Of Migraines, Terry Tate, and Amazing Husbands

Once upon a time, there was a mommy blogger named Heather. This mommy blogger is a rather busy lady who has suffered from intermittent migraines most of her life. The worst migraine Heather ever had actually affected her speech centers (meaning when she tried to say, "Sure! I'd like to have BBQ for dinner!" she actually mumbled something like "Naw, my ears have carrots!").

Heather met her second-worst migraine ever on Tuesday.

The day started out normal. Kids dressed, fed, and off to school. Ty-man showered and dressed. Heather showered, dressed, and slightly unwell with a faint headache, a headache she knew could be cured with a spot of java.

So, our headachy heroine took off for the local Kauffman Tire for new minivan shoes. As she turned over her keys, she realized her headache was slightly worse. "No problem," she thought, "I'm seconds away from a Chick-fil-A. Biscuits, milk, and COFFEE!" As food was consumed, a sense of well-being pervaded and the headache began to slip away to oblivion. Or so she thought.

The longer Heather sat over her coffee, the more chance the headache had to come back. And come back, it did. It clawed its way from the depths of her brain, sinking its talons into every nook and cranny of her gray matter. And when it finally climbed back into her head, it squatted there for the long haul, munching away on her frontal lobe.

Heather trudged back to Kauffman Tire and took a seat in the waiting area. Sunglasses in place, she looked hungover and wasted as if she had spent the night drinking heavily and snorting coke with Lindsay Lohan. The longer she sat, the worse she felt. It was then she decided to pace, which actually helped. The only problem was it helped her head and not her legs. So she sat back down and the migraine scratched and howled. Up again for more pacing during which she called her mother, herself a migraine sufferer, to whom she cried about the pain. The constant whine of the pneumatic drills didn't help matters and Heather began to fantasize about cutting power to the whole establishment by flinging her body, head first of course, into the transformer.

Eventually, one of the mechanics came in and realized not all was right with Heather. He gallantly offered her their last pouch of headache powder. Heather ripped it out of his hands like a premenstrual woman starved for chocolate and downed it in milliseconds. The mechanic? Whimpered, nursed his hand, and backed away slowly. The headache powder did bupkis and Heather noticed that not only did she still have a migraine, she now had limbs that felt funny, as if they were on someone else's body and her head was floating above it all, watching from a vise.

Second-worst migraine, enter stage left. Heather's capacity for full functionality, exit stage right.

Finally, Heather was presented her car keys and she gratefully left, realizing that she had to immediately pick up the kids from school. As she sat at the stop light, cradling her worthless skull, she realized that that wasn't going to happen, not in this universe or the universe where she's Jensen Ackles' love slave. So, she called her Ty-man and begged him to fetch the children or they would all end up in a ditch.

And then she stumbled home for a four-hour sleep.

Where does Terry Tate fit into all of this? Well, when Heather woke up from her second-worst migraine ever, she realized that she had consumed the tire establishment's last headache powder. That ain't right. As Terry Tate said, "YOU KILL THE JOE, YOU MAKE SOME MO'!"


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And so she dropped off a new box of Goody's to the wonderfully, patient mechanics. They deserve medals. Or therapy.