The Post Where I Start Out Talking About One Thing And End Up Talking About Donuts (Mmmm...Donuts...)

I am a hot mess. I have been face-first in closets and cabinets for the last week, cleaning out, purging, organizing, and de-crapifying STUFF. Y'all. We have some STUFF around here. Too much STUFF. Like, I can't believe how much STUFF. Some of it is useful, some of it is pretty, some of it is memories. But much of it is crap. And I am not done. Not by a long shot. But other things have come into the picture that are causing me to have to pull my nose out of cabinets and closets and pantries.

I am leaving in six days for warmer climes. My beloved has a sales meeting in a warm place and the spouses have been invited to tag along. This has caused me jubilation because WARM! SUN! BEACH! But also panic, because ACK! Leaving for several days and relatives are coming in to care for my offspring and my house is sort of, well, a hot mess. Much like the housekeeper.

My parents are off enjoying their annual February in Florida trip, so we weren't able to bribe ask them to come watch the kids. This time, the punishment duties fall to my fabulous sister-in-law and her husband, Aunt Heather and Uncle Steve, whom we shall henceforth refer to as Aunt Hes and Uncle Buck. (Not the unemployed, betting on rigged horses part. And not because of a physical similarity to John Candy. But some of the other stuff? Um...maybe. The whole hatchet thing? Could totally see it happening.) The kids are very excited to have their aunt and uncle coming to stay for a few days. Aunt Hes has already promised a dance off. (Sort of wish I was going to be around for that...) And I'm terribly grateful for their willingness to come over and care for my kids. But you know, it means that I have to lay out routines and phone numbers and appointments and emergency stuff in pretty good detail. And also I need to cook a few meals ahead of time so that Aunt Hes won't have to cook. And I need to get the laundry as caught up as possible. (HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Shut up.) And I need to get the house cleaned so that they won't see how we really live.

Things are also tough because I have a severe case of PWS. This is not to be confused with PMS (which, at times, I may or may not have but you probably shouldn't go down that road because it can only lead to bad things...). I'm talking about a full-blown, Midwestern wintertime induced case of PWS-Pasty White Skin syndrome. If you know someone who lives in the Midwest, then you know what I'm talking about. The sun is pretty fickle 'round these parts during the winter months. Sometimes it doesn't come out for days. And when it does, it's as weak as Chuck Hagel during confirmation hearings. No? As weak as the NRA's reasoning behind their defense of assault weapons. No? As weak as my similes?  Bingo! Anyway, my point is: the sunshine, it is not so great in the winter. And the skin? Well it is covered virtually 24/7 with clothing. Because winter around here? Brrrr. And what does the combination of weak sunshine and virtual burqa-wear equal? Pasty White Skin. Hence my need to lurk around the tanning salon.

Yep. I'm outing myself. I have, for the first time in my 40-something years, been to a tanning salon. Now, I'm not talking about the spray tan that my daughter talked me into a few years ago that caused me to have carrot fingers. I'm talking about the lay-yourself-down-on-the-bed-with-the-cancer-causing-lights-that-your-mother-doctor-and-every-health-class-warned-you-about-tanning-bed. I know better. Really, I do. I am an SPF 50 kinda gal. True story. But vanity has overridden all of my common sense. And so I have found myself pulling up to the tanning salon, furtively glancing around before I get out of my car, and pulling my collar up around my face in hopes that I won't see someone I know. And it's not just because I'm not wearing makeup and I look, as my daughter would say, ratchet. (This definition is much easier to swallow than the one on urban dictionary.) I am afraid of running into someone and then having to justify myself for going to a tanning salon. The fact that the tanning salon sits right next to the doughnut shop is not a bonus. When you park in the lot, you are only going to one of two places, and neither of them look good. Hmmm....tanning or doughnuts? This is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't quandary. I mean, it's not as bad a quandary as say, Heroin Den/Brothel, but still. Tanning salon? Skin cancer! Doughnuts? Stuck in bathing suit yet again! It's a suburban mommy quandary.

So far, the tanning salon is winning. But if I start looking carroty, I'm thinking that a Bavarian may be the cure.

**I'll be busy tanning cleaning this hot-mess-house this week and then gone to warmer climes for most of next. But look for pictures to come the week after. And also, there could possibly be a wisdom tooth story as well. My daughter is having her wisdom teeth extracted immediately upon our return. Sad panda! However, this might produce significant blog fodder. Happy kitty! (Or something...)