Tuesday, November 30, 2010

A case of the mean reds; Breakfast at Borders.

um... allow for my purposeful ambiguity for a moment. some things happened today that did not leave me feeling so cheery... and so...at midday...

I found myself in possession of a bad case of the mean reds. A term I’ve borrowed from a favorite film of mine Breakfast at Tiffany’s.



If you’re one of the few who’ve not seen it, I’ll elaborate. The mean reds is a term Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn) coins when explaining her fascination with Tiffany’s. The mean reds, much worse than the blues, is a case when you’re suddenly afraid and you don’t know what of. And the only way Holly knows how to get rid of them is hop in a cab and head to Tiffany’s (the jewelry store), because you see, “nothing very bad could happen to you at Tiffany’s”.

Well my version of Tiffany’s is much more modest…My Tiffany’s is Borders bookstore. Or really any bookstore/coffee shop for that matter. When I’ve got a case of the mean reds, the only thing that does any good is to hop in my car and go somewhere that I can read and drink a warm drink.

Back to the point…today when I identified my restless feeling as a case of the mean reds, my instinct was to head to borders. There was only one problem. My car. And the fact that it had not started without a jump in two days. Blerg. 

So instead I wrote some ridiculous poetry and waited (not so patiently) for my mom to have time to take me to a car accessory place (is that the right term? No wonder the men there always laugh at me) for a new car battery.

Here’s the real irony. I quit my job today. I quit my job that is my primary source of income… and then I had to buy a $125 car battery. Expensive you say? I agree… Turns out my inexpensive off-brand little car only accepts the best of the best (by best I mean most expensive) when it comes to batteries. I knew there would be a catch with the great deal I got on my beautiful little Reno.

So after the kind gentleman at the car store changed my battery, I finally made it to borders. And here I sit, with my case of the mean reds gently abated, two lustrous volumes of poetry I will probably never buy to read, and a warm chai to sip on. 


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