This morning I drove about one minute down the hill to the marina to get my hair cut at the salon down there. Don’t judge me on that little drive, it was cold outside and absolutely pouring rain…pissing down, as the Kiwis say. Plus, I drive a hybrid (Tom’s car, which I use 80% of the time) so the carbon footprint is minimal.
*Side note* Saying “down the hill to the marina” makes it sound like we be living all fancy. We aren’t. It’s just that there are marinas everywhere here. We are on an island after all. Plus, this marina looks like someone started it with the hopes of making it all posh and fancy but then they ran out of money so it’s getting a bit run down. There’s a laundromat in there, a kind of tired-looking cafe, a superette (convenience store),a boating and fishing shop, and tons of anchored sail boats. And there’s always lots of swarthy sea-faring men tramping about in rubber work boots and really short shorts (a VERY Kiwi style of dressing). Trust me, the place ain’t fancy.
Anyway, the hairdresser washed my hair, which is one of my absolute favorite things in the whole wide world, and then proceeded to give me the best head massage I’ve ever gotten from a stylist ever. That lady went to town on my head.
She made my toes tingle.
Now I have to tell Tom he must either give me a similar massage at least once a week or I will have to spend money just to go down there and get my head rubbed on, even if I don’t need a cut or a color. And there’s always a chance that after repeat visits I might fall in love with that conditioner-wielding goddess of the head massage. It’s his choice.
I almost told the hairdresser that her massage made my toes tingle, but surprisingly enough my filter actually seemed to be working at that moment and before I said anything my brain decided that such a comment could be taken as weird and told my mouth just to stay shut. But I don’t know, is saying “You made my toes tingle” really that weird of a statement? Personally, I’d take it as a compliment. To me, toe-tingling is pretty much the physical manifestation of happiness.
So, then I came home and started messaging Tom while heating up some lentil soup for lunch. The conversation went like this….
Tom: I just finished my soup.
Me: Was it any good? I’m about to heat some up.
Tom: Yes. I added a heap of hot sauce which I liked.
Me: Cool. I’ll do that then.
A few minutes passes…..
Me: Um….where’s the hot sauce?
Tom: Use Sriracha.
Me: WHERE’S THE HOT SAUCE, TOM.
Me: Tom, that is OUR hot sauce. Not Tom’s hot sauce.
Tom: I said I was taking it this morning. You have the other hot sauce.
Me: Anything you say to me before 7:30am does not count. And I can’t put Sriracha into lentil soup…Sriracha is for Asian food. You know how I feel about using the appropriate hot sauce for the food I’m eating.
Tom: Ha ha ha ha. You’re racist. Besides, with that logic then you can’t use this hot sauce either. It’s Mexican hot sauce and can’t go on lentils.
Me: I would have told you to take the Sriracha. I’m all about that Tamazula now.
Tom: I’m trying to diversify you.
Me: Thanks, 100% white person. I am Mexican, and Canadian, and Italian and lots of other things. I am the EPITOMY of diversity. Besides, lentils are legumes….so are beans. Mexicans eat beans, therefore Tamazula is appropriate for lentil soup.
Tom: Nope. There are no hippy Mexicans so, nope.
Me: What?! Lentil soup is not hippy.
Tom: It most certainly is. Hippies eat it. Google “Young ones, Neil, and lentils”.
This went on for a while. Finally I Googled it.
Me: Hey! That’s Drop Dead Fred!!
Tom: That’s Rick, not Neil. And you’re missing the point. It’s a hippy cooking lentils.
Here’s the video Tom told me to watch. You probably won’t like it. It’s pretty horrible. I would honestly just skip right over it and save those 4 minutes of your life. I’ve only included it in case you’re wondering what the heck we’re talking about.
Me: Those aren’t hippies by the way, they look like UK punks to me. This show is weird and does nothing to strengthen your argument. Now there are people in bear suits running down the street. I did not enjoy watching this show. It made me feel funny. No toe tingling at all. You lost the argument.
Tom: What does toe tingling have to do with anything?
Tom never even liked hot sauce until I came along. And now he’s stealing the stuff and making me eat lentil soup with Sriracha in it, which completely traumatizes my delicate and discerning palate.
I bet the head-massage goddess doesn’t steal hot sauce.
Watch out, Tom.