I have a confession to make to you, our loyal readers - I use Lancôme face powder. Now if you're wondering what to do with that profound bit of news, rest assured you're not the only one. In fact, the only people who seem to find this of importance are the American Homeland Security or whatever the security gurus are calling themselves these days.
And how, you may ask, do I know this? Well, gentle readers, the tale goes like this.
I recently took a trip to Las Vegas, purely for recreational reasons. Nothing of spectacular interest happened on the trip, unless losing at penny slots is now a federal offence.
But apparently something about my innocent little khaki-and-black suitcase set off alarm bells with the Neanderthals who work the Las Vegas airport. Because when I got home and proceeded to unload my over-packed bag, I noticed a couple of things - first of all, two holes in my almost new suitcase. And while they're not large, they did spur a couple of not-so-nice words to leave my unhappy mouth.
The next thing I noticed was the contents of the bag appeared to have shifted - radically. A purchase I made was now out of its tissue paper and wrinkled beyond recognition, and there were filthy fingerprints on several items, not least of which was the innocent little Lancôme compact.
When I discovered this transgression, several things came immediately to mind. Perhaps the Americans do truly hate all things French, and my poor little compact should now be called freedom finishing powder, much like the pathetic freedom fries of a few years ago. Or maybe the critter who opened my bag just needed to powder his dainty gorilla-like nose. Or perhaps the boys in the backroom were bored and had a round of powder compact Frisbee. Who knows?
One thing I do know for sure is I needn't bother complaining. And how do I know this? A slip of paper enclosed in my violated suitcase informed me that the American government had given the perpetrator the power to do what they damn well wanted to with my - and, for that matter, anyone's - suitcase, so suck it up, sister.
The truly sad part of all this was the big debate I raged internally about whether to keep the defiled little navy blue compact. In the end, parsimony won out over the "ick" factor. So next time you're at the Las Vegas airport, watch carefully for a goon with a powdered nose, and guard your threatening make-up with your life.
