And no, not my boobies. Or my trap.
I had to move out of my house this weekend; thus kitty and I are trapped in my parents' lair for a few days. (Kitty isn't that fond of grandma and grandpa tastic. But she assures me that tunafish will help her cope.)
You might ask: Why did you have to move out of your house for the weekend? And I will grumble and launch into the tale. The house I'm living in isn't mine. It's my parents' second farm, and it's actually a hunting lodge. And every summer, some family comes and rents the house so they can all stay together for a family reunion. They're old people. Old people apparently do these things.
Anyway, I spent the better part of this week (and by "better part" I mean the "worst part, the part when I wasn't boozing by a campfire") getting ready for their arrival, packing my things, cleaning, putting my stuff away.
I wouldn't really care that much about putting my things away, but I was warned that they're very snoopy people. When they visited to see if they wanted to rent the place, they peeked in all the closets, opened drawers. "What's out in that barn? Is the wiring sound?" They actually wanted to see the barn and inspect the wiring. At some point, my mother told them to stfu and either rent the house or forget it. I suspect my mother used more delicate language than stfu. Regardless, this family has rented the house for many summers, and when I moved here, they had already reserved the house, and so I was scheduled to be homeless for a weekend. And to be put through the joy of having total strangers snoop through all my closets and drawers.
When my mother spoke to one of them on the phone, she delicately explained to the lady that I was living in the house, that I'd appreciate it if they would respect my privacy. The woman was silent.
My mother told me I'd best put everything away, lock the upstairs closet.
I balked. And then obeyed. Mostly.
I asked her to bring over the bag of fireworks I'd bought. She was puzzled.
"Don't worry. I won't do anything bad."
I drilled a small hole in the side of one of my knicker drawers, the one on top, with the racy, lacy underthings in it. Then I carefully tied one of those small popping firecrackers to the drawer, the kind you tie to doorknobs to scare your siblings.
As fair warning, I put a sweet little note on top of the dresser. "Please respect my privacy. Thank you!"
If my exploding knicker drawer causes a heart attack, I really won't feel that bad.
Also, I'll probably blog about it.