The Mean Reds

When Holly Golightly talked about the Mean Reds, I never thought she meant malevolent wines. But after Friday night's run-in with an unusually violent Rioja, I have changed my tune. It was very polite when we first met, but then while I slept it unscrewed the top of my head and struck my brain repeatedly with an anvil. I know, I know. You're thinking it's a hangover, but after only one glass, that seems like cruel and unusual punishment. I now recognize the problem as the dreaded red wine headache, but a headache sounds so inconsequential ("Not tonight dear, I have a headache"), whereas this was a real headsplitter that took away my will to have fun with my Saturday.

So Sunday I felt obligated to recover with some chick lit (Emma Gold's "Hard," which has been sitting on my to-read pile for well over a year). It had the hallmarks of chick lit I've enjoyed in the past. A little "girl beats sexual harassment" a la Bridget Jones telling off Daniel Cleaver. A little too-real description of depression a la Marian Keyes. The gay roommate a la...well, let's face it, he's been a staple for ages. And the kind of too-reasonable good guy who exists chiefly in romantic fiction. But the torn foreskin and recreational cocaine use sort of killed the mood for me. I know, I'm a party-pooper. And a hypocrite, because I had absolutely no problem with the cocaine in "The Big Chill" and lots of other films and novels. And some of my favorite people have done cocaine, not that there's anything wrong with that. But seriously--the only way for the character to know that her relationship with this totally perfect guy isn't all about the sex is for him to suffer a torn foreskin during a bout of cocaine-inspired enthusiasm? How...romantic.

So now, to recover from the chick lit, I'm watching "Saw," eating hot wings (thank you, Mark, for addicting me to these fatty excuses to eat hot sauce), and drinking beer. Well, okay, cider. I should totally have a date, but in the meantime, this is mighty tasty. And I get to eat dinner in my XXXL flannel pajamas. Sometimes it's almost worth being single.