Dwarfy? (It only sounds politically incorrect . . .)

Mom’s not a morning person. “I don’t like talking in the morning; I’m crabby.”
I lived with her for 18 years before and I don’t remember that at all! I remember her listening to music in the morning. Greeting us with breakfast. Cracking a raw egg for our big black cat, Licorice. Giggling with her carpool friends.
I think she was happy, but she claims she’s always been like this. I think that living alone for a long time may contribute to that. You get used to your own routine in solitude and a change seems like an intrusion.
What I’ve found is that she doesn’t mind talking in the morning, but she doesn’t want ME to talk. I get it! Mom is really funny when she’s crabby, because she makes no effort to hide it. It’s hysterical, really; she even laughs in the midst of her crabbiness.
(She sometimes refers to “crabby” as “dwarfy.” This is in reference to the time that she and I were on a plane to Portland, ME. She was sitting next to a crabby guy and wanted to make me aware of it, but didn’t want to be overheard. She, instead, told me that he was like one of the 7 dwarfs. I guess she was hoping that I was the only one within earshot who would get it.)