Crisis on 38th Street

 

21994414_10155766019509173_8283207962716558555_oI was working at the computer when my cabana boy rushed into my house.  “Sue, Sue where are you?”

Now since this thirty-year-old is not prone to hysteria, I jumped from chair and sped to the kitchen.  “Matt, what’s up?”

“I’m having a crisis?”

“Really at 2:45 PM on a Tuesday afternoon?  What is it?”

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“My prof just emailed the class and said we’re having a taco potluck tonight.  I’m in charge of the meat!  I’m on break from work; I don’t get off till after 4, and I have to be at class at 5! What am I going to do?  I don’t know how to make taco meat.  Should I go to Taco Bell and try to buy it from them?”

“Do you have the ground beef and seasoning?”

“No.  I’m doomed.”

“Do you want me to save your sorry self?”

“Would you?  Oh, I owe you.  I owe you big time.  Anytime you need something done just let me know.”

By the time Matt returned from work, showered, and changed clothes, the taco meat was bubbling away in the crockpot.  His crisis was resolved.

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“Thank you, thank you, thank you.  You know what’s weird, Sue?  I’m the only guy in the class.  The gals all were assigned things like, chips, tortillas, and sour cream.  I got the one thing I just couldn’t walk into a grocery and buy.”

I smiled, “No.  Not weird, my dear.  You were being tested by the prof.  She wanted to see if you could deliver.  She taught you a subtle lesson on sexism.  So as you plug in the crockpot at class, proudly announce that guys can cook.”  I don’t doubt for one moment that wily prof wasn’t smirking.

 

 

 

 

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