I’m required to document how I spent Tuesday, right? Dumped the kid at school, came home, put on my pajamas, sobbed and laughed and cried and cheered and stood with my had over my heart during the swearing-in, did the Cabbage Patch and sang “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” as the helicopter left, thus giving the crowd in Washington to do the same. Sorry about that. Then I celebrated with leftover enchiladas, fetched my kid, came home, and had a complete mental breakdown, the details I really don’t want to discuss.

Can I just say something about our new second lady? I know she gets lost in the shuffle, but damn, I love Jill Biden. I love that she’s an English professor. I love that she’s got a big mouth; I consider this a plus in the political world. And I really, really love that she had the lady-balls to wear that red coat with those awesome black high-heeled boots to the inauguration. Hot damn! It’s like having Nancy Sinatra married to the v-p. I’ve been playing this song over and over in her honor today.  I’d spend all of my loot just to see her in her go-go boots.

Okay, I have a crush on Jill Biden. Or maybe I want to be her. I’m really confused right now.

And how was your day?

Today’s the first day that’s felt normal in awhile. Well, except for the giddiness left over from Tuesday’s glee. My pulse increases every time I hear the words “President Obama”. And photos of him in the Oval Office? Squealing. If Jill Biden shows up in any of those photos, I might die.

Anyway, back to normal. I’m at the gooey butter place, drinking an Americano and trying to not think about how I look today. I don’t normally put much fretting into the way I look. Generally, I’m fine with what I’ve got. I went on a little rant yesterday about how much I hate reality shows that exploit fat people into losing weight. If I hear Oprah bitch about those extra 40 pounds of hers one more time, there’s going to be a size European 40 Dansko going through my TV screen. And if she fucking cries about it again? Well, I’m going to have to take her down. I’m bigger than her. I can do it.

But today … damn. I’m having one ugly-ass day today. Let’s start at the top and work our way down, shall we? My hair. It needs to be trimmed. And washed. When properly maintained, I have lovely naturally curly hair. At the moment, I have lovely naturally snarled hay that horses have been sleeping on piled on my head.

Then there’s the issue of the cheese-spouting devil-horn on my head. Yes, it’s back. I think it came back with the full moon. Maybe this is what I have to expect for awhile: from fully moon to new moon, I shall spout ricotta from my scalp.

I’ve been wearing a hat all week. A beret, to be exact:

It’s cute, right? I keep hearing that it’s cute. But it’s not every-day cute. Wear it every day, and it stops being cute and suddenly it becomes rather bag lady-esque. Probably because it’s full of cheese.

I took that photo a few weeks ago, before the uglies fully struck, but there’s signs they’re lurking. You can see the ratty hair. And while this request pains me, please take a look at my eyebrows.

Hello, Andy Rooney!

We have a serious situation. I think I need to write a letter to Mr. Rooney to ask him a grooming question.

Dear Mr. Rooney:

Do your eyebrows itch? Because my eyebrows, while not quite as magnificent as yours (I’m only 36, after all), itch. They itch to the point where I’ve scratched them until the skin beneath them is red. Can you or your team of “60 Minutes” stylists offer some advice before I take a manscaping groomer to my face?

Sincerely,

Sasquatchymom

Ratty hair? Check

Cheese horn? Check

Overworn novelty hat? Check

Irritated, overgrown eyebrows? Check.

Red, puffy eyes from an overly emotional week? Check.

Eye bags? Checked. They’re too big for carry-on.

Oh! But that’s not even the worst of it! If you’ve been reading for any length of time, you might recall that I have a lovely case of polycystic ovarian syndrome. Or, as I call it, Pretty Disease.  Along with making women more prone to diseases that can, you know, kill them, PCOS causes infertility. You know that natural selection stuff? PCOS has that down-pat. It does stuff appearance-wise that screams, “Unmatable! Do not procreate!” Obesity, acne, excess hair, baldness … hot. Well, hot if you did circus ladies.

I’m lucky to not have the acne and baldness (except for my horn – hair don’t grow where my cheese goes). Got the other two, though. And though I’d rather you not know this, I partake in a rather detailed chin-grooming routine about once a week, when my chin hair and my eyebrows threaten to merge in the middle of my face. At that point, it’s not a pretty issue. It’s a life-and-death issue because I’m in danger of suffocating when all that hair merges over my mouth and nose.

So, I wax and I tweeze, and that’s worked for a long time. For some reason, though, last time I went wax-shopping, I didn’t by my usual brand. I opted for a sticky hair removal system from Australia whose name shan’t be mentioned.

Let’s call it Gonads, okay?

So this morning, I looked in the mirror and I saw absolute hell.  The chin was getting to that life-threatening stage, so I busted open the Gonads for the first time.

Instructions? The same as any wax strips: Wash face, rub closed wax strip between hands to warm, peel apart, place on offensive area, yank, cry, repeat. Except Gonads is all-natural!  The packaging is green instead of orange. That means it’s all-natural. Right?

Gonads comes with “desensitizing wipes”, which excited me to no end. I dislike discomfort, so let’s numb it up!

I learned something today. Apparently, in Australia, they think bleach is a numbing agent.  Bleach applied with metal spikes. That’s what this stuff felt like on my chin. Eventually, it was desensitized. Dead nerves don’t feel.

The wax wasn’t on unnatural plastic. It was on soft, white cloth strips, and it was green. This won’t hurt!

It didn’t hurt anymore than my regular wax. It also didn’t remove hair like my regular wax. To be fair, it got a few, but I’m pretty sure they were weak ones.

I think I misread the box. I must have purchased Gonads Wax Applicator System.

As I always do, I got the tweezers to nab the strong little nasties that the wax loosened. Only the wax hadn’t loosened them. In fact, I think it glued the hairs into the follicles.

The instructions said to use the desensitizing caustic acid to remove any leftover wax. I hoped that it would burn any remaining hairs. It didn’t. It also didn’t remove the wax.

In walking from my back door to my truck, I had to pull the hair on my head out of the wax on my chin three times.

At school, I hugged Clara Jane goodbye. Her bangs got stuck to my face.

I’m afraid to look in the mirror, but I have a feeling I might be collecting wind-blown debris next to my still-present soul patch. There’s probably green lint from my cardigan, too.

Which brings me to my clothing problem. Aside from the dorky hat. I’m wearing a lovely celery green swing cardigan that ends at my waist, with a tunic-length tank top under it. I’ve worn this outfit plenty this winter. It makes me feel pretty. But today, the neckline and hem of the tank are waging war against me, determined to either expose my boobs or my muffiny gut.

Please don’t tell the neckline that it could do me in simply by attaching itself to my chin.

Despite the uglies, I couldn’t stand the thought of spending another day at home. I figure since I’m not feeling optimal, I might as well go all-out with it and grab breakfast at Sonic.

While eating a greasy Texas toast sandwich, it occured to me that the warm, buttery toast would feel so good on my chin, which by then I’m sure was nothing but exposed jawbone with hair sprouting from it. Somehow, I refrained from applying my sausage, egg, and cheese grease sandwich to my face, although I’m not sure that helped me much.

I went to Trader Joe’s, where I kept forgetting about my gluey chin. I apparently have a habit of putting my hand on my chin a lot (probably borne from trying to hide chin hair). I didn’t know this until today, when I had to rip my hand away from my chin every single time I pondered which items to put in my cart.

It was in the cheese department (the real one, not the one on my head) when I realized my boobs were slipping southward within my bra. In my post-Gonads haste to get dressed, I guess I forgot to give them a manual hoist.

Bra wrapped around my neck and boobs smacking my gut? Check, and check!

While shopping, I saw a women about my age. Impecable, as were the three young children – younger than mine – who were shopping with her. I’m proud to report that she didn’t make me feel bad. I know I’m a good person, even if I’m having an ugly day. I’m also proud to report that I didn’t thrust my sticky, hairy chin in her face and scream, “My God, Woman! Did you get up at 2 AM to make this all possible?”

There’s something about having an ugly day, though. When you look like hell, it eliminates a lot of the inhibitions. Not that I had many of those in the first place. But when you’re the weird-looking fat woman with the goofy hat, bad hair, disheavled shirt, and a cat stuck to her chin, well, so what if you look stupid on top of it all? Why not dance to “And We Danced” by the Hooters in the Three Buck Chuck aisle? Well, other than the risk of knocking down the wine display, which would leave me smelling like alcohol. Although that would provide an explaination to why I’m sporting such a terrible look.

I’m calling Erin the Amazing this afternoon and making an appointment for, well, everything she’s willing to touch.