Mango

There is a chance I’ll be punished for posting this, but I get a kick out of some of the fights we get in.   This is a great example. 

I’m home from Sarajevo with some version of the flu that is far beyond man flu, swine flu, death flu…it’s like slow death, black lung and all that is bad all in one.  My body is revolting in every sense and I’m kicking my own ass and it’s not fun.  I’m a sweaty, hair matted, snot spewing, hacking, drooling, feverish, slightly delusional, wreck and yes, I’m acting like a brat.  I’m not trying to, really.  But considering I feel like my ears are bleeding, I’m wheezing black clouds of punishment and I’m swallowing knives, I feel like being nothing but selfish, which is wrong, I know.  And so here is how today went.

I stayed home sick, didn’t leave the couch, but found the strength to grab my blackberry and text, “Hon, please get me tissues, menthol cough drops and sorbet–in raspberry, strawberry or lemon. Please.”

6 hours later my sick shipment comes home in the arms of the loving caretaker, who is seemingly horrified by my appearance and lack of showering, though he should be used to it. 

Two more hours later, as I lay dying on the couch, eating the pancakes made for me, drinking the tea made for me, sucking on cough drops bought for me.  “What kind of sorbet did you get me?”

“Mango.”

“Mango.”

“Yes, Mango, Heather.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I wheeze, angry and spitting and now slightly resentful.  Mango was not on the list.  “Where is it?”  I jump from the couch, almost passing out and smashing my face on the floor.  The fever remains.

“Where are you going?  I got you Mango.”

“Where is it?  I really need to see that you bought me mango so that I can prove you’re trying to ruin my life.  It went Raspberry.   Strawberry.  Lemon.  Not Mango.  Never Mango.  WHERE IS IT???”

“It’s in the fridge.”  He’s sighing now and clearly upset by my behavior.  I cannot stop, though.  I need to find this hated Mango.

And there is it.  In the fridge.  And it’s not just Mango.  It’s fat FREE MANGO.  GODDAMNIT SONOFABITCH WHO EATS MANGO.

“You hate me. ”  And now I am pouting and I’m 30 and I realize this is unacceptable but I’ve gone too far so I continue.  “I don’t even liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike mango.”  I am five again.

“It’s Hagen Daz.  You like Hagen Daz.”  He is trying to talk me down.  This never works. 

“It’s fat free.  Did I say FAT FREE?”

“All sorbet is fat free, Heather.”

“I know the others were all there, surrounding the mango.  The raspberry, the strawberry, the lemon.  WHY?????????”

“You are ungrateful.”

“You are out to get me.”

“You are delusional.”

“I am sick.  Leave me alone.”

And there.  That is today. 

And for the record, no one likes bloody mango anything.  Ever.

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