Why Jeff Probst Would Never Vote Me Off His Island

Although I obviously have mad Photoshop skillz, I swear to Mark Burnett that this signed photograph is 100% legit.



Who can guess why Jeff Probst would never vote me off his island?

(I'll post the answer on or about August 31 when I get back from our vacation that we're spending at home sharpening our kitchen knives with our guard dogs, Freddie and Jason, at our feet.)

How My Marriage Was Saved

So. I may or may not have the tiniest amount of PTSD, and one of the ways it plays out is that my startle response is such a finely tuned instrument that if it were a cello, Yo-Yo Ma would play me like a fiddle. (I don’t know what that means either.)

I know that even normal people (I don’t mean you) (or you) (heh) have a startle response, but I also think that people who jump and scream like hot lava got in their shorts might have some latent PTSD going on themselves. I happen to have the curse and the benefit of knowing my demons, and, by the way, after getting to know them even better in therapy in recent years, they each have cute nicknames now.

Just don’t walk up behind me and say something because I might go ninja on you. And if we go out to eat, be a good friend and don’t make me sit with my back to the room. Because when the server walks up to ask if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu, I will jump up out of my chair, scream, and pee myself. Then everybody will look at us and feel sorry for you. But before you start feeling too sorry for my friends and family, I have mad Belgian waffle and homemade strawberry ice cream-making skillz to make up for this. Just saying.

In every place we’ve lived since 1998, for some reason my computer desk has been situated such that my back is to the door of the room. And every darn time my husband walks into the room, I jump up, scream, and stay up on the ceiling fan for twenty minutes or so until I have a pulse again. As an aside, this never happens when Laura walks into the room because she chatters constantly and I always hear her coming. Tom on the other hand is stealth. I have repeatedly asked him in my very best Bruce Dickinson voice to wear a cowbell. "Guess what? I got a fever. And the only prescription is . . . more cowbell." Tom does not cooperate with this particular plan, but making him live in another house is not an option. Trust me, I know this. And besides who would bring me my coffee every morning, and then patiently wait for me to jump and scream before setting it down next to me?




I was telling my friend Trish yesterday over Belgian waffles and homemade strawberry ice cream that short of buying all new office furniture, I don’t know how to solve this problem because there aren’t any corners that don’t leave my back to the door. You may be wondering why I bought a corner desk in the first place, and if the words “subconscious self-sabotage” come to your mind, call me! I could save hundreds on therapy this month if we could chat more about this.

Trish is an artist and her home is a showcase of elegance, warmth, and Zen-like calm. I knew she’d take one look and say, “You’re right. Dump the furniture and start over,” and then I wouldn’t feel so bad about the online shopping spree that was about to ensue.

But Trish took one look, suggested that I move the long desk that was under my window around to the side of the other desk, put my file drawers under the window behind me, and, well let me show you . . .




Trish even helped me reconfigure and reconnect my computers and peripheral devices, after we cleaned two inches of dust from them. And while I know that my Belgian waffle and homemade ice cream-making skills really are that good, the truth of the matter is that this isn't the first time that Trish has proved to be a saint, and not even a dead one, like saints usually have to be.

Now there will be no more surprise attacks from sneaky husbands with coffee and I have more effective and efficient workspace with no online shopping spree for the all new furniture I thought I'd need. With my back to the second-story window, the only surprise attacks I have to worry about now will be from birds or flying squirrels.

(SNL photo courtesy of Google Images.)

Adam Lambert in San Diego: My Backstage Surprise . . . True Story

Backstage Dude: "No individual photos. Group photos only. No autographs."

Jamie: "Oh Cheri, don't do a group photo. It should just be you in the picture with Adam Lambert."

Cheri: "No, really, Jamie, you pose with him alone, and I'll do my photo with Tom and Laura."

Jamie: "But you love Adam Lambert and he loves you. It should just be the two of you in your photo."

Cheri: "Honestly, I'm totally happy to have Tom and Laura in the photo too. " [I could always crop them out later.] [I have bomb-diggity Photoshop skillz.] [What?] [Kidding about the cropping.] [No, I'm not.] [Yes, I am.]

Then it was my turn to meet Adam for the fourth time (third was here) (second here) (first here) (not counting when I saw him sing the national anthem at high school football games just a decade ago) (WHAT?). True story.


First I showed Adam my iPhone boyfriend wallpaper and he smiled patiently. True story.




Next Adam patiently signed the 16x20 photo on canvas that my friend Trish gave me (click to enlarge the photo and check out the name on the red heart pin on his lapel). True story.




Adam also graciously signed a For Your Entertainment CD for Laura (yes, I had one left after I gave away over 500 of them to my closest friends). True story.




Then I told Adam that my oldest daughter, Kristen, went to high school at Mt. Carmel at the same time he did, and that she said to give him a rainbow hello with glitter on top. Adam told me to tell her the same. True story.




Then we posed for our group photo -- or what I thought was our group photo.




Then Adam Lambert put his hand on my shoulder and I totally lost my flippin' mind. Totally. I went mute. Seriously? Seriously? That never happens to me. I lived in L.A. almost all of my life and I practiced family law in Beverly Hills. Celebrity sightings? Meh. Pretty much a whatever thing. (Except for Johnny Depp.) But in that moment when Adam Lambert touched my shoulder? I was struck dumb. Totally. Gah. True story.

In hindsight, and had I any ability to speak at all, I would have told Adam to pay no attention to my middle-aged-mom-fan disguise because I'm really a hot young androgynous-looking gay dude who he should take home and get to know better. Right? That wouldn't have been as creepy as an old broad who'd just showed him a Photoshopped picture of herself with him on her iPhone before she went mute.

Anywho.

As I was walking away, I turned back to watch Jamie get her photo taken with him, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? Not Jamie and Adam.


Tom was having his photo taken with Adam Lambert. True story.




Now I can't decide which one of them I love the most. Tom or Adam Lambert? Tom or Adam Lambert? Hmmmm. Thankfully, I have this picture of them together to pore over, which may or may not facilitate the decision-making process. I'll get back to you with my final answer.


Apparently Tom was taking photos of us while Laura and I were getting "officially" photographed. So when we were done with ours, Tom simply went next.




And then it was Jamie's turn to put her head on Adam's shoulder . . . *love*




Oh. Yeah. There was also a concert. And it was fantastic too. The best one I've ever attended, and that includes the Stones and Elton John. True story.






I'm still basking in the afterglow of multiple Lambergasms one week later. True story.

The End