Last night, after a day of shivering in bed with a fever, the only thing that sounded good to eat was Hot Tamales.
I gave Chris and Wes my request and they fought their way into the local Target past the gaggle of last minute Christmas shoppers to pick up some food and antibiotics. I put the seat back in the car and waited miserably.
When we returned home (almost FOUR hours after we first left for urgent care) I grabbed the box of candy and began to shuffle off towards my bed.
But there was something wrong with it. It was a BRICK.
I shook it. Nothing rattled.
"What's this," I held the box up to Chris and Wes.
"I picked out the hardest one for you," Wes said.
I have yet to decide whether this was an innocent, 9-year-old's comment, or a calculating, passive aggressive strike against me.
"It's HARD, because it's ruined. It got WET," I yelled. I was SO looking forward to that candy.
I continued, "SEE??? SEE," I jabbed my finger angrily at the obvious water damage. I ripped open the box and displayed the hard, red lump inside. "SEE," I screeched.
I shuffled off and crawled into bed. I felt sick. I felt out of sorts. I felt disproportionately sad and pissed about this freaking box of Hot Tamales.
I didn't know what the damage was caused by. It could have been water. Or as far as I knew, it could have been anti-freeze or urine.
I didn't care.
I laid on my side and peeled off the Hot Tamales individually and ate them. I ate almost half the box before I turned my attention on the sweet Chex Mix.
I worked hard for those buggers.
And they tasted good.