My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [71]
I’m not sure if threading’s technically supposed to cause pain or if somehow my extensions and the threader were in cahoots. I get the feeling the woman operating the thread was somehow avenging her distant pilgrim cousin’s sacrifice. In which case, who can blame her?
I continue. “Thing is, she used cuticle scissors to trim down the thicker part of my brows first, so now I look like frigging Carrot Top.”
Angie barks with laughter. “Excellent!”
“And then—then! Because I’m a genius, I told the lady to get all the peach fuzz off my cheeks. But you know what? Those tiny golden hairs serve a purpose. Apparently they act as your skin’s version of pressed powder, dulling all the little lines and imperfections. Now my face is completely naked, and for only seven dollars, I look ten years older.”139
“So you don’t recommend threading. Noted. Was lunch any better?”
“Fortunately, yes. When I told Gina that Indian food kind of scared me, she was this total voice of reason about it. She explained that I’m familiar with ninety percent of the ingredients in most Indian dishes; they’re just combined in a way I’ve never tasted.”
“Isn’t it superhot?”
“See? That’s what I asked. I’m the biggest baby in the world when it comes to anything spicy. I don’t mind the flavor, but my colon is delicate from years of accidentally poisoning myself, and I don’t enjoy crying on the toilet. Anyway, Gina said there are a ton of nonspicy dishes. Do you know much about Indian food?”
Angie guffaws. “We went to Culver’s last night for butter burgers; what do you think?”
“Your seven-year-old isn’t begging for curry in his lunch box?”
“Don’t get me started. I just turned the younger ones’ room into Guantánamo Bay. I spent a week telling them to clean it up because it stank, and they refused. I finally go in there to do it myself because the smell was unholy. Turns out those little bastards had been stuffing their skidmarked undies behind the dresser for weeks, so no wonder I’ve been washing the same three pairs over and over.”
“So you’re waterboarding them? Kind of harsh for someone who doesn’t spank.”
“Ha, no,” she laughs. “But I stripped their room bare. I took out every single item except their beds, a chair, and their dressers. If they can’t keep it organized, I will organize it for them.”
“How’d they react?”
“Don’t know. I’ll tell you when they get home from practice. And I’ll tell you what, if they keep it up, I’m putting them in jumpsuits, too. Anyway, enough about my household terrorists. What’d you eat?”
I glance down at Maisy spread across my feet. Once in a while when Angie tells me heartwarming stories about her kids, I wonder for a minute if we didn’t make a mistake by opting for pets instead of children. Then I hear a word like “skidmark,” and I get real comfortable with our choices.
“Um . . .” I try to recollect all the delicious tastes and scents from that day. “We started with samosas, which are these deep-fried dumplings filled with veggies and spices. I made Gina order everything. She said the rule of thumb was to stay away from anything ‘vindaloo’ and stick with ‘tandoori.’ Then I got this mixed-grill thing that had lamb and chicken—no beef, by the way—done a bunch of different ways, and it was served with this phenomenal bread called naan. Speaking of bread, you know how when you go to dinner, you get a couple of rolls in the beginning, and then it’s never really thought of again?”
“Not at Culver’s, but yes, I understand the concept.”
“Well, it’s a whole different ball game with Indian food. This place had something like fifteen different kinds of bread—some of it filled with herbs and spices, some of it with vegetables, some of it with meat. We got a mixed basket, so I got to try a bunch of stuff. And you know what? In a country with bread that good, I can see why it would be easy to be a vegetarian. That’s probably why they’re all thin.”
Angie snorts. “Uh-huh. That’s why. Not dysentery or cholera or, you know, poverty.”
“Oh. Right.