Hotel de Me.

The family is descending on me tomorrow. Parents, sister and two dogs. In my apartment. My one bedroom apartment. I pity my neighbors. The dogs are country folk (like Britney Spears) and like to bark at every little thing. I am the annoying neighbor with the ill-mannered dogs and I could care less, anti-social rebel that I am.

When the parents are coming to visit, I feel like I need to turn my apartment into some kind of hotel experience. Martha Stewart starts to channel through me and before I know it, everything is bleached to within an inch of its life, the toilets sparkle and I've vacuumed twice. The fridge is filled with soda and the cupboards are full of delightfully bad for you things. Flowers are on the table and I've hidden the booze and porn (though I realized yesterday when A was here that the fridge door full of Mike's Hard Lemonade is not exactly hiding. In my defense, that stuff's at least two years old. Though A said the Lemonade mixed with sweet tea is kickass. New ways to destroy my liver).

For my family.

Who've lived with me during the dark days when you couldn't see a patch of floor from the clothes and books and bags covering it. Who still live with the boxes full of crap that I can't get rid of, because OH MY GOD, what if I need a feathered quill to write with? Who have looked at the standing fan in my room and inquired whether it had been dusted in the past ten years.

But you know.

If I convince them that I am an excellent hostess and my apartment is the most welcoming place in the world, then I will, of course, be the favorite child and my sister and brother can go suck it.