What rhymes with Orange?

I am recovered, mostly. The kids are in bed, not bathed but eh, their teeth are brushed so that's something.

Inspired by the Friday Show n Tell I took a trip to the local Target, which for the love of Pete I will never call Tar-shey (however that might be spelled), to find a few new things. Jen's Invisible Kool-Aid check. I searched the aisles for Badger's Jergen's Natural Glow Moisturizer. No luck. I happened upon this. Sounded similar.

Editor's note: The very definition of the word similar should tip you off to just how this expedition to self tanner land ended up.

I got home, read the label again. How hard can it be? Mistake number one: Poor lighting. Mistake number two: Watching Tom Brady on Saturday Night Live at the same time as attempting self tanner application. Mistake number three: Doing this all pretty close to bed time.

I wake up, do the whole morning thing, skipping the shower because I was headed outside to spread mulch and plant flowers in ninety degree heat. I do a quick once over, not inspecting too closely. Eh, one little streak on my forearm. I congratulate myself on the wise purchase and awesome rubbing in skills I seem to have acquired since my last bout with these types of products.

I garden, get hot and drrrrrty. rowr. Really, though, just with topsoil. We head to the pond for the first swim of the year. I brave the sub zero temps up to the waist and then go sit on a towel to thaw out catch a little more sun. I look at my feet, contemplating painting my toe nails before the pool party we were attending after lunch. Wow, I'm thinking that dirt is really ground in. And kind of orange too. You SO know where this is going. Fucking streakville. My feet look like orange zebras. The back of my left calf - a nice patch a little larger than an oddly shaped quarter. The backs of my ankles, the underside of my right bicep and the side of my right calf. All patchy. Orange patchy. I scratch at the streaks on my foot, great it's SCRAPING off. This should feel good. I run to the house and exfoliate like a crazy person.

After the mad exfoliation dash I'm red but it's that temporary red you get from scraping the top eight layers of skin off. We head to the pool party where I promptly drank myself giggly, enjoyed the company of the hockey parents we can't let go of, laughed until I cried, and sat in the sun because apparently that Jergen's stuff is impossible to find.

Next time I get the urge to try the product of the week I'll go for Kate's IPod or drive forty miles for Blackbird's heavenly smelling dish soap. Either would have been preferable.