Cher-iffic

One of my housemates is obsessed with Cher. I won't name names, but I WILL remind you that my three housemates are (1) a married kitty mommy/cancer survivor; (2) a married kitty daddy/Englishman in New York; and (3) a gay flashdancing aesthetician.

My Cher-loving friend, along with our good friend Jason, can often be heard singing pop songs of yesterday and today in the style of Cher. "Girl, you know it's true -- woo!" "Hey, Jude, don't make it bad -- woo!" "Oops, I did it again -- woo!" Extra points (not that they're keeping score) for fitting Cher's name into the song, as in "Bye, bye, Miss A-Cher-ican Pie -- woo!" I laugh despite myself.

Over the weekend, my Cher-loving roomie developed a brand new Cher concept. Apparently, you could put a long black wig on a parakeet and call it ... a Cher-akeet.

Such are the epiphanies that emerge from our house. In Jersey.

Why am I telling you this? Because I figure that any readers from outside our house (in Jersey) might need some background to understand the significance of what I'm about to disclose to my groovy housemates. Which is this: Today at work, while learning the background of an annual fundraising event, I discovered that last year's event featured ... [drumroll] ... a Cher impersonator.