That’s what I call myself when I’m having a crabby day. There’s no good reason to be crabby. After all, it’s gorgeous outside. I do have a headache, but it’s not unmanageable. I did a little shopping and didn’t spend too much. (I did splurge on a tall, black, chunky candlestick holder for my dining table for 1o bucks and I feel a little guilty, but I’m learning to be grace-giving to myself.)
Part of it is the monthly thing. I hate to admit it. I joked with Patrick today that I’d like my uterus taken out.
“Whatever for?” he asked, horrified.
“I just don’t want it anymore.”
“I don’t think you can do that.”
“A girl can dream,” I said.
I also, as I’ve posted before, gotten terribly over-the-top crabby about bras. Mind you, I wear ’em. I’m not quite a hippy chick or a bra burner. They’re just confining. I’ve had enough. So my purchases today included contraptions sans underwire because I believe underwire is a plot of the devil himself (who I’m sure doesn’t wear the stuff if he can help it–he uses it instead to inflict torture.)
Oh, and Crabby Sue emerged when we received a nice, misinformed letter from our BFFs at the IRS. Seems they can’t seem to receive our mail, or it crosses in the air (where the devil himself is a prince of the power of..) and makes no difference to them. If we could simply talk to a human (hopefully someone not bothered by underwire), we’d clear up the stuff in a jiffy. But you know how that goes.
So it’s one of those days. Maybe I need to take a walk or a nap or get some perspective. One thing’s for sure, it’s off with the underwire . . .