT BE ANY MORE VIOLATING? I don't believe there is anyway to make "random" bag checks truly random. Unless they check every single bag, the person getting their bag checked will feel as if they are being discriminated against. At least, I feel discriminated against. It doesn't help that usually I'm being checked by a man and usually he fondles my most personal feminine items. The urge I have to rip the heads off of people who are sifting through my dirty underpants and tampons is primal, I tell you. Primal. One time, a male officer made me open my suitcase and then he dumped it out all over a table and sifted through my clothes, shaking out each item individually. He picked my dirty underpants out of the pile and waved them around in the air as if they were flags. "What are you doing?!?" I shrieked. "Protecting America from terrorism," he said. Last time I checked, terrorism wasn't living in my panties. Paris Hilton's panties? TOTALLY DIFFERENT STORY.

Police check points in the subway are no better. The minute that officer eyeballed me I had to remind myself to take deep breaths. A gloating smile and, "We need to check your bag, Miss," caused me to clench my fists and bite my tongue to keep from snatching my bag away and screaming, "GET YOUR FILTHY FINGERS OFF MY PURSE, YOU PIG." What would have happened if I'd refused to let him check my bag? Don't I have a constitutional right to be protected from unreasonable search and seizure? But I didn't say anything. I noticed the last person checked, a pretty woman collecting her purse from the table, noticed her perky figure and long blonde hair, and then I realized the officer was staring at my chest. And leering at me. I blinked through the red I started seeing and placed my bag on the table in front of him. 

"What is this all about?" I asked, trying not to raise my voice.

"We're doing random bag searches, checking for explosive materials. That's why I picked you. Because it's random." Sneered the twenty-something cop who looked like he'd spent the last five years eating all of his meals at Dunkin Donuts. 

"Really."

"Don't you know what 'random' means?" 

"No, gee! Why don't you tell me, officer?"

Officer Cliché frowned. At least he understood sarcasm. "We're protecting the public from terrorism." 

"Terrorism."

"Yeah, terrorism. Ever hear of 9-11?"

There is a panic button at work so that if I ever have a gun in my face I can call for help. The one time I hit that button it took NYPD an hour and half to respond. AN HOUR AND A HALF. I'm glad to know that if I ever have a gun in my face the NYPD will not help me, but instead, they will spend their days checking the purses of cute girls in subway stations. After all, you never know what might be hiding amongst the lip gloss and mascara. Tampons can be very dangerous.