AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: A Dream Come True! DATE: 4/06/2006 12:56:00 PM ----- BODY:

There were seven things in life that my Grandma Blackhair loved passionately: Jesus; the Blessed Mother; family; chocolate; cigarettes; the daytime soap lineup on NBC; and The National Enquirer. I'd come home from school and find her perched on the edge of the couch, cigarette in one hand, and Hershey bar in the other. On the table in front of her would be a pack of cigarettes, her worn Novena book, stuffed with prayer cards and held together with a rubber band, and the latest copy of the Enquirer. When I got my first job, I bought her a subscription to it so that she'd never have to miss a week. Months after she died, the annual renewal notice appeared in my mailbox. As anyone who has ever grieved knows, the smallest thing sometimes has the power to bring back the sorrow full force. Canceling her subscription broke my heart all over again. It was yet another reminder that she was really and truly gone. Although I don't share her passion for smoking, chocolate, and Days of Our Lives, I do love The National Enquirer. I'd call it a guilty pleasure -- if I felt any guilt about it, that is. I love it without shame. Which is why, last week, I almost broke a leg jumping out of my chair when I opened an e-mail from a writer at the Enquirer asking if I'd be interested in talking with her about my first book, Hello, My Name is Mommy. Interested? Are you kidding? I've waited my whole life to be in The National Enquirer! And here was a chance that my dream might finally come true -- without having to commit a crime or be caught at the beach in a too-small thong? You bet I was interested. I called the reporter, Daniella Caplan, immediately. We had a lovely chat -- which had the quality of an out-of-body experience for me, I must admit. When the issue I'm in hits the stands in the next week or two, I'll probably faint. People will be stepping over my body in the checkout line to pay for their groceries. Even my husband Mark understands the magnitude of this event. So great is my love for The National Enquirer that he likes to buy it for me as a treat, the way other men bring their women flowers or candy. "Here you go," he'll beam, handing it over. "It's ‘Stars With Cellulite!' this week. Who loves you? Who's the best husband ever?" No argument about that. It takes a special man to understand the sheer delight that comes from scrutinizing the dimpled withers of some otherwise perfectly gorgeous, insanely overpaid starlet. It's better than Xanax, I swear. The Enquirer has 15 million weekly readers. And one more, one they don't count. She's up in Heaven. And when she sees my name in The National Enquirer, she's going to take a deep drag on her Marlboro Light, elbow St. Peter in the ribs and announce, "You see that? That's my Sher."

--------