I feel fugly, oh so fugly...

Come on sing it with me now, "I feel fugly, oh so fugly.  I've felt bloated and zitty all day...and I pity the poor bastard who gets in my way..." 

It's been one of those weeks.  Did you hear the joke about how the supreme being of the universe decided to give women zits and wrinkles at the same time? Hahahahahahaha.....LMAOROTFGMEOWHP (that's me laughing my ass off rolling on the floor gouging my eyes out with a hot poker).

I'm a picker.  I can't, not pick.  It's an inherited gene (I remember the countless times my dad had to beat my mom off him in the bathroom when she was hot after a back-zit).  My poor four year old has the gene too so any tiny thing on his face becomes an open wound in about an hour.  You don't have to use too much imagination to visualize the state of my face, but of course I'll tell you anyway.

Here's a quick run-down of what we're dealing with:

Zit #1:  The Eye of Sauron.  This puppy is right where you guessed, smack between the eyebrows conveniently nestled in the first "1" of the "11"  of the furrow that also lives there.

Zit #2:  The Temple of Doom.  Left temple parallel to the Eye of Sauron.

Zit #3, 4 & 5:  Orion's Belt.  Right of the mouth.

Zit #6-10:  Apocalypse now.  Under the chin.  Just a big, bloody mess.

On top of the zits, there's a bad haircut.  Some of you have heard about this already.  The woman who cuts my hair seems to be getting 1 of 3 over the plate.  If I don't bring in the same picture of Eva Longoria EVERY time she does a little improv of her own - not good.  When I look in the mirror I'm alternating between seeing Florence Henderson, Dorothy Hamill, Hillary Clinton and if I have my glasses on, my mother.

So we've got the zits and the bad hair cut.  Let's throw in some bloating.  I feel like I have a full body, Dr. Scholls Gel insert under my epidermis.  And I'm not gellin'.  I'm yellin'.  Like a felon.  Serendipitously (for him) my husband is on a business trip so he will not bear the brunt of these conditions.  

My children may not make it through the week without irreparable emotional damage however.  Especially since my four year old just informed me I smell like eggs.