Not one hour after I'd dropped my parents and my grandmother at the airport to catch their flight to Tel Aviv, my mother called me from her cellphone. Before I answered I made a silent bet with myself -- either she was bored, or someone's passport had been left in the kitchen drawer.
Turns out it was neither: Once the reluctant subject (perpetrator) of so many you-just-can't-make-this-stuff-up tales, my mother has evolved into a devoted field reporter, phoning me without delay to describe every blogworthy run-in with store clerks, family members and low-ranking security officials.
"You're gonna love this one," she chuckled. "Take notes."
Apparently, as my family were inching through the airport security check, the inspectors repeated their mantra - "no liquids, no gels, no aerosols" - in the vain hope that some amongst the herd would take initiative and spare them a bit of work and time.
"We were getting closer and closer to the front of the line, and as we were taking off our shoes Grandma started looking a little panicky," Mom said. "Daddy noticed too. So we asked her what in the world was wrong."
"Dey said no aerosols," said Grandma in a worried tone. "I don't know vhat to do. I hev a few in my bag."
"A few? We're only going for a week. It's not even the humid season yet! Just how much hairspray did you think you would need?"
She spat back, "I'm vorried about how I'm goink to valk around all day; who gives a crep about my hair?"
And for a moment the three of them stood there staring at each other, until the light bulb flashed above my mother's head.
"Oh, Ma..." she said through a relieved sigh, "It's fine. You're allowed to bring your Aerosoles on the plane."