DEAR MIGRAINE

I'm at the Apple Store waiting for a walk-in appointment to get my cranky refurbished Airport Extreme's noonies checked out, I'm blinded by all the whiteness.

I need Ray Charles shades and my new Airport is suffering from some form of extreme wifi dementia even though it's the latest generation! Can't blame its age. It's a baby. Wet behind the ears. But I can't get on the internet. Driving me crazy.

Apple genius pokes it, prods it, and says the unbelievable: Here's a new one. Take it. I said: But it's a refurbished one. I didn't buy it new. She said: Go on! And handed me the bag.

So, to celebrate, I went shopping. Call it caregiver therapy. Chocolate is good. Very good. I bought some snazzy track shoes so I can hit the ground running. I'll need it for this crowded week. 

Noise and light are still unbearable. Acute hearing sucks. The yapdog metronome next door, the tiny hooves of the keyboard, the soprano squeal of leaky faucets. The rushing blood singing in my ears.

Dear migraine, please go away, like the rain, to come again another day. When I have the time—belay that thought. But hey, no more vertigo makin' me dizzy! I'm staarvin' Always a good sign.

Let the chocolate-covered auras begin. Do we have liftoff?