Cheri
29 June 2015 @ 02:43 am
"I married a pillow; soft, lumpy, and always lying behind my back." - Red, Orange Is the New Black, Season 3
 
 
 
Cheri
22 June 2015 @ 10:00 am
"Is this what you do all day?" I ask her.
"Yes! It's like a mini vacation every weekend. You're welcome to join me any time," she replies.
"I'd love that! This is heaven. It's so cold in the city compared to here." I say. We're wine-drunk, bikini-clad, and nearing the border of a pool currently occupied by young boys giggling and splashing each other with water noodles. "Children," I murmur to my friend with an eye-rolling smile. "Welp. I guess a whole bunch of underaged eyes are going to see me half-naked toda--!" I pause mid-word as a wave of water splashes onto my legs. When I look down into the pool for the source, I see a 12-year-old kid grinning up at me mischeviously, stealing glances at his friends who are all giggling at him, waiting to see what I'll do. I smile at him, lifting my brows above the border of my sunglasses. He blushes and turns away, and they burst out laughing. My friend and I continue walking. "Did that little boy just splash me?" I ask, laughing softly.
"He did," she says, laughing too.
"I can't tell if he's flirting with me or--"
"He's definitely flirting with you," she replies, laughing as we reach our lounge chairs and throw our towels over them.
"That's hilarious." I lay down, pulling my sketchbook and pen into my lap.
"They're little boys. They don't know any better. They see a cute girl and they're like, AGHH!!!!" She begins twitching spaztically. "CUTE!! GIRL!! CAN'T!! FUNCTION!! BRAIN!! NOT WORKING!! AHHH! SPLASH!" She pretends to hurl water in the air, and we errupt in giggles together.

I'm reminded of every movie I've ever seen where adolescent men hang out at pools and gaze in aw over the "hot babes" that walk by in filled-out bikinis, drooling and whispering to each other, overwhelmed by the visual appeal. I think of that scene in the Sand Lot where the kid with glasses pretends to drown so the cute bodyguard will give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

It makes me laugh. I didn't think that kind of things was real. But I guess it is.

The boys climb out of the pool and settle into the lounge chairs nearest to us, laying on their stomachs, whispering to each other, looking in our direction. I look over at my friend and laugh, shaking my head at the lack of subtlety, at how amusing I find that.

I have a nephew. He's amazing. He's a year old and brilliant. Light blue eyes, caramel skin, soft, curly, light-brown hair, half black and half filipino -- he's going to be a total heartbreaker, and my sister will definitely have an interesting time fighting little girls off of him. As these little boys at the pool giggle and talk about us, I think of my nephew and how curious he is about the world. Of how he's just learning how to interact with people. How he's not yet observant enough to notice the things I might notice through socializing. He has so much growing up to do. I do, too.

My friend hands me the sunblock, and I smooth it over my face, neck, and chest. We pour ourselves glasses of wine.

"Salud!" We say, touching our glasses together and smiling. We lay back and soak in the sun.

Life is funny, isn't it?
 
 
 
Cheri
19 June 2015 @ 02:02 am
"Well, you know, I used to go mad on Elvis, like all the groups, but not now. I don't like this. And I hate songs with "walk" and 'talk' in it -- you know, those lyrics. She walks, she talks. I don't like that. And I don't like the double beat: doom-cha doom-cha, that bit. It's awful. (pause) Poor ol' Elvis." - John Lennon, 1963 via BBC in Juke Box Jury
 
 
 
Cheri
15 June 2015 @ 10:38 pm
"Was that really only one glass?" I ask, looking up from my phone. We're standing at the border of a grassy park.
"They gave you a free refill." She reminds me.
"Oh. Well. It was delicious. I'm buzzed."
"Are you calling a car, or what?" She sounds irritated.
"Dude, Uber has been searching for the past 5 minutes." I hold up my phone for her to see. "It's all I use. It's time to call it quits."
"I use Lyft. Hold on. I'll call one."
"Well, thank God!" I say, throwing my hands up and laughing in relief. "A solution!"

Freed of responsibility, I tuck my cell away and wander the near vicinity to try and enjoy myself.

"What's this?" I ask, crouching in the grass beside a thick branch as wide as my wrist.
"A stick," she says, as if I'm an idiot.
"Not just a stick," I say dramatically, lifting it from the ground with mock reverence. It's heavy. The perfect length. My voice deepens. "A staff." I hold it as such, pretending to hobble on it. "Gandalf's staff!" I laugh in a maniacal tone, doing a terrible impersonation of Gandalf's limping gait, heading toward the sidewalk.
She's laughing now, too, looking at me like I'm crazy, but still. She's laughing. There's nothing better than making someone laugh.
I do my best cripple-walk to the center of the sidewalk. There, I slam my wooden staff into the concrete, half-yelling and half-holding back laughter, "NONE SHALL PAAAASSS!!"

We nearly die laughing, stumbling toward one another and leaning against each other for gasping support, tears in our eyes.

In moments like these, when you know you're being truly ridiculous, where you are only vaguely aware of cars driving by, of people watching or listening, and of anyone judging you, any feeling of discomfort you could possibly have is overridden by the feeling of companionship.

I love my friends.
Who else would laugh at my stupid jokes?
 
 
 
Cheri
11 June 2015 @ 09:46 am
Before Twitter, before heycheri.com, and before wherever else I am on the Internet, there was Livejournal. Here. This thing. This blog where I used to blab about everything.

On this blog, there were pictures of me at 19 taking fat rips out of bongs and leaning like a cholo with huge blunts made with organic tobacco leaves. On this blog, I used to rant about how much I hated my parents, how I wished my sister would die, and how I hated all the girl-bullies at school that picked on me.

Things have changed.
Things have definitely fucking changed.

I don't hang out with bullies today or bother trying to impress anyone. I can't even imagine wishing my sister was dead. The thought of upsetting my parents even in the slightest is downright heartbreaking, and I certainly do not laze around on the Internet leaving uber-incriminating photos of myself smoking pot (though even if I did get caught ripping on a spliff, I sincerely doubt anyone would care).

I remember when I first joined that one girl-gamer group, how young and sheltered so many of us were, and how the mentality back then was to gang up on anyone who "stood out".

I definitely stood out.
I guess I still do.

I remember being criticized for entertaining pot, for applying to Maxim's Hometown Hotties (I made the list!), and for having an Internet presence. People were pissed at the level of attention I received, though truly, I've been blogging for ages, and that's just what happens with hard work and consistency: you improve and earn cool shit.

It makes me laugh to think that people back then and today say things like, "The only reason she gets anywhere in life is because she's pretty." It amuses me because:

1) That statement assumes I'm pretty (thanks).
2) There are plenty of people who think I'm not pretty.
3) At 27 years old, I've been on the receiving end and the giving side of enough snap-judgements based on appearances to realize physicality is the stupidest way to measure up anyone.

I value different things today than I did when I was a mindless 14-year old word vomiting all over Xanga. My taste in friends have evolved. My taste in men. The way I deal with anger, sadness, and even extreme moments of happiness. All of it.

I've changed.
It's so. So. So fucking crazy looking at this blog and all of the entries now hidden from public view, and seeing the crap I used to say, the things I used to worry about, and the things I aspired to do.

I remember thinking at 17, "In ten years from now, I'll look back at this and laugh at how stupid I was, then relive all the embarrassing things I went through at this age." I remember imagining I'd grow up to be successful, well-dressed, and popular. I imagined I'd have tons men chasing after me, how I'd rub elbows with celebrities, and how I'd be "famous" to some extent.

Isn't it funny how the things we privately strive for tend to come true with perserverance?

If 17-year-old me could see 27-year-old me, she'd be proud, I think.
27-year-old me, a woman, an executive director at a marketing and ad agency, a "well-known blogger" (if you can call me that), and an "Internet Personality" with way too many creepers fapping to her photos -- this version of me finds all of this ... Normal. Hilarious. Just funny and weird.

But life is good.
I'm a little over a quarter done with my lifetime, and I'm happy with what I've done so far.

I'm excited for what's next.

What the fuck could possibly be next?