Let’s keep it light this week. In the past few episodes, I’ve shared my thoughts on betrayal, ambition, and deep emotional damage, so today, I’m giving you the version of me that people usually only get after the third glass of wine or a 12-hour drive across the country. These are the unhinged facts. Things that don’t really matter, but somehow explain everything about me. You don’t need to know any of this. But you’re going to be so glad you do.
Let’s start where I recently left off: I hate sweating. Hate it. I think I might be allergic to my own sweat. When I do sweat, it itches so bad I want to tear my skin off. Oh, and also, I’ve literally never been to the gym.
Don’t worry; I have plenty more unhinged facts.
My mother didn’t believe in the flu shot growing up, so I had to bring a note to public school every year that said it was “against my religion.” Yep. That’s how I walked into first grade. And while we’re on childhood humiliation, my first concussion was in art class. And then later I stabbed myself in the thigh… also in art class. Apparently, art class is deeply dangerous for me. I was in seventh grade when the concussion happened. I was big into eyeliner. I had it caked all around my eyes and then fell off my chair, got a concussion, and the principal had to wheel me out of the building, through the lunchroom, where the eighth graders were having lunch. I looked like a raccoon who had been hit by a bus.
Another fun fact: I was in swimming lessons for three years and never passed level one. Still really can’t swim, even though I grew up in the land of 10,000 lakes. Minnesota, baby. I did, however, water ski and kneeboard like a maniac. I’d strap myself into that kneeboard like a Velcro-wrapped idiot and flip upside down every other run, unable to unstrap myself until my mother would jump off the boat to save me. And I just kept going. I didn’t care that I was almost drowning over and over; I just wanted to ride.
And please don’t ever try to share food with me. My name is Sher-idan, but I do not share. Do not touch my fries. Do not take me to a restaurant where the only options are “shareables.” If you reach for my plate, I will slap your hand.
I also don’t use lotion. It freaks me out. It’s cold, mushy, slimy. I hate the feeling in between my fingers, too. So instead, I use green salve, an old wives’ tale from my family that’s not FDA approved but absolutely works better than any store-bought moisturizer. And if you want a little healing trick? Black salve. Use it on zits, scars, warts, whatever. It draws stuff out. Don’t Google it, just trust me.
I wore stilettos every day from age 16 until maybe a few years ago. I walked 12,000 steps or more a day in them, six days a week, consistently for four years. Yes, I even walked my Chihuahua in stilettos. RIP Fendi. Now that I have two big dogs, I’ve eased off the heels. But no one warned me back then that wearing stilettos long-term would eventually destroy the arches of your feet so badly that you’d need Botox in them just to walk without pain.
So now I wear… kitten heels. I know. I never thought I’d say that. But here we are.
I refuse to use public transportation, besides the scooters. My favorite snack is yogurt with Ritz crackers. I use the cracker as a spoon, eat it, and then use another one. It’s delightful. Don’t knock it till you try it.
I’m extremely particular. About my routines, my outfits, my environment. If you mess with my morning routine, you’re going to meet Mean Sheridan. And when I pack three suitcases to stay at your house, please know I am doing this for you. If I don’t have the outfit that matches my emotional weather that day, I can’t function. So yes, thank you in advance for carrying my bags.
Speaking of emotional weather: one time in middle school, in the dead of a Minnesota winter, I wore a black turtleneck, black long johns, a strapless sundress with umbrellas all over it, and rain boots. Because I woke up and felt like “sunshine in the middle of a storm cloud.” So I dressed accordingly. Thank you.
I never owned a pot or a pan until recently. Yes, I know that’s utterly shocking. But you have to understand, I’ve somehow always had a chef nearby; hospitality life. There’s always just somehow been someone around who just… made me food. I think when your employees love you, and you don’t have an ego about anything, they end up doing things for you out of pure love. That includes feeding me like a royal toddler. I mean, if I’m the kind of boss who scrubs toilets next to you when the restaurant’s short-staffed, then yes, I’m also the kind of boss who gets a salmon filet handed to her on a porcelain plate mid-shift. Love you, chefs. Always have, always will.
I once ate spaghetti for two weeks straight and would absolutely do it again. I make the best spaghetti in my family, and everyone knows it; they just won’t admit it. I’ve challenged them to a spaghetti cook-off, and they always find a reason to dodge it. Cowards.
In everyone’s phone in my family, my contact name is “Sheridan the Great Guerrette.” I changed it myself when I was 10 or 12. And they’ve all kept it. So… I think it’s safe to say, you too need to address me as “Sheridan the Great”.
I became the leading lady of a theater without ever auditioning. I was helping run the business side of a medieval-themed theater, and two hours before the show, both the lead and her understudy bailed. I was the only one who fit the gown, but I’d never acted in a single play before, so my colleagues said, “Sheridan, the show must go on.” And so it did, we told the audience what happened, and I didn’t even use the script, and finished with a standing ovation. They never let me off that stage again.
I’ve moved across the country five times. I am not afraid of change. I am not afraid of starting over. I know who I am, and I can be that wherever you drop me.
I’ve never passed a reading test in my life. I learned to read late, and I still remember my first day at a new school in first grade: the teacher handed me a Clifford the Big Red Dog book and asked me to read it aloud to the class. I didn’t even know how to read “I” or “am” yet. So I stood there, staring at the pages, tears welling up. Yeah. That was fun.
I’ve never had a cavity. Blessed be the tooth fairy.
I drink way too much Diet Coke. Like, it’s my one true vice. But I take my vitamins, eat clean, and structure my day like this: start with water, then coffee (because it’s mostly water), then Diet Coke. A couple. And then water again at night. It’s a system. It works.
In high school, I won a McDonald’s eating contest. I think I ate something like 17 McChickens, 10 McDoubles, and a mountain of nuggets. I was the tiniest thing. I’ve basically been the same size since seventh grade, which is why my wardrobe is so massive now. You never know when a corset from 2009 might come in handy.
I am terrified of ladybugs. Don’t argue with me—they bite. They do. I had two on my arm as a kid, and they bit me at the same time. Mortal enemies ever since.
I don’t know how to snowboard. I can ski. But sideways? No. I fall every time. As a kid, I watched luge in the Olympics and thought I could teach myself. So I took my SpongeBob skateboard, laid on it head-first, and launched myself down our incredibly steep driveway. I did this often, convinced an Olympic coach would just happen to be in our small town and discover me. I did the same thing with figure skating, shoveled frozen ponds, practiced spins all night, then mimicked the moves on rollerblades around town. I really believed someone was going to find me and say, “She’s a prodigy.” Disney Channel really raised me, clearly.
I’m an ordained minister. Yes. Legally. Spiritually? Unclear. But I did once officiate a wedding between a dancer and a Marine, which, frankly, felt like the most holy union I could ever be asked to bless. I stood there, clutching my little binder, absolutely winging it. And somehow it worked. They cried. I cried. The audience cried. I said, “By the power vested in me by the internet and probably the state of Nevada,” and then I married them, a dancer and a marine. One year later, they are now getting divorced.
I lied about my height for years. I’m 5’6”, but when I was 17 and doing castings in Minneapolis, I told everyone I was 5’8”. Then I thought that sounded too suspicious, so I downgraded the lie to 5’7”, you know, to keep it “realistic.” The math didn’t matter. I quit modeling in 2016, right before things got inclusive. Timing’s never been my thing. But delusion? That I’ve always had in spades.
I love dogs more than humans. All of you reading this? Love you. But not more than my dogs.
I’m not aging. I’ve decided. I don’t want to be called old; I reject the premise. I’ve chosen to be an angel. Not a vampire, I don’t want to eat people or drink blood, unless it tastes like a good dry cab. I just want to float through life, radiant and ageless, like the heroine in the final scene of a movie that never ends. Thank you. Please continue clapping in awe.
I don’t go to Korean BBQs anymore. I’m five for five on getting into a fight. I don’t know what it is about the place, any of them. Doesn’t matter the city, the people, the vibe. I walk in calm, and by the time we’re grilling short ribs, I’m in a full-blown fight. Every single time. So I avoid them. Out of respect. For myself, and for the beef it brings.
My entire library is filled with textbooks, and I don’t think I’ve ever actually ever read a true story book before. But a textbook? I love those. My current favorite that I keep rereading is a Harvard business law book. Unhinged and sometimes boring?
I quit hurdles freshman year, not because I was scared, but because I had peaked. I biffed it on the final curve of a 300-meter hurdle race, laid flat on the track, and when I opened my eyes, the two hottest senior boys, Foster and Zach, were standing over me in the sunlight. Literal angels. They scooped me up like a damsel. Some girls chase medals, I chase moments. That was it, that was my curtain call. I never ran hurdles again, and I have no regrets.
Last unhinged fact, for now: I drove across the country six times in the month of July. I don’t want to talk about it. I was feral. And I probably will be again.
Anyway, that’s enough for one week. If you made it this far, I applaud your endurance and question your sanity. You now know more about me than some exes do, and honestly, you got the better deal. I’ve laid bare my green salve habits, my hatred of sweat, my refusal to share food, and my ordained minister credentials, which I’ve only used once, to marry a dancer and a Marine, as God intended.
But I also know some of you saw yourself in my past few episodes, where I got a bit deeper with you. And for that, I love you more than I love Ritz crackers dipped in yogurt, which, if you’ve been paying attention, is saying a lot.
Until next week, stay hydrated, stay unhinged, and don’t touch my plate.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
