Our checked luggage was chosen for TSA inspection on our return flight. Since I unpacked three days after coming home, previously paying no attention to bright orange stickers on the baggage tags, I just found out. They left notes inside the bags, too, essentially saying: We went through your stuff. Sorry, it may look messed up. Oh, if you locked it, we may have busted the locks, but you shouldn't have locked it in the first place.

Lucky for national security, I never lock my suitcase. Just one jetlagged moment losing the key or forgetting the code and I'd have to unleash a gorilla to open it, like an old American Tourister commercial. I'd rather see my underwear scattered on the baggage carousel.

Knowing someone has gone through your stuff when you weren't around is a curious feeling, but I have no compunction about agents seeing my underwear. A few pairs may be unwashed, but that's why they wear gloves. Mine are way less interesting than Sarah Paige's, anyway.

Some people (not including thonged girls or boxered boys) still believe underwear is off-limits for random observation, its intimacy sacrosanct. Burglars do not share this reverence. The underwear drawer is the first place they look, yet people persist hiding valuables there.

Having little of value in my suitcases, I could still answer a few questions the TSA agents may have, had they provided explanation opportunity like Customs does. Even anticipating unusual holiday gift items, these questions probably began with "why on earth" or "what the hell."

On a flight from Phoenix to Denver, the international converter/adapter kit inside its drawstring bag probably set off warning bells. At first glance, I thought someone planted a timing device in my suitcase, too. Rather than forgetting it from a more exotic trip, like Will Patterson's lubricant in his carry-on, the answer is: My dad loves yard sales.

To answer why anyone would travel with microwave popcorn packages between two cities fully equipped with grocery stores and Wal-Marts: It must be Trail's End Unbelievable Butter. After years of Cub Scout fundraising support, it is the only popcorn my youngest eats every time he watches a DVD. No, he never inhales the bag's buttery fumes, making him more likely to die of a trans-fat heart attack than respiratory disease.

As far as the twenty black t-shirts, they are not a paramilitary uniform. If you did any kind of internet research, you'd find a public explanation.

Despite having three boxes of sparkly paste jewelry obviously not signifying smuggling or cat burglary, I am also not a stripper with a cheap sugar daddy. With her permission, I pillaged my mother's junk jewelry collection.

I do not carry a cast iron skillet as a weapon resulting from years of Cartoon Network, nor intend breaking the backs of airport ramp men. I've already told you: My dad loves yard sales.

Now I have a question for security personnel: How many TSA agents does it take sitting on my suitcases to close them?