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Archive for July, 2012

Talk To Him Like A H*e

July 24th, 2012 32 comments

Today, I’m going to put you ladies onto some game your mothers might not have told you about. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure your mother told you to do the exact opposite of what I’m going to tell you to do and your father dreaded the day a guy like me would come along and kick you this knowledge. But most of you who read my blog are adult enough to take this advice and use it without worrying about disrespecting your parent’s legacy. At least I hope you are. If you’re the type of person who still refers to the work your teachers give you to do after school as “homework”; hell, if you’re still referring to your teachers as teachers and not professors, you might want to log off right now.

For the rest of you grown folks who are still here, let’s move onto today’s lesson. Peep game:

Ladies, every now and then, you need to talk to your man like a h*e. I have a neighbor who lives downstairs from me, older woman. At least once a week, whenever I see her, you know what she says to me? “Young man, if I was 20 years younger…”

That’s no way to talk to me, but then again, it is.

You’re either scoffing or rolling your eyes at this advice. If you’re doing either of these, I feel bad for your lack of imagination and unwillingness to learn new things. But if you just chuckled or rubbed your chin with curiousity, congratulations. You’re obviously into keeping your man.

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Categories: game, guys, women Tags:

A Look Back On Being 30

July 17th, 2012 13 comments

Tomorrow (or today if you’re reading this on Wednesday, July 18), I turn 31-years-old.

This not only makes me old it makes you old as well, but that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is I survived a very pivotal age, an age that when I was going into it, I had a host of expectations and ideas about what it meant. Little did I know, it was nothing like I thought it would be.

The thing I tell about being 30 is, you don’t turn 30, 30 turns you. Because you are now this particular age, people expect things of you and you expect things of yourself. I have spent a whole year telling people who ask, I’m 30-years-old, and every single time I’ve said it, it feels like I’m lying. I don’t feel 30, for a variety of reasons, but my ID tells no lies and so therefore, people expect me to be 30, even when they have no idea what it means.

Hell, I didn’t have any idea what it meant and as I sit here less than 24 hours away from turning 31, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this past year was akin to the Introduction to Statistics class I was required to take in college. I did not flourish, but I had highs and lows that balanced out to the point where I made it to 31 and the older you get, the more you just want to be able to say that. You made it to the next year.

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Categories: Life Tags:

Quit Asking Her To Cook Just Because She’s A Woman

July 16th, 2012 7 comments

When I was growing up in my house, the men never cooked. Gender roles were well-defined and traditional. Mom made dinner, sister helped, and us men worked outside. My grandmother owned a restaurant, a small diner in a neighboring town, and there, she was not only the proprietor, but also the cook as well. Over 12 hours a day she would spend in her restaurant’s kitchen, cooking up customer orders of classic American cuisine.

Needless to say, I loved mom’s cooking. Her tacos are the reason for my love affair with them to this day. Her porkchops are to die for, and her chicken adobo is some of the best in my hometown of Seaside. Especially when you put it over white rice. As my sister got older and she began to handle her own in the kitchen, I loved her cooking as well. And my grandmother? Forget about it. That woman can win Chopped, Iron Chef, and Top Chef at the same time.

But if there was one lesson I took from my years growing up with women who could cook, it was that this was a privilege and not a right to be had simply because I was a male and they were females. My Pop, as manly as he was, would occasionally remind me that it was no one’s responsibility to feed me, a woman’s especially. “Don’t let someone tell you it’s a woman’s job to cook,” he said. “You can feed yourself.” Every now and then if it was just the two of us at the house, he would drive his point home by making me go with him to the grocery store and pick up some cornish game hens. “Bachelor food,” he called it. “Put these in the oven, let them cook, make some rice, some veggies, there you go. This is how I survived when I didn’t have a woman. You’ll do the same.”

The cornish game hens came out right, though not tasty. They needed salt, pepper, flavor. Another time, he made me some boxed pasta, fettucini alfredo, the one that comes with a pack of sauce, and also some hot dogs which he cut up and mixed in with the pasta. If you think this is something you feed a baby, you’re right. But I was 14. To this day it remains the most disgusting meal I ever had. I sometimes think back to that dinner and wonder if I was on punishment and just didn’t know it, but Pop wasn’t really emphasizing the skills of being your own chef, as much as he was the ability to be my own chef and not let a woman affect my hunger pangs.

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Categories: dating, women Tags: