Let me complain freely some more about my migraines. This won’t take long.
I was prepared this time, I swear. Migraines, above all else, require preparation. At this point I’m like a migraine boy scout. On the way to work I felt it creep up the back of my head, pinch my eyeballs, making even my hair hurt (hair pain is very serious, ask any girl). I popped the newly-prescribed Maxalt (migraine medicine attempt #2) onto my tongue, let it dissolve, and beckoned it to work it’s magic.
And about 30 minutes later my migraine was about 68.6326% of the way gone. Sweet mercy.
However, about 15 minutes after THAT, I was, for all intents and purposes, a meth-head. As in I’m officially ready for my walk-on part in Breaking Bad (method acting means you’re serious). My heart was pounding like crazy (read: supercrazyballs). I couldn’t stop shaking and my hands were tingling (in a bad way). A good part of my morning was spent scaring my cube mate with threats of heart attack and the need for “practice CPR.” And requests for hands rubs.
After some WebMD (bad idea) and Googling (bad idea), I called my mom’s office for a diagnosis. I’ve been told the front office staff loves my “medical emergency” phone calls. But instead of “loves,” it’s probably more along the lines of “expects,” and maybe “are annoyed by.” Details, really.
“Hi Brit, your mom is in the middle of a Pap right now.”
“Trust me, she won’t mind. Can she just pop out for a minute? It’s an emergency…”
And in my defense, I don’t think my mom really does mind. I can’t speak for the girl on the table in paper robe, but with any luck she doesn’t respect the word “emergency” on occasion with her mom either, so we’re even.
Anyway, the methiness went on ALL DAY. I thought I would shake the shake eventually, but it was relentless. My migraine mocked me. “Ha! Curveball! How ’bout them side effects, ya whiney brat! I don’t seem so bad now, do I?”
Needless to say, I wasn’t up for anything crazy for dinner. I almost went the way of the Green Smoothie but decided that chewing my dinner could potentially burn off some of the energy that was Zumba dancing in my chest cavity.
Naan Pizza it was:
It’s easy, inexpensive, and in my expert opinion, unorthodox to the point of wrong. But I can be a bit smug when it comes to pizza. Like, I’m in the 1% when it comes to pizza.
But, in a pinch, I love a meal that barely makes any dirty dishes. Naan Pizza = 1 dirty knife.
Plus, it still smells like fried wontons in the kitchen, and we didn’t want to push our luck.
We used the rest of the leftover homemade tomato sauce, store-bought Naan bread, shredded Italian cheese, and leftover fresh basil. Place in a 425 degree oven for about 15-20 minutes and bam, Indian Pizza. A little bit wrong, but yet so right.
Unlike this, which is just wrong.
Aw, look at those eyes.
My mom came over tonight too (as she often does on Mondays) to hang out while the little brother was at practice (basketball? hip-hop? orchestra? no idea. bad sister.) down the street. She took the opportunity to make a wedding guest list. I took the opportunity to show her the magnificence of Google Docs so that we could all share it.
“Share like email?” Sure, Ma.
In her defense, she was really excited to show us how she found the switch on her iPhone that turns the ringer back on, so we are taking the Google Docs thing kind of slow for right now.
Monday Summary: Migraine, Mom, Naan Pizza.
Two out of three ain’t bad.