Remember your Freegan days?

From Toothpaste for Dinner

A long-held Cheek-ism is that the best kind of food is *free* food. Learned me that one in my college days. Today's view yields that while it may not be the best, it's not to be scorned.

To wit: free beer is always good beer. If you can't embrace the joy of a free PBR Tallboy because it's not "good enough" for you, then step aside from Cheekdom. If you're paying for it, you can be picky, but free is always welcome.

It Can't Get Any Freer Than *This*, Baby

From Toothpaste for Dinner

Time, time, time. What's become of me?

We bitch. We moan. We beg for more time. We bury our cold noses in this hazy shade of winter.

Well, today's the day we get a whole effing extra day of time. One thousand, four hundred and forty minutes of extra time. What are YOU going to do with it? Get over yourself and *do*.

J.K. Rowling counsels, "It is our choices that define us, far more than our abilities."

As Sheena advised us last year, "February is Free Month". This year, I claim this entire day as free. It's in the black. It's a bonus. If time is money, then this much time wins us all the effing contest. Am hoping to report that I've bought myself a new effing car on my free day. Will advise if such is acquired.

For it's not what you get free. It's how you LOOK when you get free stuff. And lovelies? You. look. mahvelous!

Taped on the wall at the Toyota Dealership (sadly, the Toyota RAV4 did not make the cut list):

Attitude, by Charles Swindell

The longer I live
The more I realize the impact of attitude on life.
Attitude, to me, is more important than the past,
Than education,
Than money,
Than circumstances,
Than failures,
Than success,
Than what other people think or say or do.

It is more important than appearance,
Giftedness or skill.
It will make or break an organization,
A school, a home.

The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day
Regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day.
We cannot change our past.
We cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way.
We cannot change the inevitable.

The only thing we can do
Is play the string we have.
And that is our attitude.

I am convinced that life is 10 percent what happens to me
And 90 percent how I react to it.
And so it is with you.

Cheek Tarts

Just for you, my sweet, sweet eValentines.

Acme Heartmaker

Horse's Ass

Spanks to CountryMouse for this.

F*ck forty!

My Enormous Penis

Mr. Pid referenced it (the song) the other day in a phone chat. Erin shouts out about Steve's. And other general silliness compels me to share this gem from a few years back.

A Northern Virginia a capella group that opened for Eddie From Ohio, DaVinci's Notebook is sadly now defunct. But they so did not suck.

Signs You're An Adult

Scott Adams did a recent post on his Dilbert blag about permanent age. While still pondering mine, it's somewhere south of the currently accumulated years.

I wear cartoon jammies. I seek out new music and don't discount it as shite. I'm friends with urchins of friends and seldom find myself saying "when I was your age" to 'em.

But.

There are milestones I continue to hit that serve as signs I'm an adult. A few weeks back was one: watching the odometer turn over 100,000 miles.


Bought used @ 17,000 miles in the fall of 1997. Have worked from home since, enjoying the insurance discount for the 0 to 3 mile commute. The paint job has seen its better day, but it's paid for and gets me around. The iPod tape deck adapter gave it a new leash on life.

Recent months had me purchase pondering for the next chariot, but I hit two problems. First, that I'm newly particular about the shape of vehicles. I can't find one that doesn't irk me - within or without my price range. And then I met the startling realization that I'm pragmatic.

It ain't broke. Do I really need a new car? Sheena posed harder questions during Cheek Weekend about conspicous resource consumption, and got me thinking.

I'd like to have heated leather seats for long road trips, but I could rent a car for those and save cashola (and have a lesser impact on the earth). I'd like ... well, really, that's all I want that I don't have right now. Then Sheena went and got all unchummy for Hummers.

Happy Earth Day!

Atlanta: Sprung

"Every field wears a bonnet
With some spring daisies on it,
Even birds of a feather show their clothes off together.
Sun's gettin' shinery, to spotlight the finery,
Spring, Spring, Spring."

- Johnny Mercer, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

The heckling can end. Been busy in CheekTown and writing is a guilty pleasure. Apologies for the Spring blag break.

Speaking of Spring, it is ON in Hotlanta. First blooming were the Redbud and Bradford pear trees, chased rapidly by cherry trees and forsythia. Saturday found the dogwoods and azaleas competing for first billing. Prettiest tulips yet were spied yesterday at a traffic light.


And so, with Spring comes its rites. Fat bees hum in slow stupor as they languidly lounge about the jasmine blooms draping down from the front porch lattice. Female cardinals build their nests with azalea twigs.

For female humans, toes are pedi-blinged, temperatures rise, necklines plunge, and razors fly as pale legs are landscaped for printemps display.


You cannot trust Cheek with sharp objects. She can barely sing and shake a tamborine at the same time! It took three SpongeBob band-aids to quell the welling blood. At least they glowed in the dark to light the way - Cheek's not known for grace, either.

(Props to Erin O’Brien and her Ides of March Eve Naked Couch Day pic for illustrating tasteful snaps.)

One Scratch Stand?

Beautiful day in Hotlanta. Daylight’s reach is extending and the mercury is rising. Front door ajar, sofa lounging as the evening falls. But, soft? What light through yonder window breaks? A shadow, slinking towards the glass door ajar, movement tripping the front porch motion light and drawing my eye from MacBook luminosity.

He’s short, dark, and handsome. A svelte black cat with a broad chest. Skittish as I opened the door, but two blown kisses and a low “mmm kiiiiiiirrrra?” found him stealing back. He was looking for love, and he picked the right door. His reward found: a scratch fest with heavy petting.

Cats that like – nay, DEMAND – furious love warms this feline fan in a furry glow. Our tryst successfully avoided detection by the abode’s resident cuddle muffins that wouldn’t appreciate his audacious assumption of Cheek’s person. Our brief first date didn’t afford pictorial capture, but something tells me he’ll be back.

I wasn’t expecting a new suitor on this, the last day of Cupid’s month. But if you keep your door open, serendipity can strike. That’s why I say, hey man, nice scratch. Nice scratch, man.

My Swedish Passion, Finally Requited

It began as a teenager; a long-distance crush. You were all the rage when you arrived in Woodbridge at Potomac Mills a few short years after I’d moved away to Florida. Had to see for myself what the fuss was all about when I came to visit during college, and you blew me away. Your shape. Your size. Your color. You were a cheap date, but you weren’t easy. You kept your distance, played it coy. You promised you’d come closer, if I’d only have patience. I heaved a heavy teenage sigh of longing and left you behind. But I kept my eye on you.

Ok, you’re right. It was more than a crush. If this confessional love letter is to be absolutely honest, then yes. I stalked you. I looked for glimpses of you on MTV. I followed you to Seattle as an adult when I might have realized my temptation to pack you in my suitcase and bring you home with me. You’re such a tease. Your practical side dueled with the costly price I’d have to pay for relocation. I returned to Seattle over and over again, telling myself it wasn’t *just* to see you.

You taught me in Chicago that size. does. matter. You were so tall. So wide. But my passion was still unrequited. You were still too expensive to bring back with me. You whispered that anticipation was key in any successful relationship. How many years would I have to hold myself back? My wants? My needs?

I got serious. I got my passport. I haunted you in other countries, but you’d only give me trinkets to smuggle home. The frustration was palpable. I was overcome with emotion to visit your homeland, Sverige, last year. I waved a fond “hej” as I passed you on the highway, but I couldn’t bear to visit you where you where born, where you grew up, and where you’re celebrated without equal. I denied myself seeing you, and it just about killed me.

But you didn’t lie, my sweet, Swedish lingonberry. Your sultry promises whispered in my teenage ears came true last summer. You came to ME! Not believing you to be real, this time I kept MY distance. I’m sorry for all the phone hang-ups, and the late night hits to your web site. I knew that I would be only the latest in your long string of local admirers, so I bided my time. It felt like a dream to revel in your company, to spend endless hours with you that late summer day. So surreal. I couldn’t believe you were true. I couldn’t let myself go. I stole away from you, empty handed and undone. You said you understood, that after all these years, I had to be absolutely sure that I was ready to take our relationship to the next level.

Fall. The Holidays. Winter. Just thinking of you warmed me up inside. I needed a chaperone to see you again – I couldn’t trust myself not to fall at your feet. First introductions, quiet introspection, and we left. I was jealous to realize you’d managed to work your magic and seduce my chaperone, too. They embraced you as amorously as I had all these years, jubilantly awaiting their return visit to get fully into bed and bedroom with you.

Gauntlet accepted! I could not let you have another lover without first having me. Tho’ last week was Fat Tuesday and the beginning of traditional denial cycles, this weekend found me replete. Satiated. Found. For I went the distance. I met you, pace for pace. I lavished money on you. I brought you home. You’re staged in my office, but you’ll find yourself ensconced in my bedroom this weekend. I’ll have you to myself, every day, available to the touch. You’ll contain me. You are mine. Hear me roar.

Tack, my Swedish passion, for waiting for me. Tack.

Grammar Girl

One of the risks in having a big ass-vocabulary and a motor mouth is that I have a large reserve of words that I occasionally misuse, mispronounce, and (eek!) misspell. This is not to be confused with the myriad alternative spellings and made up words found on this blog - those are deliberate. I think.

Certain peeps ebulliently point out my verbal and written gaffes with justifiable glee, as it's my wont to identify theirs with what I'm sure comes across as a truthy air of superiority. But as I pull up my slipped aplomb skirt, face flushed, I am in fact grateful. I ain't perfect, I don't want to suck that way, and my druther is to keep the wheel of my squirrel cage on kilter as it's cranked by language and wit. So Boone, Mr. Pid, Sheena, and others, mea culpa. Mea culpa.

As a path to redemption, Cheek proffers Grammar Girl, a weekly Podcast and blog on word usage. Well written and full of useful examples for everyday readin' and writin', it joins the Links That Don't Suck honor list. If you have similar reference sites, share.

Ollie Ollie In Come Free

James, by Mark Tonra

Blogmother Sheena has tagged me. Viral chain blogging somehow rates higher than chain e-mails. Go figger.

Cheek’s Weirdness, in Six Degrees


1. I can wolf whistle freakishly loud. Learned the skill from Grandma of Hampton University fame when I was 7. Running with urchins in the swampy neighborhood was limited only by being in range to return dad’s own “time for dinner” beckoning whistle. I forget its volume occasionally and wound the ear next to me (my apologies to Mr. Pid, the last victim). I can also whistle and hum at the same time. Fingers are required for both feats, and volume is realized only on the exhale. Using just lips yields a soft tune, accomplished only with inhaling (If I Only Had a Brain is my soft whistle tune druther).

2. I’m a recovering picky eater reveling in the discovery that it’s textures that wig me out, not tastes. It’s freed my palate to boldly go where Cheek hasn’t before. A recent first was oysters – cornmeal fried with cheese grits and remoulade sauce at Kool Beanz Café. Carolina Mom’s incredulity finds her not buying the oyster intake story until a witness testifies. Raw oysters score in the danger zone on the texture-ick-o-meter. not. gonna. do it.

3. I have never eaten a hamburger, steak, or any red meat. No vegetarian here (CheekierMeSly Passim), but digestion proves futile. Recent bidness travel found me seated next to the owner of the FatBurger chain – thanks, PW, for not dismissing me out of hand! I join Sheena in her condiment non-druthers: ketchup, mustard, straight mayo, pickles … ew.

4. My long-term recall is judged a peculiar shade of powerful by the average bear. Music lyrics and childhood deets in particular. But if I don’t put my car keys and phone in the same place every time I come home, I’m screwed. It’s all about balance.

(Props to online comic strip xkcd.com.)

5. My vocabulary is, well, let’s call it big-a**ed. And I get crap for it daily. JMU MC slammed me during freshman year midterms as a f*cking English major for calling a cafeteria offering “putrid”. His own vocab ain’t nuthin’ to sneeze at, but his twitty wit is infamous. Snobbery risk avoidance measures found me peppering my speech with choice mal mots. I wear my smartified grammarian badge of courage proudly now (f*ck ‘em if they have to look it up!), but that potty mouth action is here for life. Color me turned on by folks who – as a new acquaintance puts it – use three syllable words. Regularly. Strung together even. I have the most recent laugh on JMU MC – his utterance of “Buy our CDs, and go to hell” will not be lived down. A Freudian slip or Tourette's?. (MC, love ya, no sh*t.)

6. Stupid human tricks: I can touch my tongue to my nose. Can curl it too, but can’t flip it. I can pull my thumbs back to touch the bottom of my forearm. I have restless pinky toes, always moving out and in, unconsciously. My second toe is longer than my big toe. My largest mole is on the right side of my head. I’m green/blue-eyed, but my right eye has a streak of reddish brown. I hear noises at high frequencies that most can’t (some cash registers, monitors on with CPUs off). My knee caps have unusual wiggability by hereditary design of the patriarchal persuasion. And I make superlative, foodgasmic chocolate chip oatmeal cookies while whistling, rolling the squishy dough in perfect balls, not eating a f*cking hamburger, and thinking about my age 10 swim time in 50m freestyle.

Ready or not, here I come. Cheek tags:
JenE
O’Mama
RobinaRobinaRobina
Uninstalled MOCC
WiseHilda

By request: Things to eat before you die

A sister in the wankosphere has challenged me to scribe in spirit of her recent post. To wit, another blogger’s “Guide to the Globe: Things to eat before you die.” Oh, Sheena. Know ye of whom you challenge to such a task? The self-proclaimed, most-particular picky eater of my own acquaintance?

Thankfully, my taste buds have been recently awakened. My Dad & stepMom Judy sojourned with me over the summer, preparing most dinners for two months. I eat things once scoffed at, picked around on the plate, and avoided. Going to restaurants now requires more time, as I look beyond the appetizer section and can sit at the big kid’s table. Onions, zucchini, mushrooms, tomatoes: bring ‘em on! No shit. You laugh, but this is revolutionary stuff for one famous for ordering pizza, light on the sauce.

So, I’m not a foodie. Yet. Give me time. My must list pre-dates my taste revolution. I’ll have to leave off the obvious ones that others glom onto: fresh glazed off the conveyor belt from Krispy Kreme; Hostess HoHos, and more. But I do have some foodgasm musts:

1. Chicharron de Pollo from Roberto’s Little Havana in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Ask for extra mohito sauce to get the requisite garlic/lemon zing and to dip your fried yucca. End with Tres Leches cake and roll yourself home.

2. A grilled cheese sammich with crisp bacon on sourdough bread. Had my first at the Fog City Diner in San Francisco, sitting at the counter while Johnny Bench (Cincinnati Reds catcher & MLB hall of famer) and Ed O’Neill (Married with Children) dined in the booth behind me. Good with tomato as well.

3. Bacon. Glorious, wonderful bacon. Good with everything except chocolate. Prefer it fried, but often microwave it at home.

4. Garlic. Roasted and spread. Minced or chopped, and in everything (again, except chocolate). Garlic makes everything great and can forgive other weaknesses. Hope vampirism isn’t catching, cuz I’d be so screwed.

5. Chicken Piccata, done right. Meat beaten flat to less than a quarter inch thickness, lots of lemon and garlic.

6. A Chocolate Dipped Cone from Dairy Queen. A treat of my youth, rediscovered in adulthood. Zesto in Atlanta serves a gourmand version.

7. Brie and Fruit in Phyllo Pastry. Not only good in restaurants, Super Target’s own splendid Archer Farms brand in the frozen food section, with pears.

8. Potato Paradise: Shoe string fries (Houston’s), Freshly made potato chips with sesame ginger dressing (Village Tavern), The Swede's Mashed Potatoes (real butter, half and half, and secret spice), and Rosemary Garlic New Potatoes (chez moi, Judy’s recipe). After all, I haven’t met a potato I didn’t like.

9. Smoked gouda beer batter cheese fondue. Visit me, and in 10 minutes you’ll have warm heaven over crusty bread and granny smith apples. Yes, lots of garlic.

10. Olive Tapenade. First sampled in New Orleans with mushroom paté. Love it on bread, with veggies, or by the spoonful.

And I agree with Sheena: Dill pickles are among the highest on my “ew!”-o-meter – will send my grilled cheese sammiches back to the kitchen to decontaminate the damn plate and ding the server on the tip for not listening when I said NO PICKLE!