Lexicon With Acquaintances

Player 2 has no further reason to breathe in and out.

You know that annoying “face buried in smartphone” stance that teenagers usually have? Well, I’ve adopted that stance. I’m devolving! And I can blame three words for that: Words With Friends. (abbreviation is WWF for the cool kids)

Yes, Pinchers, I must admit that I am quite addicted. They say self-awareness is the first step. So… *takes first step… in the name of love*

I remember when I first saw rumblings of this game on Twitter, I didn’t bite right away. But, when I did?! I dayum near went to the WWF Buffet. If I’m near my phone (especially while at work), you can find me obsessively checking said phone every 30 seconds few minutes, checking to see if it’s my turn to play a word. I need help. Hell, I need so much help, I know the points of each of the letters in the word, H-E-L-P.

There are certain nuances about WWF that feed my addiction (and infuriate me simultaneously). If you up on that WWF life, then you know what I’m talmbout. And, if you don’t know, now you know. Well, at least you will know after you read the following, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as nicely now does it? Are you trying to kill Hip-Hop?

Where was I…

The Ins And Outs Of Words With Friends.

– Because I Got High… Score. Lemme tell you somethin’. You haven’t LIVED until you got a triple word score with a gangsta letter like J, Q, or Z. And that first triple-digit score? It’s like riding a bicycle right after taking off your training wheels. You be proud and geeked like a mug!

– Can I Buy A Vowel? You know what the WWF version of a “womp” moment is? Having nothing but consonants on your personal board. Even worse than that? Having nothing but vowels. Because at least consonants have SOME type of point value. The highest point value for a vowel is “2″… unless you on that “sometimes Y” philosophy, then it’s “3.” Either way. Not having a mix of them both makes you yell something the FCC wouldn’t be okay with, forcing you to swap some of those letters for some (hopefully) better ones. Sidenote: In the early days of WWF, I NEVER used the “swap tiles” feature because I lowkey thought I was a failure for not being able to make a word with the letters I was initially provided with. For serious. Got over that real quick, doe.

– I Don’t Brag, I Mostly Boast. One of the things that makes playing any type of game more than just a game is the ability to talk smack. And the creators of WWF knew this was an important feature by adding the chat function. I mean, let’s not pretend like they just implemented said function for communication purposes, in general. It was to talk SHAT! And my ish-talking game in WWF is soooo dope. Ax about me. I’ll cut you with words. (you sawed what I did there? … and there?)

– Word?! Probably THEE most infuriating thing about WWF (yes, even more than the all consonants or vowels airthang!), is when it doesn’t accept a legitimate word. On one hand, you may learn that “Qi” is actually a word (and will become the go-to word if you got a Q and you stuck, FYI), but on the other hand, it’ll have you questioning if the words you used in your everyday life were in fact… real. Ya’ll shoulda seen me trying to play the word “TV” over and over. I played it once, it didn’t accept it, and I’m pretty sure I played it over and over because there was NO way it wasn’t accepting the word. I wasn’t accepting THAT. Eventually, I had to. *mumblesIguessbecauseitwasjustanabbreviationmumbles* But! The silver lining is that it occasionally accepts beautifully ratchet words like “goon” and “phat.” Brings me life!

And, yes, I was straight geeked when I was first able to play the word, “rice.”

Pinchers, do you play Words With Friends? What do you love/hate about it? Is there a WWF rehab? If you don’t play it, get off team Crackberry and get a real smartphone I heard through the grapevine that you can now play it on Facebook.

Oh, and my username is “pinchmycheekie.” You want some?!

Love ya like BET loves re-enacting an El Debarge comeback,

Cheekie

MY NAME IS MY NAME

It's hard to look this intimidating when you're pinchable.

Let the reh-CORD show that I am offering my sincerest apologies for yelling at ya’ll in the title up there… but you can’t quote that line CAPSless. It’s the law.

Anyway.

Against my better judgment, I was Gchatting with Naturally Alise when she alerted me to the following tweet:

@Naturally Alise: The fact I don’t know @pinchmycheekie‘s first name and we have talked every single day all day for almost a year. -_-

-_-, indeed. Blame it on our conversations being super random and obscure and me MEANING to have the “So, what’s yo gubment?” conversation, but completely forgetting. I mean, I usually just wait ’til folks ask because it rarely crosses my mind unless we end up FB friends or something. (which, Alise and I ended up being… it’s how I told her my name. lol) Basically, my mind be too focused on the important things of life like “finding a way to combine rice, ice cream, and Idris Elba” to waste precious brain cells on things like basic social pleasantries.

Thus, I told her my name right then. Of which I’m not going to reveal here because I’m trying to be on my Sybil swag in peace. Ok, real answer is that I try to make a note to separate my professional Corporate America identity from the ratchet identity here. Not tryna have my name all up in the streets since The Man knows how to use Google, apparently. Just trying to keep the day job bills paid. Moving right along…

Once Alise found out the gubment, she expressed her surprise at my name. She thought I would be… and I quote… a “Hillary or Melanie.”

O_O *falls out laughing*

Like… Hillary of the Clinton Hillaries? Of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air Hillaries? And GIRL Melanie? Hee. It was interesting picturing myself as those names, to say the least. I mean, it’s not that I don’t like those names, it’s just after being so used to having my own name, it’s weird to picture any other, nah mean?

It’s just funny when you develop an ePersona to the point that it pretty much becomes a brand. Like so…

@RayJefury: @NaturallyAlise @pinchmycheekie ~ her real name isn’t Cheekie? #SantaAintRealDissapointment

-_-

See?! And he’s not alone. I’ve met several internet/blog folks in person and when I tried to introduce myself on some real ish, they responded all, “Nawl, yo name Cheekie. Embrace it.”

Just like the feline that I am, curiosity got the best of me and I wondered what everyone else in the eWorld imagined my name to be. So, I posed the question to Twitterville. I asked, “#TwitterPoll For those who don’t know my gubment name, what do you imagine my name would be?”

Ya’ll twiggas did NOT disappoint…

@tdlove5: @pinchmycheekie @NaturallyAlise Jacqueline

@tdlove5: @pinchmycheekie @NaturallyAlise ..no Sarah. LOL

@miss_tlee: @pinchmycheekie JaQuanda. *snickers*

@thepbg @pinchmycheekie Belinda.

@RayJefury: @pinchmycheekie @NaturallyAlise you know what would be an ill piece of marketing? If your real name was something like Chekeshia.

@ManAboutIt: @pinchmycheekie Charlesha Jones

Of course, the answers intrigued and tickled me. “Charlesha Jones” had me sounding like some 2011 version of Foxy Brown, which I dug. But, what had me FLAT on the ground (figuratively)? Belinda. Peebz ain’t a BIT of shat for that one. Ya’ll don’t understand how much it took for me NOT to holler out-loud at work when I read that. Especially since it was “only hear the sounds of typing” quiet in the joint at the time.

LAWD.

So, once again my curiosity is winning because I’m about to give the rest of ya’ll the floor. Pinchers, what do you imagine my gubment name to be? For those eFolks who already know the real-deal what DID you think before? Leggo in the comments!

Love ya like Mother Nature loves to showcase her fury,

Cheekie

Drifting On A D.C. Memory

 

Of COURSE our nation’s capital has a monument that is phallic.

*wistful sigh*

Oh, Dee Cee. I came, I saw, I… was pinched. It was the best of times. It was the ratchetest (o_O) of times.

Quick background as to how I got there.

Remember way back when (like 50-lem years ago… or um, this past October), a few ladies and I descended onto the beaches of Miami? Well, we all decided to do that again, but bigger! Bigger, as in more folks!

In no particular order (or in order of how much I like them if ya wanna be messy for the hell of it), the participants/victims were: MsEsquire77, Nick@Nite (blog swag), Max (blog swag), LaLa (blog swag), Keisha Brown, Gem of the Ocean (blog swag), Starita34, SaneN85, Miss Patterson, L Boogie (blog swag), and That Damn African (blog swag).

Anyway, it was a fabulous time and I figured I’d give ya’ll a glimpse as to why. Soooooo…

Ten Memorable Moments In The Dee To The Cee (Oh, And Murrland, Too):

1. Up In The Air. No George Clooney. I had to list this first because I had QUITE the side-eye worthy experience traveling to and fro. Ok. So, I love Southwest. So much so that I lovingly refer to it as “Soufwest.” However, they disappointed me with their shenanigans this weekend. I kinda wanna be all Mufasa, like, “You deliberately disobeyed me!” It’s that serious. For one, my flight to BWI airport was quite a bumpy one. Like, the entire ride was doing the Bankhead Bounce. But, WAIT… there’s more! The day prior to my departure, I got a text notifying me that my flight was canceled. My face, at that very moment ~~>> ( ._.). So, after rescheduling my flight for the last departure of the night, I head to the airport and it was delayed yet again. All due to the nationwide news of Southwest having maintenance troubleshooting AND the fact that it was a thunderstorm so the staff couldn’t even fix our plane on time. And THIS flight?! Rough. Like Charlie Sheen’s aura. Pretty sure we passed through a stormy cloud (and lightning appeared WHILST we were inside) and the descent back into the Chi was rough as well. Lawd. However, even amongst all this fragglenaggle bull, the trip was SO worth it…

2. Transportation That Happens To Be Public. Like anyone who visits D.C. should, I definitely partook in The Metro. And what an experience it was. One special moment I had was when Keisha Brown realized that all of the ads in our train car was for Minute Rice. Hmm, wonder why I enjoyed that. However, what happened on Thursday night definitely stands out in terms of Metro memories. We were on our way to Park (on 14th… more on that soon) when this lady entered our train car having a full-on conversation. Of course, even my foolish self wants to give folks the benefit of the doubt so I looked for an earpiece. No dice. Not ONE damn die. She was definitely talking to herself, hand gestures and all. And she even turned to me and started talking, of which I exclaimed to Miss Patterson and Nick, “Um, she’s having a conversation with me, but I’m not a part of it.” Yup, that moment definitely solidified my place in D.C. because you aren’t officially welcomed to any big city unless you experience a crazy person on its public transportation.

3. Tourist Troubleshooting. So, we pick up Max at her hotel and decide to take a cab to Park. We tell him to go to Park on 14th and he proceeds to go. Several minutes later, we notice that it’s taking a bit long to get to our destination (especially since we were told it’s pretty close). Convo went a little like this:

Everyone: Um… sir. You know where you’re going?
Cabbie: Yes, 14th and um Park, you said?
Everyone: -___________- ?????
Nick: OMG, WHAT?!
Miss Patterson: No, we said PARK ON 14th. The nightclub. Why would you take us somewhere we didn’t say?
Me: Does 14th and Park even exist? Where were you taking us?
Cabbie: No, no no, you said 14th and Park.
Max: I don’t know what’s going on in your little dream world but we said Park at 14th.
Cabbie: I’ve been a cab driver for 30 yrs blahblahblahI’mAnAssholeWhoObviouslySwindledTouristsblahblahblah
Everyone: *gets out taxi in a huff and flags another one with some damn sense*

Right. We got Punk’d. -_- Moving on… lol

4. Pimpin’ at Park. Everyone and their mama suggested that we head to Park because it’s usually poppin’ on Thursday nights. Here is where we met Dr. J (blog swag) of SBM (where he proceeded to pinch my cheeks and say that I had the best cheeks in the world… *blush*). And here is also where everyone got super hype… so much so that folks actually made it rain at one point in the night. And Miss Patterson actually grabbed a dollar. Don’t worry, she kept it classy and slid it toward her with her foot. She didn’t just run over and bend face down, ass up.

5. First, Last… And Some Suppers In Between. The first night, L Boogie made a fabulous dinner for all of the gals who were staying at her house. Barbecue chicken, mashed sweet potatoes, and cornbread (pronounced, “cone-bread”). The cornbread in particular was mighty epic. I felt like John Coffee. Definitely quoted him, too. And then that morning, Starita decided to grace us with her infamous homemade bubble bread. Other great group dinners were at California Pizza Kitchen (where our waitress COULDA got shanked by Nick because she spilt a whole gang of drinks where she was sitting, but Nick had gotten up to go to the restroom), Busboys & Poets (where I enjoyed a lovely DC Tap Water and Mediterranean Burger), and Carrabas (where I just UP and told Eddie Brock that he smelt like heaven. Told ya I love me some cologne.).

6. Like We’re Teenagers Again. Yes, we went to the Mall. We had an actual Mall outing. Annapolis Mall to be specific. It’s such a large mall that we all decided to go off in different directions. Because I’m a bag hag, I decided to accompany Keisha Brown so that she can make her Michael Kors bag purchase. We made a few stops in between but my main destination was Macy’s. When we arrived to the bag, I gave her a great pep/hype talk and she bought it! I was like a proud mama. I think I did some variation of the dougie in celebration. Not sure… things are fuzzy. But, I wasn’t drunk… yet. Oh! And we also took Max to Target for the first time which was a special epic moment for me.

7. King Me! The evening right before we went to Adams Morgan, we all decided to do a little pep rally/pre-drinking. And what better way to do that than drinking games. Lawd. First, we decided to play the game where you have to point to a body part and say everything BUT what the body part actually is (for example, if you point to your knee, say “arm” or some ish). Whilst clapping in rhythm. It was hilarity because Miss Patterson kept messing up and having to take a sip and the one round where she SWORE she had it down pat, she pointed to her cheek and yelled, “CHEEK!” *DEAD* She was so sure of herself. Guess that was a shout-out? And THEN. We decided to play Kings which was full of laughs, but the greatest moment was when I pulled the last King. For those not familiar with this particular version of the game (because there really are several), the person who does this has to drink their entire drank… whatever is left inside. Lemme tell ya’ll when I pulled the card, I was PRAYING that I didn’t. Kept saying “please no King” over and over. Lo and effing behold, eff my entire life, I did. Why was this bad? Because I had JUST refilled my cup with Bacardi Dragonberry and there were probably TWO drops of lemonade left. WTF, that wasn’t a chaser, that was maybe a skip. Had to down the entire thing to the soundtrack of the ladies’ laughter. -___________-

8. Morgan Comma Adams. Adams Morgan: Another “have to go when in D.C.” spot. It’s basically a gaggle of joints for bar-hopping purposes. We got it IN at Grand Central. Most of us were already pre-drunk so we danced (and drank some more) the entire night. And the e-boo, Panama Jackson stopped by to party with us! I showed my appreciation by backin’ it up on him with the other cheeks. Hell, I’m sure he got sammiched by a bunch of us ladies at several points of the night. Also met Slim Jackson of SBM, where he proceeded to hug me for a long time… it was an awwwwww moment. Everyone was in such great spirits. This one dude was doing the absolute MOST and proceeded to grind on me like he could smell me ovulating or some ish. Shout-out to Stank-O for saving me from that creeperson.

9. Blossoms To The Right Of Them, Blossoms To The Left Of Them, Blossoms In Front Of Them. Let’s go get some barbecue and get busy. Anyway, one of my main reasons for trekking to the Dee Cee urr-rea, was to revel in the Cherry Blossom festival. And LAWD were they beautiful. The only thing I wish was that I saw them all at their peak (their pinkest), but I did get to see a few in all of their pink glory. When we first arrived downtown, it was gorgeous outside. The sky was perfect and I certainly thanked Jesus, Mary AND Joseph for it. Because, I had had a long conversation with the Heavenly Father prior that we had great weather for this day at least. I was JUST about to go around dancing with a collection plate praising Him when all of a sudden, ominous clouds appeared. Uh-oh. Yeah, uh-oh, indeed. It started to HAIL. Yes, a hailstorm. We all had to run under a bridge for cover. Thank gawd I was with a fun group because we all got to laugh about it.

10. *Sesame Street Count Voice* One, Two… THREE Deez. AH-AH-AH. This was where history was made. The Champ and Panama Jackson (and Liz!) of VSB finally ended up in one place and celebrated good times. Come on. (their #threedeez recap here). Wow, that was a great time. I can’t even fully express how much fun I had but let’s just say I met a ton of great folks (lurkers and regulars), got my cheeks pinched several times (well, ya’ll basic bishes pinched them… Dr. J bit them. LMAO), met more of the SBM crew, The Most Interesting Man In The World (blog swag) and Streetz (blog swag), got my VSB book signed, took shots, danced, and *mumbles other incriminating ish that I conveniently don’t remember*.

*leiomy-drops from all this damn typing*

If you made it way down here, merci beaucoup. Now’s the time to share. My VSSs! What memories do you have that I’ve forgotten (or omitted because this post would have a 50K word count). Any memories from those of you who shared any of the Dee Cee events with us? And for those who didn’t get to share in any of these festivities but HAVE been to Dee Cee… what other things do you suggest I do when I return? Yeah, I said “when.” Because I WILL be back. Ahhhh-nold.

 

Love ya like Steve Urkel (and MsEsquire77) loves cheese,

Cheekie

 

Nom Nom Nom: Thanksgiving Edition

I see Mr. Turkey is DESPERATE to change Dubya's mind about the butchering...

 

As your tummy probably told you (via growling), Thanksgiving Day is on the horizon. And that brings food, food, and oh yeah… food. I’m guessing the holiday version of the “Freshman Fifteen” would be the Thanksgiving Thirty?

Anyhow, since the holidays can put people in a sharing mood, I figured I’d share my favorite Thanksgiving dishes. These dishes have been a part of my life since forever and eating them always gives me a little dose of heaven.*

Alas, I present:

My Top Five Thanksgiving Viddles

1. Greens. Oh, just typing out the letters “G-R-E-E-N-S” just makes me shiver with bliss. Grandma Cheekie used to often make collard greens with rice and it was divine. However, my favorite type of greens is mustard/turnip greens mixed with spinach. My sister puts her foot in some mustard/turnip greens. I’m not really the great cook in the family (hell, I can’t compete! but I do learn some things!) so I usually do the preparing. And “preparing” greens ain’t no picnic. We don’t do that canned shit. We use fresh, multiple bunches of greens. Every Thanksgiving, I pick and wash the greens. And greens are dirty (bugs and air-thang), so it takes several different rounds of washing to get them to an edible state. But, lawdhamercy is it worf it. I complain and complain about having to pick/wash the greens, but I end up saying it’s all worth it when I’m eating it. I do this routine every year, too. I do have to admit, I feel all kinds of salty when I pick/wash 10 bunches of greens only to watch them shrivel up like peen in Antarctica when we toss the greens in the boiling pot, causing it to appear as if I didn’t do that much work. Rude. They still tasty dinna mug, doe. *Homer drool*

2. Macaroni and Cheese. Or should I say “cheese and macaroni?” I’ve mentioned my bizarre relationship with cheese before, and this is one of the items that I love to be super cheesy. The cheesier, the better. And let me get this clear right now, I don’t fux with that box shit. Kraft Mac’ N’ Cheese or whatever other ish that comes with powder cheese is NOT macaroni and cheese, IMO. I’m talmbout baked macaroni and cheese. As far as I’m concerned, there is no other kind. The kind with the hardened cheesy top, giving it sort of a different texture. Mmmmm!

3. Peach Cobbler. For some strange reason, I actually didn’t get to taste Mama Cheekie’s infamous peach cobbler until later in life. Maybe she went on a peach cobbler hiatus while I was staying with my grandma? Who knows. Either way, I cannot believe I went half of my life without knowing the taste of this pure heaven. Mama Cheekie isn’t exactly known as the “cook” in the family, but Lawd she throws the eff DOWN on that young peach cobbler. It is the perfect amount of tart/sweet and, of course, my favorite part is the corner since the breading is a bit crunchier on the edge. Yum!

4. Cornish Hens. You know how everything tastes like chicken? Well, these actually taste like chicken considering it is pretty much a damn chicken. It’s like a mini chicken. Our family never really had a huge turkey as our main meat (in fact, my mama prefers duck), so cornish hens would be the meat stuffed with (and placed among the) dressing. Which, I have to mention that, yeah I (and many other Black folks) don’t do stuffing. It’s DRESSING. I love this so much because it’s a very lean meat and it’s mostly white meat, which I love. Oh, don’t worry, that applies mainly to food, brothas. *sucks fingers*

5. Sweet Potato Pie. Another one of Mama Cheekie’s treats. Every Thanskgiving (since living on my own), I always have to request my own personal pie to take home with me because it is so good. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a spoilt youngest daughter. Hey, in my defense, she does it for other folks, too. She’s doting that way. Anyhow, the pie is extra good with a dash of Cool Whip. Oh, and by the way: Sweet Potato Pie > Pumpkin Pie. You mad? *salivates*

Pinchers, it’s your turn! What are your favorite Thanksgiving Dishes? Do share, I’m interested in seeing what kinds of different dishes ya’ll cook out there! Your IP address will get banned if you say ‘chitlins.’ Ok, no it won’t. (It might)

 

Love ya like Nicki Minaj loves Fridays that are pink,

Cheekie

 

 

 

*Idris Elba would give me an overdose of heaven, by the way.

Not A Dimepiece: A Self-Roast

A great pictorial representation of me. But, don't get it twisted. I'm a Leo, bish. Rowr.

If you’ve read anything I’ve written, whether that be my blog posts, comments on other blogs, or twittah tweets, you’d realize a common theme. I roast the hell outta folks. Celebs, strangers, coworkers, family, friends…no one is safe.

You see that last thing I typed? I said, no one is safe. Including…

*points mirror to my own face* THIS NICCA HERE.

I stay talmbout the imperfections of other people, places, things, and ideas so why not point the roasting trigger at myself? I’m of the firm belief that no one can talk about you the way you can. Good or bad.

I’ve decided to focus on the bad. Well, the “imperfect” if we wanna be PC. I may run for president one day so I should practice that, huh?* The physically imperfect to be specific. Don’t get me wrong, I love a ton of things about my physical traits. My cheeky smile, my second pair of cheeks (duh), my skinty fingers, my smaller waist in proportion to wider hips (thanks Grandma! I’m shaped like she was lol), etc. I better stop there before I have to put a #feelingmyself hashtag on my forehead. Thus, I present to you…

Five Imperfect Physical Features Of Cheekie.

1. The Baby Teef. This is probably why I always say I can’t fully trust folks with ginormous teeth (See Steve Harvey, Tom Cruise, Julia Roberts…wait, you can’t help BUT see them…look at them chompers!). I am convinced I haven’t lost all of my baby teeth yet. I am 26 years old, for the record. Seriously, I kept saying that I still have my baby teeth until this one time I was cleaning out my mother’s Butler’s Pantry (Yes, her house is THAT old. Cicely Tyson played hopscotch in the back yard when it was first built.) and I found the first baby tooth I lost wrapped in a little cloth. Much to my surprise, this little ninja was even smaller. The mofo looked like a mustard seed on a skinny day. I guess it’s good I don’t have normal-sized teeth because if I did, they shole as hell wouldn’t fit in with…

2. The Tiny Lips. More so than the light-skint caramel hue of my skin, I have to thank my melanin-challenged brethren/sistren amongst the ancestors for my little lips. Ya’ll, I’m Black. Yet, my lips are not. I mean, I don’t have Ray Liotta negative-lips, but I’ll never get to hear the glorious sound of “You got dem soup-coolers!” from a lustful brotha. I can’t even blow couscous with these lips, let alone some damn soup. Don’t worry, though…I ain’t ever gonna get Cat Lady lips or nuffin. Plastic surgery is not for moi. I always say throughout the internets that my face looks like >>(-_-)… (or (o-_-0) and/or (0^_^0) if you count the cheeks, thanks to Suki!) and the top half of that emoticon is definitely due to…

3. The Squinty Eyes. Just like my tiny lips, big sis Chyna STAYS roasting my squinty eyes. She asks if I can see much. I’m like, “Yes, I can see just like errbody else. We don’t see things in the exact shape of our eyes! Our eyes ain’t binoculars!” She says my eyes and my extreme love for rice proves that some Asians dropped me off on the doorstep as a baby. o_O That is SO unfounded. *runs to Ancestry.com* Probably the best representative of just how squinty my eyes are is an exchange my fave cousin and I had some time back, while watching Rush Hour for the 50-leventh time.

(Chris Tucker does his big bug-eyed face)
Cheekie: *dies laughing* You saw his face, it was like…*mimics the face, widening eyes until it hurts to blink* O_O
Cheekie’s Cousin: Um, yo eyes just look normal now. *cackles*
Cheekie: #FAIL

I love my cousin, but that was RUDE of him. *folds arms like only a youngest child can* I can’t lie, that ish was funny and it still cracks me up to this very day. I’m also still butthurt, though, that I can’t EVER do a valid Chris Tucker face. :-/

4. The Long Toes. Yes, I have those toes. The kind Eddie Murphy would have none of. My second toe is longer than my big toe. All of my toes are long and skinty. My niece dubbed them “French Fry Toes” at a young(er) tender age. I’ve been calling them that ever since, because it’s sorta genius and, well, cuter than “Primate Feet.” Yes, in drunken and/or extra-goofy bouts of foolery, I have picked up things with my toes. I think evolution missed my feet. How you gone treat me like a stranger bish, Darwin? I mean, damn. I take comfort in the fact that pretty folks like Halle Berry has long toes. And plenty of models. Models are hot. Yeah, except they are also lithe and have long legs. I have thunder thighs and I’m 5’3”. Gah. Folks with foot fetishes creep me out anyway. Nasty selves.

5. The Worst Of Them All. I can’t Leyomi Drop in real life. I e-leyomidrop all up and through the cyberwaves, but if i did it in real life, my legs would (rightfully) amputate themselves. Seriously, though, being able to actually Leyomi Drop would make me a dimepiece by default even despite all of the above imperfections. Leyomi Drop = wifey material. Fact.

Annnd, there ya have it. Five things that subtracts dime-points from the Cheekster. Now it’s share time! *as everyone flees this blog and runs to Black Planet instead of having to share THAT* Is there anything about you physically that isn’t quite perfect? Are any of these things something you wish you can change or do you chalk it up to being a fabulous quirk?

Oh, also feel free to roast me in the comments. Roast away. Roast a chicken. Roast deez.

Love ya like Chingy loves his CD to sit right thurr in the bottom of the Walmart CD bin,

Cheekie

*YES, president. Don’t laugh. My entire campaign will be based on making Boris Kodjoe and Idris Elba doppelgangers give my fellow ladies an oil massage on their birfday. Oh, you want the real deal? They’ll probably be busy doing business at the White House. o_O Dayum, what more do you want from me?! I feel like Oprah. All, ya’ll do is ask, ask, ask!!

Nom Nom Nom: Food and I

Considering my weird relationship with food, my food pyramid is probably shaped more like a clusterfuckzoid.

Man, I’d love some rice right now. Ok, I’d love some rice all the time.

Ah, food. I love it so. But, I love it in my own way, nah mean? You know how Oprah’s relationship with Stedman is inexplicable yet it somehow works? And if it doesn’t work for you, who cares? Oprah still OWNs* you.

Where was I? Oh, right. Sitting in front of my laptop. My point is, I don’t have the most…logical relationship with food. Then again, how often is any relationship logical? Exactly. Because I love sharing in a caring manner, I’m going to give ya’ll a few (three, to be exact) examples of…

My Weird Relationship With Food.

1. The Cereal. I’m not a huge breakfast fan in general, but I really don’t eff with much cereal. Funny thing is, I love the taste of many cereals. My beef is when milk gets in the way of a lot of said cereals. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the taste of the combo as well. What I don’t love — in fact, what I I hate — is soggy cereal. I have a thing with textures and sogginess is definitely one I cannot take. I can probably eat 5 spoonfuls of any popular brand cereal before I’m rushing to the toilet to flush the rest down. I don’t do soggy. I’m just not down with that feeling of eating creamed corn with no teef. It grosses me out and ruins my meal. One type of cereal that doesn’t give me much problem is granola. I loves me some granola. It’s probably the only cereal I buy on the regular. And sometimes Kashi. That’s something to kind of get used to, though. But, they tend to stay crunchier longer. The fun cereals like Frosted Flakes, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, or Frosted Mini Wheats**? I either have to eat them so fast I nearly choke before the flakes/loops/wheats get soft or I just eat those hos dry. Wait…

2. The Candy. Oh, you’re one of those people that don’t consider candy, “food?” Eff your life. *munches on Skittles* I love candy. That is my vice. I even gave it up for Lent this year and I ain’t n’an Catholic. I did it to challenge and strengthen myself. It was mighty difficult. How I like my candy, is what’s funny. You know the fruity candy such as Skittles, Starburst or Gummi Bears? I always stick those in the refrigerator (sometimes freezer, if I’m impatient) prior to eating. I love my fruity candy cold. I will MURDER some ice cold Gummi Bears, in particular. I don’t deal with no warm gummy candy. Ok, lemme take that back. I’ll gladly eat it as-is if offered, but I rather have it cold. As for chocolate, I’d rather have that near melting. A Reese’s Cup, right before it ceases being solid is HEAVEN to me. Ya’ll can imagine how messy this is. Well…that is why God invented napkins. Booyakasha. So, basically the way these two types of candy is supposed to be consumed in a normative society? Just switch ‘em and you have what I’m about.

3. The Cheese. Ah, the most ridiculous of them all. And something I STILL get clowned for amongst the Cheekie Fam to this very day. See, I used to be a very, very picky eater. I mean, VERY. I’m not exactly “I’ll try anything” today either, but, man was I close-minded towards food as a mini-Cheekie. Because I love to write mini-plays (as you can probably tell by now), I’m gonna describe my early relationship with cheese through the following dramatization. Remember, this is me as a kid…

Chyna (Cheekie’s older sister): Ok, I’m going to McDonald’s. What you want?
Cheekie: Um, a hamburger Happy Meal.
Chyna: Ok, I’ll bring it back.
*fast food time elapses*
Chyna: Alright, here you go! *hands Cheekie the bag*
Cheekie: *eats a fry and takes out hamburger wrapper with hungry glee* *opens wrapper and checks under bun* (-__-)
Chyna: What?
Cheekie: There’s cheese on here.
Chyna: Oh, Lawd. I distinctly said “plain hamburger.” I specified! Ok, give it here. *takes hamburger and scrapes off cheese as best as humanly possible* There ya go.
Cheekie: *stares at burger* I can still see it. *points to mustard seed-sized piece of cheese*
Chyna: O_O Girl, you ain’t gonna be able to taste that. Eat it.
Cheekie: Yes, I can! I can still see it so I’mma still taste it. I know it’s there! *face crumbles up and cries like only a damn Leo would*
Chyna: *jumps out window in frustration*

Ok, that last part ain’t e’en happen. Not once. But, don’t you wish your life was that cartoonish? I shole do! Anyhow, as you can see, I was super annoying with my anti-cheese campaign. But, THIS is the ridiculous part. I still ate pizza. Like, on some “homeless starving child who was just welcomed into a rich home in an after-school special film” shit. I would tear a slice of pizza UP. I also devoured my aunt’s/sister’s homemade baked macaroni and cheese and actually requested that it be made as cheesy as possible. Yet, if you put that mess on my burgers and/or sammiches? Cue dramatics. Today, while I still don’t do cheeseburgers or cheese on my sammiches, I’m WAY less sensitive about it should the restaurant staff make a mistake with my order. I’ll just scrape it off and call it a D-A-Y. My relationship with cheese is still currently weird, but I’ve kinda concluded that I mostly like white cheeses over yellow. But, then again, I’ll eat some processed nacho cheese and some of the cheese on the baked macaroni is yellow so…

*sigh* Oh, hell…

So. Pinchers, what sort of idiosyncrasies do you have with food? Please, do share so I don’t feel like the only weirdo in here. I mean, I know I’m weird and weird people actually have to get used to feeling like the only one, hence them being weird but…share. Weird is the new cool anyway.

Love ya like Kanye Titter loves himself,

Cheekie

*Seewhatididthere. No? You must don’t got insurance because you need glasses. Universal Healthcare, FTW!
**Ya’ll saw those Frosted Mini Wheats commercials for Back to School? Them little bishes are CUTE!

I Do Not Dine Thine Swine

Somehow, I think ol' dude is currently saying, "That'll do, bacon. That'll do."

I am non-Muslim and I don’t eat pork. Now, that I answered the “Are you Mooooo-slem?!” question before it was asked, I wanted to briefly explain why exactly I stopped. I wish I could be all historic and remember the exact date I stopped, but I can’t. I’m on some “elephant on Opposite Day” mess. I can guess-timate and say that it has been about a year.

Mama Cheekie stopped eating pawk about 20 years ago. And her mama had her eating every bit of the pig. Since we and just about every Black folk in the history of melanin have high blood pressure in our family, she decided to cut out the salty meat for good. Recently, I decided to follow her lead. And I must say, it wasn’t that hard to do so.

So, I’m gonna take ya’ll into the life of an anti-porker.* Think of it as a documentary. A blog-umentary if you will. This is not so much an all-inclusive list of all non-pork eaters’ traits as it is an all-inclusive list of MY non-pork eater traits. Meaning, what I have to go through as a porkless ninja. Make like Twitter and follow me, please:

The Bacon. Ok, so supposedly, bacon is like the best food in the world. FALSE. That would be rice, boo. Regardless, the rest of the world seems to believe that bacon is the second coming since everything is being made with it. ANYthing you can think of, there is a bacon variation. Candy, cake, condoms. I’m not sure about the third one, but if you can Google it for me, that’ll be fab. Point is, the list goes on. It wasn’t difficult giving up bacon because I didn’t even have to give it up. I’ve ALWAYS loved turkey bacon more. Why? Because, I’m a carnivore. Babe bacon is like 55% fat, 20% grease, 20% broken dreams, and 5% lean meat. Turkey bacon, however, is a lean-mean meaty machine. And this chick loves her some meat. Gone ‘head push that “That’s What She Said” button. I still think turkey bacon is better,  you Jive Turkey.

The Lost of the Black Card. If I had a nickel for every time one of my brethren/sistren said some variation of, “You’ont eat pawk? Guh, that’s kneegrow meat! You fake ninja!” Um, stop…HALT right there. The motherlovin’ Nation of Islam is blacker than the unlighted section of the visible spectrum and they don’t eff with that dirty meat. So, um, ya’ll need more people. Preferably ones wearing bow ties.

The Cookouts. This is where it gets kinda difficult for me. Just recently, my sister’s cousin’s (on her daddy side) husband’s mama (See why we just say “cousin” for everybody? This six degrees of separation mess is not what’s sizzling in the cement.) made some (allegedly) bomb-ass spaghetti. ‘Twas supposed to have all kinds of basil and whatnot. This ninja loves basil.** Anyhow, my sister bought the ingredients and the lady was to cook it. Turns out, she put ground Italian sausage in the meaty mix without my knowledge and was like, “Oh, yeah, I forgot you didn’t eat pork!” I was so butthurt. I mean, luckily I had other lovely side-dishes to partake in, but I love spaghettis. And FML that it was GROUND Italian sausage, thus eliminating any chance that I could pick it out of mine. Hmph.

The Parker House Nostalgia. Like, I said above, it wasn’t really difficult for me to give up pork. I was never a fan of ham, was sort of “meh” on pork chops, I HATE chitlins despite never having tasted them***, and I already expressed my disdain for pawk bacon. But, the one thing I’ll truly miss is Parker House Sausages. My grandma used to whip up some hot (as in “spicy”) Parker House Sausages and I devoured those things like a Not-Safe-For-Work video production. o_O

Moving on.

So, those are a few attributes of a non-pork eater. Any porkless Pinchers out there? What have been your experiences with not eating pork? How long have you been off the swine? What are the pros/cons for you?

As for the pro-pork Pinchers? Don’t even think about trying to re-convert me with Parker House gift baskets. Enjoy your bacon. Tell me why you love pork. What’s your favorite pork park. Everyone’s welcome to the discussion here. I don’t judge. I love you.

Love ya like Glenn Beck supporters love to speak in generalities when defending their nonsense,

Cheekie

*Ya’ll nasty.
**Do you say “bay-sil” or “bah-sil?” I say the former, but I’m always reminded of the “Proud Family” episode where one of those bad little kids named after seasonings was like, “It’s BAHsil, you twit.” Cracked my whole world UP. I laughed for eons.
***Nope, I have not tasted chitlins. I love my tastebuds too much. However, I am CONVINCED that they taste just like they smell, contrary to what its supporters say. They are liars. I love me some hot sauce and it does make things taste better, but even that is no match for chitlins, aka “death warmed over in hell.”

Truly Grand

How Grandma felt if you didn’t agree with her.

Last month, I dedicated an entire post to my mama in an attempt to explain why I was as foolish as I am. And every bit of that remains. What I failed to add, however, is that my paternal grandma had a hand in molding my foolery as well.

Lemme take you to “Backstory Land” in this DeLorean right quick…

See, my mama and daddy* divorced when I was a wee tot. All that divorce messiness that usually send kids straight to therapy? I was too busy gurgling and cooing to pay attention to that stuff. Seriously, though, it wasn’t messy. Just something that needed to be done. Cut to Mama Cheekie being a single mama. Meaning, she undoubtedly had to work to provide for herself and me. My daddy’s mama — aka Grandma Cheekie — offered to take me in. To raise me throughout my preschool/elementary school years while my Mama worked during the day. I’d go to Mama’s crib on weekends, breaks, and summer vacation. Quite the swanky arrangement, huh?

Ok, off the DeLorean. Christopher Lloyd is giving me a cantankerous side-eye right nah…

I gave you all that to dive right into some of our shared experiences. And to give you:

Six Reasons Why Grandma Cheekie Was, Just That…Grand.

1. The OG “Hood Rich” Lady. The idea of being hood rich is pretty widespread. Rappers rap about it. Uncle-cousin Tyreke flashes about it. But, Grandma Cheekie? Was about it. Don’t worry, she wasn’t buying Lamborghini doors for Honda Accords or platinum grills for her false teef or anything like that. But, she shole knew how to live large on a Social Security check. Now, ya’ll know damn well that living on a Social Security check equals gubment cheese and Farina. That is fact. But, eff that, my Grandma was a brand snob. Her favorite cereal was Frosted Flakes. No, not the store brand. I’m talmbout Tony the Tiger, “They’re Grrrrrrr-reat!”, too-legit-to-quit Frosted Flakes. If that orange ninja wasn’t on the box, it was a no-go. “But, they taste the same, Grandma”, I’d say. “No, they don’t. They ain’t the same”, she’d retort. And that would be that. She also favored (favored meaning “it was the only option”) Open Pit barbeque sauce, Louisiana Hot Sauce, Parker House Sausages, and Uncle Ben’s Rice, to name a few examples. Which, hey, that last example serves as a nice segue toward…

2. The Food Staple. If you’ve been following me about the internets, stop staring at my ass you probably know about my love for rice. If you don’t, you haven’t been paying attention and/or caring. Well, Pinchers, Grandma Cheekie is the one to blame for that! She cooked rice with everything. Greens and rice. Pinto beans and rice. Chicken Boobs and rice. Rice and rice. She even once told me that she ate spaghetti and rice. o_O Um, yeah, suffice to say… I never went that far. But, I loves me some rice to this day. I can eat it by itself as a meal. I’ve never tasted any type of rice from any type of culture that I didn’t like. Interestingly enough, though, I despise rice pudding. Must be the texture. I consider it ruined in that form. But, yes, my love of rice is forever. My sister always teases me and says I’ll turn into a grain of rice. Hell, if I do turn into a grain of rice, I’ll be a dimepiece. Bam!

3. The Odd Phrasing. I cannot, for the life of me, remember what we were talking about that resulted in this silly phrase, but that part doesn’t matter. It’s the phrase. For the sake of selective memory, I’m gonna take a bit of creative license with the following conversation my grandma and I once shared. I was probably, like, 12 or 13 years old at the time. Remember, the phrase she said at the end is what really matters here:

Cheekie: Blahblahblahblahblah irrelevancy blah…

Grandma Cheekie: Yeah, blahblahblahblahblah this part doesn’t mean anything blah…

Cheekie: So, I guess it’s not true?

Grandma Cheekie: Must be don’t.

Cheekie: o_______O

I’m sorry, what? “Must be don’t?” Grammar just Leyomi-dropped inside a gerund just now. That sentence is so wrong that it must be right. Man, I cracked up for an entire day when she said that. Like, I’d go in and out of cracking up while simply trying to go about the day. It was so foolishly epic, that I still remember and reference that phrase in her loving memory very often. Man, she was so Southern. So, so, Southern. Loved every bit of it.

4. The Stories. If you thinking that I’mma ’bout to wax lovingly about Grandma Cheekie reading stories to me while we sat in a big clichéd chair, then I’m sowwy to disappoint. When I say “stories”, I mean on television. Yeah, I know… *as you look down on me*. Look, I ain’t Kanye (a book racist) and I love to read (even sometimes on a rainbow) but TV was my life. My Grandma always had the TV on, whether it was her old school one that you had to — *gasp* — stand up to change the channel or the upgraded one Mama Cheekie bought her years later for Christmas. Man, that TV was on so damn much, she couldn’t sleep without it on**. Yes, that TV ran all night. It watched us, so to speak. Anyhow, she is the reason why I had quite the diverse TV-viewing experience as a child. I hummed the theme song to Perry Mason, knew that telling someone to “stifle yourself” was better than saying “shut up” due to All In The Family, cherished the comedic genius of Vicki Lawrence/Carol Burnett of Mama’s Family, cracked up at the vocal stylings of whoever sang the theme to In The Heat of The Night (tv series, not the movie…to be clear), whistled the theme of The Andy Griffith Show, solved cases I didn’t e’en understand while watching Matlock, lived vicariously through the characters of Gunsmoke, chuckled at the gruff wittiness of Columbo, imitated the “pow-pow-pow” with my index finger during The Rifleman…homies, this list, not unlike the beat, goes on. Sure, I watched my share of great cartoons like Tom & Jerry and classic Looney Tunes, but the reason why I’m currently able to reference those old school shows? All Grandma. Yeah, that’s how I “know ’bout that there.” Funny thing is, her “stories” were never the soaps, like many of my classmates’ grandmas. She never effed with that ish. Neither do I…

5. The Game. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but allow me to toot it just once. *As I toot up my booty as well for effect* I play a mean Spades game. Yeah, yeah, I know…duh, I’m Black. Yeah, that… but, I not only credit it to my melanin, but to my grandma. See, she was the Spades Sensei. And I was her grasshopper. I was maybe about 8-10 years old when she taught me and I never forgot her lessons. Hell, just this past weekend, my older cousin and I TREATED everybody in a Spades match. We played “3 outta 5 wins”, and our asses never left our seats as we watched our opponents get up in defeat, only to replaced by another victim. The entire night. Nothing but net***. Anyhow, as bad (in the sense that Ludacris’ chick is bad) as my big cousin is at playing Spades, I gotta credit at least 65% (50% was her through me, 15% was simply the aura de Grandma Cheekie that arrives simply because Spades is being played) of that ass-whooping to Grandma Cheekie.

6. The Quitting. Ok, so usually when someone quits something, it is frowned upon. It’s like giving up. Unless — of course — the thing the person is quitting, is ultimately for the best. My Grandma did the latter. All for me. I saved this one for last because it’s the one that will always be nearest and dearest to my heart when it comes to her. As I mentioned above, she raised me as a kid. From 3 years old to 13 years old. But, it came with a condition. See, before I moved in with my grandma, she was an alcoholic. I mean, “liquor-running-through-her-veins” alkie. She used to be WASTED long before “chocolate wasted” became all pop-cultureish. When my mama lamented on how finding daycare and/or babysitting would be daunting as a single mother, my Grandma (drunkenly) offered to take me in. Not surprisingly, Mama Cheekie agreed with one condition: the drinking had to stop. Do ya’ll know this lady — this fantastic woman — decided right then and there, that she would stop? No rehab, no Vh1 cameras, no Dr. Drew frowning in sympathy at her messiness… just cold effing turkey. That’s what she did. And that’s how I came to live with her for 10 years. If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.

As ya’ll can probably tell, I adored my grandma with all my heart and I can’t believe to even explain how I was able to condense the number of reasons why she was so incredible to just six. But, I had to share a little bit of her with you. I had to share her with Al Gore and his internet. I lost Grandma Cheekie to lung cancer on the weekend of Mother’s Day, when I was in college. Even though I left her to live with Mama Cheekie when I graduated from eighth grade, Mama Cheekie invited her to live in HER house, with us, for the latter duration of her life. So, I was always with her. It was beautiful. So was she. And I’d like to think that part of that beauty…is in me.

Love ya like folks love to say that I’m shaped JUST like Grandma Cheekie (smaller upper body, thicker lower body),

Cheekie

*R.I.P. More to come about him in the future.

**Yet another way in which I couldn’t understand how she survived on only a Social Security check. Them electric bills had to be UP there. Of course, my mama contributed with “child support”, but still. Skills.

***I realize basketball has nothing to do with the price of tea in Chinatown, but I just wanted to use that phrase. It’s what the constant winning felt like. Like that “swoosh” sound when you hit that smooth 3-pointer.