The Zoo over Ambuscade Street

I would just like to note that it's December 9, and I'm still prancing about my yard in sandals and short sleeved shirts. In Northern Virginia. I so win this year.

It should be no real secret that I bear no great love for the organization known as TSA. None. I've been singled out for "special terrorist searches" far too many times, I can no longer cross stitch on airplanes, and they're worthless as far as "protecting us from terrorists" goes.

They searched my checked bags both to and from San Diego - no real shock there. However, one of the new additions to my luggage on the return trip was a bag of bath salts (oh so nice bath salts). They're stored in a brown, plastic-lined paper bag with wires at the top so you can fold it down and salts don't get all over your luggage. When they searched my bags (no real surprise, I had some wire candleholders and other metal objects that would have looked exceedingly strange under x-ray), they also felt compelled to search...the bag of bath salts. And spill them all over my luggage in the process.

I'm a bit bitter. Is nothing sacred? Can they not leave a girl's bath salts alone? This is probably my punishment for making one too many jokes in bad taste about my *cough* heritage pre-9/11.