A Case of the Mean Reds

Some cheese with your whine, miss? *Chapter 46*

Last night I had a dream I was stuck at a dingy motel. There was a dirty pool and a cement staircase. My boyfriend and my mom were there but they kept coming and going and I couldn’t leave. There was only one bathroom and it was shared with everyone else who was stranded there too, people I didn’t know but who scared me. I wound up at this shithole after realizing I was driving the wrong way down a freeway so windy and steep, my tires could barely grip the road. A recurring dream situation where my car somehow launches off the pavement and into the sky and I have to use my body weight to muscle it back down to the road only to see that I’ve missed my exit. This time I ended up at the scary motel. Thank God I wear a mouth guard when I sleep.

From the archives. Painted in ‘93 by Bonnie Lynn Felton. I’m 10 and I vividly remember sitting for the portraits she took to paint this. Sigh. @bonzart

I dictated this dream to Siri directly upon waking as Alan got up to roast a brisket. As Holly Golightly would say:

“You know those days when you've got the mean reds?’
‘Same as the blues?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘No, the blues are because you’re getting fat or maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re sad that’s all. But the mean reds are horrible. You’re afraid, and you sweat like hell, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of.”

Sounds like PMS. Or perimenopause, a phase I’ve been thinking I’ll ask my gyno about when I go for my annual in August. Regardless, it’s been three days of ehhhh. Three days that can absolutely be explained away by looking at my calendar and knowing I’m due for an emotional dip but nonetheless, irritating and devastating. I don’t want to feel like this.

I even thought about taking this Monday off, 46 of 52. So close to my goal of posting every week for a year. But here I am, sitting in our bed on Sunday morning while Alan preps food in our tiny kitchen for our pop-up restaurant tomorrow. As soon as he’s done, I’ll take over. Five peach upside down cakes that I know will serve as therapy. Baking always helps.

Nothing like a pouty pity party to reallllllllly irritate the shit out of myself. This is not to diminish real feelings and honor emotions. Trust me, if I had anything to actually be upset about, I’d break out my journal and call my therapist (hi, Emily!). I know what this is (hormones) and therefore realize I must treat myself as I would a toddler. Allow me to wear myself out with tantrums and sulking, offer snacks, keep it moving.

Five paragraphs and a Holly Golightly reference and I’m already feeling a little better. I gotta be honest, this extraordinary heat is not helping. Romanticizing a dripping southern summer has its limits, heat rash is a real thing, y’all. If only I could take a trip to Tiffany’s. Eat a croissant, take a sip of coffee and contemplate diamonds. I bet they have strong air conditioning too.

I want fried chicken. And a kitchen with counter space. Sometimes when I post about feeling down, readers and my friends feel genuinely worried for me. I want to assure everyone I am okay. Sometimes it’s nice to hear you’re not the only feeling a little melted and like you’re having to muscle your way back onto your path. Stuck in a nasty motel sharing a bathroom with strangers, scared but not sure of what. Fortunately, I know this feeling is fleeting. Tomorrow I’ll wake up a new person. In the meantime, I’ll continue my attempts to romanticize absolutely everything, Capote style, even these damn mean reds.

READING

Still going with the Marriage Portrait. It’s medium.

WATCHING

I Am: Celine Dion. Absolutely heartbreaking.

LISTENING

If you haven’t, catch my podcast episode with my best friend, Evan! Substack or Spotify.

I’m currently waiting on Uber Eats to deliver Shake Shack to me. I got a fried chicken sandwich, fries and a black and white milkshake and it’s gonna cost me $40…but I am confined to the house babysitting a brisket and about to start a baking journey of my own.

By the time you’re reading this, we are about to welcome about 100 people to dinner at DeeJay’s. Truly, I cannot wait. I’m really looking forward to bringing you a cheerful update next week. Until then, I hope you are doing your best to stay cool. Wear bike shorts under those skirts and sleep with a pillow between your legs if you’ve got thighs like me.

Sending you all my love.

xoxo.