As Seen On TV

I’m on Cloud Platinum.

Jake Carradoc is beside me, driving his red Ferrari 599 GTB (personalized and customized) – the very Ferrari which floored me into procuring the very litigious medical diagnosis of retrograde amnesia – and we are cruising to his home in Beverly Hills where I’m going to live!

That’s right.

I’ll be staying with Jake Carradoc (!) until such time I recover my memories and decide I want to go back to my life. He has very kindly offered me food, shelter, money, and his complete hospitality until I get my memories back, or if someone with a similar backpack from a rat-infested, one-star ‘the bar soap on the grimy sink is as thin as an insurance agent’s promise’ motel ultimately claims me.

This is so incredible I have to literally cradle my bladder from shooting out a squirt of excited pee every time we navigate a bump.

Jake, of course, completely believes I have severe amnesia.

“We’re. Now. Going. To. My. House,” he says slowly, enunciating every syllable just in case I’ve forgotten the specifics of English grammar. “Do. You. Remember. What. A. House. Is?”

Since leaving the hospital, we have conversed no more than three very prolonged sentences in this manner.

“How. Are. You. Feeling. Today?”

“This. Is. My. Car. This. Is. The. Key. That. Unlocks. My. Car.”

“This. Is. A. Seatbelt.”

I’m going to let Jake continue to think I have complete amnesia, but not so severe we’d have to descend to smoke signals to get communication across.

“I remember what a house is,” I tell him. “I remember the meaning of words, and grammar, and what things are. I just don’t remember specifics. Like where my house is. Or my street address.”

I’m tempted to add it’s just like Samantha Who, except I remember I’m not supposed to remember who Samantha Who is.

“That’s great.” He is visibly relieved. For a long-accused-to-be-monosyllabic actor, he doesn’t like monosyllables.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Do you know who I am?”Abby Watson is about to move in with the man of her dreams. Too bad the body she wears isn’t hers.

Abby Watson has a dead-end job, a skinflint boss, and a best ‘frenemy’ who thinks Abby has the fashion sense of a tubeworm. When a lab experiment blows up in Abby’s face, she develops the ability to jump into other people’s bodies. Suddenly it’s goodbye frump, hellooooo . . . anyBODY gorgeous.

Abby’s leaping into the bodies of heiresses, her best ‘frenemy’, anyone who has ever been mean to her in high school, her scrooge boss, and even the President of the United States (!).

When a chance encounter with the Ferrari of her childhood idol – stunning movie A-lister, Jake Carradoc – leaves one of her beautiful bodies in the hospital, Abby feigns amnesia . . . then a spot in Jake’s home as his indefinite ‘houseguest’.

But Abby’s real body is dying in her soul’s absence. What must she do to keep Jake, the only man she’s ever loved with all of somebody else’s heart?

I’m on Cloud Platinum.

Jake Carradoc is beside me, driving his red Ferrari 599 GTB (personalized and customized) – the very Ferrari which floored me into procuring the very litigious medical diagnosis of retrograde amnesia – and we are cruising to his home in Beverly Hills where I’m going to live!

That’s right.

I’ll be staying with Jake Carradoc (!) until such time I recover my memories and decide I want to go back to my life. He has very kindly offered me food, shelter, money, and his complete hospitality until I get my memories back, or if someone with a similar backpack from a rat-infested, one-star ‘the bar soap on the grimy sink is as thin as an insurance agent’s promise’ motel ultimately claims me.

This is so incredible I have to literally cradle my bladder from shooting out a squirt of excited pee every time we navigate a bump.

Jake, of course, completely believes I have severe amnesia.

“We’re. Now. Going. To. My. House,” he says slowly, enunciating every syllable just in case I’ve forgotten the specifics of English grammar. “Do. You. Remember. What. A. House. Is?”

Since leaving the hospital, we have conversed no more than three very prolonged sentences in this manner.

“How. Are. You. Feeling. Today?”

“This. Is. My. Car. This. Is. The. Key. That. Unlocks. My. Car.”

“This. Is. A. Seatbelt.”

I’m going to let Jake continue to think I have complete amnesia, but not so severe we’d have to descend to smoke signals to get communication across.

“I remember what a house is,” I tell him. “I remember the meaning of words, and grammar, and what things are. I just don’t remember specifics. Like where my house is. Or my street address.”

I’m tempted to add it’s just like Samantha Who, except I remember I’m not supposed to remember who Samantha Who is.

“That’s great.” He is visibly relieved. For a long-accused-to-be-monosyllabic actor, he doesn’t like monosyllables.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Do you know who I am?”

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