Making Mango Margaritas as a Metaphor for Life

What happens when psychiatrists try to make mango margaritas?

This post originally appeared on ShirnkRap.

Roy came to a cookout at my house this weekend. He came late, and probably only because I sent him a text message at noon that said, "Remember, you're coming to dinner at my house tonight."

So here comes Roy, and as I'm schmoozing with guests, he tells me he's brought the makings for mango margaritas and where is my blender? By the sink. He goes inside. He comes back outside-- can't find the blender. I go inside and point to the blender next to the sink. He never noticed thatsink. Will it chop ice? Will it chop anything? It's not a very good blender. He fills it with mango stuff and I start smashing ice with a crab mallet. The blender goes grrrr and nothing happens. I dump everything into the food processor and go back outside.

The food processor is leaking. Roy has come to find me. Are food processors supposed to handle liquids without leaking? I make gazpacho in it, but it leaks and I do it near the sink, pour fast, and wipe up the spillage. So it's no surprise at all to me that the food processor is leaking mango margaritas. But wait, Roy says, we have to find the source of the leak. What? Why? Who cares where the source of the leak is? In a million years, it wouldn't occur to me to ask this. I pour the mush into a pitcher. Oh, only it's not mushed enough. Roy wants me to regrind half. I toss the whole thing back in and push the button. Orange junk explodes everywhere. The whole episode feels exactly like writing a book with Roy. I just want to get it done, and he's dealing with the details of the second sentence when there are chapters to go before we sleep. Who the hell cares if there is a comma there? Or orange goo on the counter.

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