So I was minding my own business, eating my supper when Makayla announced her hot sauce was spicy. Since hot sauce tends to be spicy I didn’t say anything other than, “Mhhmm.” I was distracted, eager to get back to my Hunger Games book and wishing everyone would hurry up and finish so I could abandon them for my own selfish indulgences. Micah, being a far more insightful human being when it comes to responding to the random vices of children, told Makayla that her taste buds tasted the spicy and went on to explain some totally false reason as to why people feel “spicy” in their mouths. I was busy clearing the table and let him finish and then said, “Well, it feels like taste but really spicy isn’t a flavor. It’s a chemical reaction; your brain recognizing pain receptors.”
“Spicy IS a taste,” Micah said, “you think your taste buds don’t know what spicy is?” I am not one who likes to be contradicted when contradicting someone. It irritated me that he didn’t just say something like, “Oh, I didn’t know that. You’re a genius.”
“Do your genitals have taste buds?” I asked him and went on to explain that if we rubbed jalapeno juice all over his pecker it would burn. “Does your nose have taste buds? Shove something spicy up there and it burns. You can maybe taste the pepper itself but spicy isn’t taste. It has nothing to do with taste buds.”
We went back and forth for a while before I decided this wasn’t going anywhere and sweetly said, “Sweetie, you’re right. I’m not going to argue over whether or not spicy is a flavor or not.”
“Oh no,” he said, “you come in and say “that’s not right” after I say something. I’m going to go look it up on the computer.”
My mouth dropped open and my temper made me grit my teeth because his “that’s not right” comment was said in a mock girly voice and I felt like he wasn’t portraying me correctly at all. First, I don’t have such a heavy country accent. Second, I didn’t at all say that wasn’t right. Not in those words.
“I politely let you know you were explaining something scientific incorrectly to a kid,” I said, “I would like her to not have false ideas on things.”
“You’ll see,” he said as he went off to his computer. I got started cleaning the kitchen, fuming. I wanted to break a plate over his head or even better, shove a jalapeno up his butt. I know for a fact spicy isn’t a “flavor.” I have no sense of smell; I was born with this genetic defect. Because of that I can’t really taste much of anything. Because of the mountains of research I have done and doctors I have seen, I KNOW what I’m talking about when it comes to things like this. Because I can “taste” spicy things I’ve done mountains of research on it and learned it’s because it isn’t a taste at all, but pain receptors from the chemical reaction of whatever spicy pepper I’m eating. I hate being told I’m wrong when I’m right but realized this particular battle was foolish. He came back into the kitchen and I figured arguing wouldn’t accomplish anything since apparently the love of my life has a skull thicker than old school Star Jones. Feeling stupid for getting so worked up over something so stupid, I gave him a hug and said, “Sweetie it doesn’t matter who is right. It’s just talk about spicy stuff. I love you.”
“Well we’re both right,” he said, “spicy is a taste AND a chemical reaction.”
I unlocked my arms from around him, took a step back and said, “It is NOT! What biased retarded site did you go to be told that? Spicy is NOT A FREAKING FLAVOR!”
“I asked an internet doctor,” he said calmly. He seemed amused which was infuriating me more because in my mind, being told repeatedly I was wrong when I know I’m right, especially by some idiot “internet doctor” was just too much.
“YOU DID NOT!” I shrieked.
“We’re both right sweetie,” he said, “No one can be right all the time.”
I wanted to rip his face off. Kick him in the knees. Dunk his head in my dish water. But I just said, “OK sweetie. Believe some quack on the internet over me.”
He made a jab about my “education,” bringing up yet again my alleged brainwarshing from liberal professors, a jab he stole from my grandpa.
“That has NOTHING to do with this and I haven’t been brainWASHED by anyone. I form my own ideas but spicy being a non-flavor is a freaking FACT, Micah, and since it’s a FACT, no one brainWASHED me into believing some insane theory. Biologically it can be PROVEN.”
“Not by what I read on the internet,” he said.
I heard myself make some scream/shriek noise and decided to just ignore him. He was clearly having a good time with this and I was starting to feel dumb for getting so mad. But for the next two days I researched and researched for him, printing off pages, highlighting key points, and citing sources. All my spare time was devoted to compiling a book of every source I could get proving I was right about the argument. I figured he’d feel like a dumbass and was excited to present him with my information. He called earlier and I was too excited to keep quiet.
“I’ve been getting lots of information for you that proves I’m right on the whole spicy argument and I expect a very big apology from you,” I told him.
“I know you’re right on that babe,” he said, “I was just picking on you.”
“You’re just trying to get out of being proven wrong now that I have proof on my side,” I told him, “You can’t sweet talk your way out of this. You even looked online and found lies to support your idea.”
“I wasn’t even looking at anything about that,” he said, “When I went on the computer I was looking at a tractor.”
I envisioned two explosive balls of fire shooting out of my ears and felt like a freak to have spent so much time proving him wrong when he hadn’t even really been participating in the argument. He claimed he just liked pushing my buttons and said it was fun to get me all worked up. I plan on introducing a new hobby to him very soon in the future, pottery making maybe, since he feels harassing me in his free time is acceptable. After we hung up I sat down to lunch, still fuming and recounted the whole thing to my grandpa. He listened thoughtfully while grandma advised I just totally ignore my beloved the next time he started being obnoxious. Grandpa cleared his throat, an indication he had something to say. I looked at him to acknowledge I was ready to listen and he said, “What kind of tractor was he looking at?”
