Removing shoes, getting scanned and patted down doesn’t cut it anymore amid tightened airport security following the attempted terrorist attack on Christmas Day. Now, we’re being told to “hold it” during the last hour of flight, and the flying public is understandably pissed off.

While there are plenty of green remedies for bladder infections, there is little to placate the anger and stress resulting from the ridiculously long lines and humiliating security steps all resulting from the human factor: the government and airport employees did not do their job to keep a potential bomber off of a commercial plane.

This, despite the fact the would-be bomber paid cash for his ticket, had no luggage, and was reported dangerous by his own father, a prominent Nigerian banker. Sure, we can sit still for an hour, but not for months to come when we are forced to pay the price of incompetence.

Use of restrooms is a health and human rights issue. My bladder hurts just thinking about it. It’s bad enough we can’t use the toilets in most stores where we shop and spend money, let alone on an airplane where we’re trapped. No Starbucks down the street or other place to go, instead.

Referred to as a “smokescreen” by CBS News, the tightened security restrictions are seen as a knee-jerk reaction to the attempted attack on Friday. Nigerian suspect, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, was  flying from Nigeria to Amsterdam and then the U.S. when he tried to ignite the highly explosive PETN substance he had hidden in a soft plastic container on his person as the Northwest Airlines prepared to land in Detroit.

Passengers arriving on international flights were treated like naughty children, ordered to stay put in their seats during the last hour and not use blankets to cover their laps or their babies. They had to refrain from opening overhead bins to get their stuff and keep their hands in clear view.

CBS Travel Correspondent Peter Greenberg argues the one-hour flight rules are merely a bad camouflage attempt for not dealing with the real issues of how the guy cleared security in Nigeria and twice in Amsterdam, and was still able to board the airliner.

“The real problem here is that, tomorrow, if someone tried to detonate a bomb on a plane and right before he detonated it, he sang, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) would issue a rule tomorrow saying no singing on a plane.”

Therefore, if someone roots through their carry bags or socks or steps into the bathroom before trying to explode a plane, we the passengers should not be allowed to do those things because it is now deemed a security risk. Passengers are sounding off about the measures, including letters in the L.A. Times that argue Americans are tired of paying the price of failed screening and lapses in human intelligence.

“We are so inept that instead of proactively listing people like Abdulmutallab on no-fly lists, we must torture the traveling public by denying them the use of the restroom,” wrote William Josephs of Encino, Calif. “During recent years, I have given up flying almost entirely, especially since the nonsense with the shoes began. Liquids were next, and now, woe be unto the poor individual suffering from gastric distress on any descending airplane.”

Another letter said it is ironic that we are told to stay seated to keep the plane safe, while “in every flight since 9/11 it is the passengers, up and wandering about the cabin, who have provided the only effective defense against terrorism. It is clear that there is only one requirement for joining the management team at the TSA: You must have first failed an IQ test.”

Images: Los Angeles Times, CNN

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Perhaps it’s the fact the yard is covered with green grass, which is a water no-no in my world, yet a feature imposed by our homeowner association regulations. How we’d love to replace it with artichokes and succulents.

Maybe it’s because my garage is in the back of the house and leads to the backdoor entrance. That sure makes it convenient for unloading backpacks and groceries.

I suppose both of these excuses keep me from perching on the brick steps out front, except once in a blue moon, like on the magical night of Halloween, when hundreds of candy-crazed strangers travel to our “safe” suburban neighborhood to trick-or-treat up and down the tree-lined streets.

Yes, my front yard has practically become a stranger to me, nearly a decade after the baby-rearing years when my girls ran wild with the Bernsteins, the Murphys and the Ritters, the sidewalks their playgrounds for colorful chalk graffiti and clunky, three-wheel vehicles.

It’s kind of eerie how people don’t venture out front anymore.

The children in those other families have gone off to college. They’re the same children that showed up at my front door when my first daughter was born, asking “Can we see the baby, Mrs. Bradley?” Before going away, they had graduated from a variety of private schools in the city. When I was growing up, every kid on my block went to the same public school.

Our pediatrician, who lives in the hood, came over when both daughters were born and delivered hand-knit sweaters she had made for them in her spare time. We no longer go to her house for annual neighborhood Christmas parties. We just see her face when the girls contract a bug, break an arm or crush a finger in a door.

Sure, once in a while, I park at the curb or a soccer mom picks the girls up out front, and I wave to Mrs. Bernstein across the street. But on most days, I shuttle them through the back.

Once inside the back door, my daughters quickly become shut-ins, burdened with hours of homework, entertained after with hours of FarmVille or shows like NCIS. When I was growing up, everyone ran out front after homework, playing ball in the street, climbing trees and doing cartwheels or just shooting the breeze on the curb.

What has changed for me and my family?

Is it having personal computers that lure us into a false sense of “community connection” that actually keeps us from having a real one in our very own neighborhoods? Is it the security issue which gives parents a false sense of panic over children being abducted on their lawns by a stranger? Calming that hysteria is the subject of the eye-opening book, Free Range Kids.

I know it’s not just a city thing because last Friday night, on our way to a friend’s home for dinner, we drove down a thoroughly urban street where parents with toddlers were hanging out on their stoop, the children playing and the dad pouring his wife a glass of red wine.

I felt envious. Here I live in one of the most coveted neighborhoods of San Francisco, and I’m lacking all that I truly desire on a Friday evening: the family outside taking in the sunset, sipping organic wine, moving to the rhythm of a glider, and waving hello to other families doing the same. I guess you could say I need to move to the country. But, then again, think of that couple on their stoop on Divisadero Street.

The concept of the country can and should always be in our minds. It is that concept that keeps neighbor connected with neighbor, every night, not just that one October night when we venture out to the stoop.

This is the latest entry in Luanne Bradley’s column, Life in the Green Lane.

Images: tomask, Luanne Bradley

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