That Which Does Not Kill Me Makes Me Even Crabbier!

I'm CRAAAABBY today. And I don't need a reason. I'm a woman.

I do have a reason, in any case, but I don't need to share it. I'm a woman, and if I want to be crabby, no one should insist that I have a reason why, much less question me on what it is.

My reason anyway? The worlds most killer migraine ever in a million and a half years ever on earth. Yeah, that'd do it.

Even things that usually make me smile can't touch this mood today. Like the BoDeans coming on the radio, and singing along (albeit quieter than normal). Or a Cinnamon Dolce Latte. Instead of these little things bringing me joy like they usually do, they're leading to some minor annoyances. Like having to repeat my drink order ten times to the Somalian girl behind the counter at Starbucks. "TRIPLE. VENTI. SIX PUMP. CINNAMON...no, Venti, not Grande. SIX PUMP. Yes, Triple, that's an extra shot. CINNAMON. DOLCE. LATTE. Yes, Cinnamon Dolce. Six pumps of it. Yes, an extra shot. No, skim!"

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

John Mayer can't even cheer me up today. Vince Vaughan holding a Chipotle burrito couldn't cheer me up right now. I'm reveling in the gloriousness poutiness of being crabby, and I don't care who knows it or what they think.

The thing is, nothing is really wrong circumstantially. Other than my head feels like a vice is wrapped around it, the light streaming in from the windows is burning my eyes out of my head like sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads and the sound of my fingers rhythmically hitting the keyboard sounds like a U-boat is dropping bombs in rapid succession in the underwater fog that is my brain today.

I'm not trying to be dramatic. I just seriously believe this might be the worst migraine I've ever had. Which, accompanied by the lightheaded and dizzy feeling I was experiencing earlier, either means I should lay off the A&W chili dogs at 10 at night, or go see a doctor. Probably a little bit of both.

What was I doing eating A&W chili dogs at 10 o'clock at night, you ask? You asked, trust me. YOU ASKED! Well, I went last night with a friend, shopping for shoes for the Winter Gala next weekend. And though I wasn't going to buy a dress, since I have a perfectly good one at home, I couldn't resist, and bought both shoes and a dress, all for under $50. C'mon, it was so worth it. The new dress is a very flattering shade of midnight blue, with subtle sparkly action and a halter style that was demure enough for me to feel comfortable standing in front of my coworkers and announcing who just won the $25 Olive Garden gift card. The shoes, well, they're adorable. Midnight blue matte satin, with a little bow and cute little jewely thingy, and well, you get the picture.

So, in my blinded excitement last night, I engaged in some much forbidden gluten consumption, specifically of the A&W variety. Including a Coney Island Cheese Dog (what can I say, I'm a weak, weak person) and cheese curds and a tall, cold Root Beer. It was so pleasurable, while it lasted.

This morning though, I woke up to the clamorous guffawing of a murder of crows outside my window. Yes, a murder of crows, which is apparently what a buttload of crows is officially called. As opposed to a sleuth of bears or a smack of jellyfish. Speaking of murder, the noise of their caw-cawing was enough to make me want to murder someone, therefore the etymology of that phrase makes perfect sense.

These crows are not strangers to my neighborhood. No, as a matter of fact about two years ago, at the time when Hope was putting together the portraits for their first Church Directory, the crows appeared. Coincidence? I think not.

At that time, there was such an overwhelming proliferation of these crows that not a car in the lot was safe. Babies were being pooped on (Isaiah E. I believe), it was totally out of control. The noise was deafening, the sight creepy and frightening, and there seemed no reasonable solution in sight. Short of a pastor with a shot-gun, which unfortunately did not work. Time passed and the birds moved on.

Two years later, they're back in my neighborhood, and in such overwhelming quantities that their Hitchcockian presence thoroughly freaked me out last night when I arrived home. Infesting about six trees on my block, they clutter together so thickly, and in such large numbers that even the barest of branches looks full-leaved and blossoming with their darkness. As one entire treeful took to flight, they blackened the skies like a dark cloud, blocking out the moonlight, and squawking, cawing and carrying on quite unnecessarily.

I hate them. Cawcaw, cawcaw.

In any case, this morning, roundabout 4 am (a little later than midnight dreary), I was roused from my sleep (weak and weary) like Poe to his door, by their boisterous calls, (not quite a whisper of "Lenore", more like a ginormous, group effort "CAWCAW CAWCAW"). To which I responded,

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!

'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Or something like that.

That kind of rude awakening, coupled by the fact that I was bussing it this morning, was enough to put me in a foul mood, at least foul enough till the migraine set in, and then in fact, the mood became quite justified. And there I've been ever since.

Now, what's the flipside of all this birdbrain crabbiness? There is some light at the end of the tunnel. Light, thy name is Baileys. Tonight, I have a bottle of Baileys at home with my name on it. A spot on the sofa, with my name on it, and yes, a book, an engrossing book, with, you guessed it, my name on it. Well, sort of....it's more inside the cover, on an adorable leopard print bookplate, but you get the idea.

I am an optimistic person. Even when I'm crabby. And I can only hope that tomorrow, I will have accustomed myself to the cawing of my new neighbors, have shed all signs of a migraine with a good night's sleep, and be back to my normal, cheery, chipper, happy self.

Even if I'm not, I'm a woman. I can be crabby if I want to.