Cry About It, Saddle Bags

I'll Give You "Prissy"

2009-12-19T17:17:00.000-08:00

My teenage son and his new girlfriend started dating a few weeks ago. Sonny doesn't drive yet, so most of their dates have been spent either at our house or hers.

The new girlfriend, so far, is quite cute, but her mother is something else.

So we're driving home from picking up Girlfriend and buying supplies for Rice Krispie treats at the store (part of their plan for the day). Mr. Crybaby had the other four kids with him, and had accidentally taken the house keys, so we had to leave the door unlocked.

I teased Sonny, "You're going in the house first and checking for prowlers."
Sonny: "Don't worry, I'll take care of them."
Me: "You can smack them with your big black man-purse." (He was holding my purse on his lap - we were in the tiny car known as the "Go-Cart.")
Sonny: "Yeah, I keep a brick in it."
Girlfriend: "My mom says Sonny seems prissy. He might be able to beat up his teddy bear."

(???)

Girlfriend: "She also says that it's hard to connect with him because he's so quiet. She says you have to be careful about the quiet ones, because those are always the ones who turn out to be axe murderers."

(Um...)

Girlfriend: "So then it was funny because I asked Sonny what he wanted for Christmas, and he said 'An axe.'"

(OK, so that was funny)

I'm at a loss.

So, Girlfriend's Mom. My son is a wimp? Is that what you're saying? What kind of blood-letting macho bruisers do you expect your daughter to date, anyway?

Our son is a future axe murderer? Well, which is it? Wimp? Killer? Wimpy killer?

You told your daughter this about her new boyfriend? Gee. When he brought her to our house, we told him what a sweetheart she was and how cute and well-spoken and grown-up and fun she was. Silly us, trying to be positive.

I don't blame Girlfriend for her less-than-discreet observations... she obviously learned it from someone else.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2008-07-15T20:01:00.000-07:00

Avid readers of my whinefest know about my Tuesday night thing, which will soon be known as my "former Tuesday night thing."

Picture it: my area, today. I drove all over freaking creation hauling Cub Scouts (one I have since named "Chin Music") to day camp in a neighboring state, driving them home, then driving back to said neighboring state in rush hour traffic to fetch my out-of-town husband's paycheck (or they'll mail it to us and we need it yesterday), driving home, picking up my three day camp orphans, taking them to Wendy's for drive-through and then... here comes the butt-clincher.

Even though I planned on not going to my Tuesday night thing, due to sunburn, headache, exhaustion, severe annoyance with several Cub Scouts in my care, and wanting to go somewhere air-conditioned after this roasty toasty camp excursion - I still had to make an appearance. I have the one key to the Tuesday night thing. The building peeps recently re-keyed the outside and inside of the Tuesday night thing building, and provided one key per shift. My shift members wisely agreed that I should have it, due to our one-car-overscheduled family situation, because that way, Mr. Crybaby can drop me off on his way to his gambling habit on Tuesday evenings and I can open the door for everyone else.

If you're keeping track, this was an uncharacteristically smart move for my shift members.

I actually called Mrs. Blossomhead this evening, an hour before our shift started, to see if she had been given a key yet. Nope. I told her I would drive to the building, unlock the door, let myself and the four Crybaby children inside, eat dinner in the gym and WAIT FOR HER so I could let her in.

Everything went like clockwork until 7:03 PM, three minutes after our shift starts, with nary a fellow staff-member in sight. A lovely gentleman who took one look at my day-campy appearance and decided I couldn't possibly know my butt from a bag of elbows, sat outside with me in front of the Tuesday night thing. I told him I couldn't let him in until more staff members showed up. He grunted dismissively and wondered aloud to himself if Mr. Bloopbutt would be working this shift. I thought about telling him "No, he's not here tonight" (since I DO know my butt from a bag of elbows and who my fellow staff members are, too), but figured he'd let it go in one snobby ear and right out the other.

Finally I thought, at least I should go inside the Tuesday night thing and make a couple of phone calls to Good Cop and Bad Cop, the Tuesday night thing directors, and let them know that this shift tonight would be staff-less. After all, none of them were here yet.

Then I thought, what if Mrs. Blossomhead or Mr. and Mrs. Ick were sitting outside in their cars, waiting to be let in an unlocked door?

Oh, no, I thought. They couldn't be that stupid. Surely one of them would have at least wandered indiscriminately in the direction of the building door and checked to see if it were unlocked. One of them must have seen my van in the parking lot and known that I was inside. Certainly Mrs. Blossomhead remembered our conversation from sixty minutes ago, and would know that I was there and MAYBE she could poke her head inside to see if I was there. I had arrived at 6:30 PM, unlocked the front door, and kept my children busy checking out the foyer to see if any of them had come in, and none of them had.

Or... maybe they could be that stupid.

I went outside and was perturbed to find that not only were Mr. and Mrs. Ick and Mrs. Blossomhead sitting in their vehicles, like low-IQ sheep who had somehow stumbled onto the technology that we know as "driving a car," but after sitting out in the brine with their hair frizzing to oblivion for who knows how long, Good Cop and Bad Cop were now paying a surprise visit and had just exited THEIR vehicles. And pretty much all they can see is that the Tuesday night thing should be happening, and it isn't, because their staff is sitting outside picking fleas off each other - except for the one staff member inside with the one key, who is obviously a tardy door-opening flake.

Uh-duh! Maybe we should try the door next time! "I thought you would try the door and see if it was locked," I said to Mrs. Blossomhead (which, by the way, was completely unnecessary since people had been using the unlocked door, two feet away from her). Bad Cop whispered to me, "They should have," as she walked by. Mrs. Blossomhead said, "I didn't know you were here! I didn't see your van drive by!" Apparently she doesn't recognize my van when it's actually parked.

Now that I could unlock the door, I went for it. I received major fisheye from the Cops regarding my day-campy bag-of-elbows attire and found myself apologizing. Which was dumb - like they've never been to day camp. I made certain Bad Cop knew the reason for the shift-opening lateness and the reason I would not be staying tonight, but Good Cop (who normally lives up to her name) turned on me and said, "Since we only have one key per shift right now, you should give it to the shift supervisors, Mr. and Mrs. Ick, so they can be here to open up on time."

Grrrrrrr. If by "on time" you mean "arrive late and leave as soon as you can," yes, the Icks are perfect for the job.

That - combined with my driving through cop-ridden traffic from one end of town to the other, after putting umpteen miles on my car just today, and being made to feel like a naughty child who doesn't deserve the privilege of doing the Tuesday night thing and a disgusting slob in the bargain - is why I quit the Tuesday night thing tonight. After all these years of excellent service, busting my husband's butt to get me there on time - sometimes he left work early - and gas, time, miles on the car, kids without Mom, messy house, and obvious peril to my personal safety, this is how I'm treated for showing up with the key - EARLY - and following the rule of not opening Tuesday night thing until multiple staff members are there.

Sorry, folks, there won't be any more Ick-y stories for a few months. I'm taking some time off. I'm dropping off the keys to the Icks and that way, when they're late, Mr. and Mrs. Blossomhead, Good Cop, and Bad Cop can be mad at them instead of me. I'm done with it.

Please, Mrs. Ick, Please...

2008-06-24T22:40:00.001-07:00

...don't throw around the phrase "sex slave" when we're working at that place we work together on Tuesdays.

That religious place.

That place where strange people come to us for help and advice.

People who have a working sense of hearing.

People I am sitting right next to.

People with male, uh, equipment.

Even if we are members of a formerly-polygamous religion and like to joke about our husbands marrying other women so they can cook and clean, while we, as the preferred first wives, live simply to "service" our husbands...

Because the thought of you being a sex ANYTHING is more grotesque than eating an entire jar of mayonnaise...

Because you and your husband are among the laziest people I've ever had the misfortune of meeting - "It's 8:30. Can we close up early and go home to bed now?"...

Because your husband makes rude remarks when my husband arrives on time to pick me up, like, "Boy, he likes to cut it close!"...

Because of all this and so much more...

I would really love it if you would never, never, never, never, NEVER and I mean NEVER EVER EVER EVER AGAIN...

Just never, ever...

I really - just - please, don't ever....

Seriously... gagging now...

*shudder*

Please don't ever put me in another situation where I feel like injecting Liquid Drano directly into my brain.

Thanks in advance.

Top Ten Reasons We Will Never Move Back Home

2008-03-19T11:57:00.000-07:00

I've decided that many of the voices I hear regularly in my head are great at mimicking people in my life - their voices, their mannerisms, things they would probably say to themselves but never to my face (now that they've discovered I'm a crier).

My dear mother - a wonderful person and not one of these minions - was asking, yet again (and I was feeling guilty, yet again), about why we don't move over to the other side of the state, closer to where she is. The rent is cheaper, things are less expensive there, we'd be better off financially, yada yada. I love my mother and would live next door to her (in theory; in reality, I'd probably drive her nuts within 10 days).

Among other reasons - we've lived here for ten years and LIKE IT, the climate is nicer, we have friends and a good job - here's why we're over here instead:

1. "Having a blog is bad. Predators will find your children."

2. "Your [beloved family member] always seemed to me like he/she was 40 going on 14."

3. "Now that your [another beloved family member] is living on welfare, what is he/she going to do with his/her life?"

4. "Back in my day, children were to be seen and not heard." (My husband's brilliant response: "Isn't that when they used to hang people for being black?")

5. "Drive ten miles out of your way to personally say good-bye to your [another family member who couldn't care less], who has seen you more times in the last week than he has in three years, won't you, dear?"

6. *disapproving look at everything we do, say, don't do, don't say, think (she can read us like books)*

7. (After sharing an idea of something exciting and positive we might do in the future) - "You might think twice about doing that. Vera at work has a daughter whose husband's butler's baby-mama's dry cleaner did the same thing and she ended up with a tire iron through her bladder."

8. "Oh, honey, I wish you would go to the gym sometimes."

9. "If he changed jobs, you wouldn't have to live like refugees."

And my personal favorite:

10. "Dammit, take the money! You IDIOT! Oh, these people, they go on that show and they act all cocky and entitled, when you know their briefcase only has $1 in it and they're not gonna go home with JACK SQUAT! The *#@*& dummies." (This, while watching "Deal or No Deal." The guy was raising his blood pressure over a game show.)

It's not that we consider ourselves to be better than these people we call our family, and it's not that we can't or shouldn't forgive... but being the "not very good at confrontations" kind of people we are, we prefer to live at least three hours away from their mouths. For some reason they're always nicer - and watch less reality TV - while they're on the phone.

I just hope our kids don't find us too odious to live around, when they're grown up.

My First Award and It Already Has Snot On It

2008-01-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

(sniffle) Thanks, No Cool Story. I'm truly and deeply touched.

I hereby pass on this award to four of the niftiest chicks I know:

Compulsive Writer, a marvelous community activist, mom, and cousin (so Millie tells me)

Jean Knee, the owner of Mr. Cocka Doodle Doo and maker of some darn fine bacon Christmas ornaments (so Millie tells me)

Elasticwaistbandlady, the love of my life and frequent crying towel

K/Kailyn/Mrs. Monkeybutt, for her faithful and supportive comments in my constant hours of need

Quick, take the awards before I weep on them.

Tattle and Die

2008-01-05T13:32:00.000-08:00

I have several strict "neighbor child" policies at my house. One of them breaks down like this:

I have neighbors.

I tolerate my neighbors.

The neighbors have offspring.

I barely - sometimes, with the use of narcotics - tolerate the offspring.

I do not even attempt to tolerate the offspring's tattling.

There's one kid, we'll call him "Berliner," who loves - LOVES - to tattle. He is a tattler extraordinaire. Some parents teach their kids to call hogs - this boy's parents have obviously schooled him well in the art of "I'm gonna tell on you!" because in my 15 1/2 years of parenting, I have never met a better one.

Berliner came to the door just this afternoon, in fact, with a new tale of woe regarding one of my darling innocents. He did it hesitantly, knowing what a hard-nosed mother I am, to my own children and any unfortunate brat who may cross my path. And I'm not a mother who thinks her children can do no wrong - my house is evidence enough that yes, my children do indeed have a naughty (and often artistic, judging from the masterpieces on my walls, doors, countertops and CEILING) streak.

But knowing this boy's fondness for involving every conceivable adult-in-charge whenever his social networking goes awry, I pretty much let everything he says go in one ear and out the other. Unless he's sporting fresh blood or a newly-escaped eyeball, he's not getting much sympathy from me.

After listening grimly to his gripes, I called forth my son, who came to the door a few minutes later with my other son and the rest of the gang. After hearing what REALLY happened and chastising my son, throwing in some friendship pointers ("Just because the 10-year-old tells you to punch your friend, and no matter how 'soft' the punch was, we do NOT punch people"), I announced loudly for all the neighborhood to hear that We Don't Do Tattle At This House.

Furthermore, I said, if anyone feels the need to tattle to me about something my boys have done (as long as it was relatively harmless, not "your kid was teasing my pet finch and it died from nervous exhaustion") instead of solving it amongst themselves, my dear boys will no longer be available to play with for the rest of the hour, afternoon, day, week, or decade, depending on how bugged I am. They will come inside and enjoy uninterrupted bonding time with Mother (and probably some chores). So if we want to play with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, we better not be coming to their mother's door with all our petty complaints.

It works pretty well. My boys are scared into submission, the neighbor spawn are awed and amazed at my parental prowess, and if they dare to cross that line again, they can't say they haven't been warned.

Famdamily Dynamics

2007-12-17T08:13:00.001-08:00

Please enjoy this guest post by a dear friend, Second Fiddle.

You have to understand it isn't easy to have a birthday just two days before the biggest holiday of the year--tax day. Ever since I was a child my birthday was totally eclipsed by April 15. No friends were ever available for a party because their parents were busy getting their taxes done. Presents--if there were any--were always wrapped in Forms 1040, 1040 EZ and my personal favorite, 8915. So I have issues about my birthday.

But I've grown out of most them. I've learned to love the excitement of tax day in such a way that I'm so looking forward to it and the gifts I love to give to the IRS that sometimes I even forget it's my birthday.

However, old issues have given way to a new one. A bigger and even better issue. And it has to do with my mother. Once I left home my mom started to invite me to lunch occasionally on my birthday. I obliged when invited and it was fine. But then there were a couple of years when she didn't invite me in a timely manner and I got other offers first. (Yes, I had friends!) So I did the politely correct thing and accepted the invitation of whomever asked first. I mean, I didn't want to sit around on my special day waiting for the phone to ring, you know?

One year one of them even hosted a party for me--which was really something given how busy people are that time of year (you know, with their taxes and all and celebrating the all-powerful IRS). But I am blessed by good friends and they tore themselves away from their W-2s and their mortgage interest statements and showed up to a lunch held in my honor. You'd have thought my mother would be happy for me, right?

But the very next year for my birthday my mother sent me tickets to the queen mother of all guilt trips. "Well it was tradition for me to take you to lunch on your birthday, but then you preferred to go with your girlfriends..."

So I caved. I told my friends I couldn't make plans on that day. I realized that although the right thing to to do if my birthday was really about me would be to invite me for a time that was convenient for me, that was going to be just little too much to ask.

Oddly enough, in that sweet way mothers have, the tickets to the guilt trip kept coming years after I mended my sorry ways and reserved the day for her. Years.

Enter my sister. The favored child (I could tell you stories). Turns out she was coming to visit for tax day this year and she would be arriving on my birthday. Secretly I wondered, would this change the rules of the game?

So about a week before the big event I called my mother to invite her to do something with my family on that day, careful to let her know I wasn't sure what time my sister and her family would arrive but that we would try to go early so she could be home before their arrival.

The conversation continued and then the unexpected happened. My mother invited me to dinner for the night before my birthday. That way, she explained, if she got too far behind getting things ready for my sister she would have it out of the way. (OK, she didn't really say those exact words, but you know...)

Oh. I see how it's done. That was pretty subtle, actually. Especially coming from a person who thinks being subtle is hitting someone over the head.

Fortunately I've gotten used to the game over the years and I have come to find humor in the situation and am able to respond with laughter instead of tears.

So much for tradition!

Need a safe place to gripe? Use my blog for a shoulder to cry on!

I Hid in the Vestibule

2007-11-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

So I'm at my usual Tuesday night meeting tonight, for the first time since the Big O happened. It was with mixed feelings that I went there tonight, having missed my exciting duties but with the bad taste of Mr. Ick's back-rubbing story still stuck in my mouth. Ewwwwww.

Mr. Ick's wife, Mrs. Ick, showed up this time. Apparently there was some anxiety over Mr. Ick's coming home so late the last two weeks I was there, so Mrs. Ick made sure to tell me, "We have to leave on time tonight. We have a sick boy at home" (I think it was her grandson, but I have a sneaking suspicion she was talking about her dog).

*Let's pause here, so we can all imagine me slapping the crap out of Mrs. Ick*

Excuse me, Mrs. Ick. I'm sorry my husband doesn't pick me up on time (which I have absolutely no control over), but I believe it was your salacious-story-sharing husband, Mr. Ick, who chose to sit around waiting for the Indian in the cupboard to come to life and hack me to death as I waited for my husband to arrive. Never at any point have I uttered the following: "Please, Mr. Ick. I feel so afraid, sitting behind two sets of heavy locked doors that can't be kicked in because they open to the outside. Won't you stay with me, so that I might be protected by your 80-year-old self?" So don't be pulling this "We have to leave on time" crap. If you want to leave, you know where the door is.... you old blowhole.

The Icks and Mrs. Blossomhead were all ready to go by 9:15 (closing time, by the way, is 9:30). As Mr. Crybaby had not yet left his coded phone message - "It's butt-clapping time" - I was forced to wait around with them and listen to Mrs. Ick's whining. "Mrs. Crybaby, are you still here? Did your husband call yet? Mrs. Blossomhead, is Mrs. Crybaby still on the computer? What's going on? Can we leave yet? WHAAAAA??? AAAAAHHHHH??????"

Finally Mr. Crybaby did call. Having worked through our previous difficulties, I was pretty sure I knew what to do - pulling it off without the other meeting-ees finding out would be the hard part.

I hung up, hurriedly shoved everything into my bag, said "BYE!" and ran out the door. Our meeting room is connected to a long, straight hallway, so I would have to run like mad. Once they all hauled their monstrous keisters out of their chairs, commented on my not-that-grateful-for-their-protection attitude, said "good night" 18 times and shuffled out the door, I was in danger of being discovered.

And I ran - I ran so far away - to the gym where the Tuesday Night Volleyball Chicks were whooping it up as usual. On an earlier fact-finding mission, I had been annoyed and a bit panicked to find they were in the farthest-away gym from my meeting room, instead of the closer gym they had played in on previous weeks. They all looked surprised as I now ripped open their door, trounced into the gym and took off walking to the opposite hallway as fast as I could.

Finding myself in a foyer on the opposite side of the building, I sat down on a couch, then worried I might still be discovered. What if they saw me head into the gym, followed me, asked the TNVCs "Which way did she go?", and were, even as we speak, hot on my heels? So I stood up... and hid in the vestibule. Seriously. I hid from them like a naughty child and stood there in the dark corner thinking, "What if they find me? What will they say? What will I tell them? I can't believe I'm doing this." I thought I saw the Icks' car go by and thought, OK, the coast must be clear.

I went back the way I came, through the TNVC's gym. "Do you want to play volleyball?" one lady asked me. I signed up on their email reminder list. I chatted them up for a few minutes and tried to assure them numerous times that no matter how much they said, "Oh, you CAN'T suck at volleyball, you're just saying that" - it's really true, and they'll be sorry someday that they ever asked me to play with them.

I glanced out the door into the hallway - the scene of the crime - and sighed with relief that everyone was apparently gone. The meeting room door was locked and no one was hovering. For once.

Then I sprinted down the hall, let myself back in, locked myself behind two sets of doors, sat myself down and dashed off this post.... and finally Mr. Crybaby made his appearance.

I now have volleyball as a legitimate excuse to stick around if he's late again. But I'm also contemplating quitting this Tuesday night thing altogether. Sneaking around and hiding from well-meaning adults used to mean everything to me. I enjoyed it - who wouldn't?

But when I turned 37, it suddenly lost its charm.

Pass the Pepto

2007-10-09T22:32:00.000-07:00

Mr. Crybaby has provided our family with one car. It's fine until nights like tonight, when we have to be in two different places at the same time. Then it's downright annoying.

So tonight he's at his meeting and I'm at mine, and he dropped me off because mine started first and his SUPPOSEDLY was going to end before mine did. However, we've set a bad precedent.

Last week, Mr. Jones didn't make it at the appointed time, and because I'm made of 8,000-year-old glass and I break if you look at me, my fellow meeting-ees felt it their duty to stick around until he showed up. I had planned to go back to the room where the meeting was and wait by myself till he got there, but no matter what I said to them, they weren't budging. Imagine my embarrassment when Mr. Jones finally arrived, 40 minutes late.

Besides feeling (and, I'm sure, LOOKING) like a giant stankwad, Mr. Jones got to hear about it from me all the way home. I didn't particularly like being held against my will for the last 40 minutes. What could we do about one meeting-ee in particular, 80-year-old Mr. Ick, who insists on making sure I'm handed off to my husband at the end of the evening?

Mr. Jones came up with this idea: "When it's time to leave," he said brightly, convinced his goofy plan would work, "pretend you're going to leave too, but as you're walking out the door with them, develop a major gas cramp and say, 'HOLY CRAP,' and run to the restroom with your hand clapped over your butt. They'll leave, thinking I'm soon to arrive, and then you can go back to the room and lock yourself in till I get there."

I'm not a good liar, but tonight, I decided to try this plan out. No dice: Mr. Ick didn't care if I belched the alphabet, lit up a smoke or walked laps around the building in the dark, encountering tarantulas, Wiccans, pyschopaths or errant kittens - he was NOT GOING TO LEAVE. Mrs. Blossomhead, another meeting-ee, didn't feel right leaving us alone (because if she weren't there, I'd be all over that 80-year-old liver-spotted scalp like stink on poop), so she sat there too, making small talk with Mr. Ick and checking her watch every two minutes.

We sat there and waited for Mr. Crybaby, who kindly called to let me know that he wasn't coming on time and NOW was the moment to try out his brilliant Restroom Tactic. I told him in code that it wasn't going to work: Mr. Ick was a complete nerdwad and wouldn't leave until he handed me over, pretended severe gas attack or no. Afterward, I sat there, wishing it were permissible to scream, wave my fists in the air and jump up and down until they left. I also tried to sleep.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ick regaled us with stories. He told us that his wife sleeps on her stomach (not a pretty picture to imagine) and that when he rubs her back while she's asleep, she enjoys his back-rubbing so much, she makes noises that sound - this is not a joke - "like she's having an org**m."

Mrs. Blossomhead laughed nervously and I seriously thought I would pass out. A liver-spotted 80-year-old man in my presence had just admitted to having s*x with Mrs. Ick, who is 22 years his junior, not that attractive (I'm being nice), and apparently has org**ms regularly.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

By the time Mr. Crybaby showed up, I was scarred and traumatized and hyperventilating. I was but a shell and a shadow of my former self. He asked me what happened and when I told him, he said I "messed up" his plan. Apparently my butt-clapping wasn't convincing enough.

I'm going to call in "grossed out" next week - it's Mr. Crybaby's birthday anyway - but the week after, I'm bringing my gym clothes. There's a group of chickies playing volleyball in the same building and it starts right after my meeting ends!!! We may have found our answer!

Mr. Crybaby thinks it's tremendously hilarious that I, his unsporty little missus, must "stoop" to playing volleyball to get out of being baby-sat by Mr. Ick. I think Mr. Crybaby is a no-talent little (bleeeeeeeep!).

But wait, there's more!

CAT! You've peed your last mattress!

2007-09-03T10:52:00.000-07:00

How many times, dear reader, would you allow a semi-new to your household box-trained cat to pee your bed before you decided enough was enough, and it was time for him to shove off? Once? Twice? Three times a wet spot?

Let's just say, I placed an ad for a cute little black and white kitty today. Any takers?

I've Grown Accustomed To Their Knocks...

2007-08-10T12:02:00.001-07:00

... their endless knocking on my door...
I've grown accustomed to my neighbor, who borrows this or that...
The milk, the salt, the eggs, the cat

It's second nature to me now...
Feeling annoyed and feeling bugged...
The rotten neighbor children tattle-ing, involved in countless spats...
Alas, I can't throw rocks at them, or smack them with my bat...

I've grown accustomed to the way they drive me freakin' nuts...
Accustomed... to their... knocks.

John Travolta: Attention Whore Extraordinaire

2007-07-21T20:54:00.000-07:00

Hi. I'm John Travolta.

I'm a fat cross-dresser in the new movie Hairspray. Feel free to interrupt my shameless self-promotion with applause, screams, cheers, wolf whistles, indecent proposals shouted for the entire audience to hear, and hotel keys or underwear thrown onstage (male or female, I'm an equal opportunity movie god).

I've appeared in over 300 iconic American movies. While acting in one of the suckier ones, I met my lovely wife Kelly Preston.

At the time we met, I may or may not have looked like this (and bore a slight, though definitely creepy, resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite - just in the face, though. He never had a bod this hot).

Now I look more like Mrs. Crybaby Jones' dad, who, while not an ugly man, certainly doesn't have women throwing their panties at him - at least, not for a long time.

Some past roles you absolutely must, under penalty of law, remember me from are "Danny Zuko" in Grease....

I also danced one of the all-time important American movie dance scenes as "Tony Manero" in that ode to young smart aleck Italian-American gang rapists, Saturday Night Fever.

For about ten years, I was in a series of stink-o wastes of time (although, I will say that however you may feel about Look Who's Talking, I consider it one of my proudest moments). For my "comeback," I then had the pleasure of shootin' 'em up in that violent crapfest of a movie Pulp Fiction. Oooh, look at my big meanie man face. I look good mean!

Oh, and in case you forgot, I once danced with that dead Princess Diana for a total of five minutes at the White House one year, a fact I try to trot out at least once per television appearance; I fly jets and named my son after one; I'm a Scientologist like that one guy... um... don't tell me, I'll remember his name in a second... uh... darn, he's going to kill me for this... You ever have that problem, where you can't remember someone's name and then two weeks later at 3:00 in the morning, you finally remember?... He married that chick from Dawson's Creek... DANG!

Anyway. I'm in a movie about a fat girl who likes to dance, called Hairspray (the movie, not the girl), and I don't have $80 trillion in the bank yet, so I'd appreciate it if you'd go see my new movie. Or possibly head to the movie rental store and rent one of my tired old flicks that you can catch on TV for free most weeknights (sometimes on weekends if there's nothing good on, like The Hunt For Red October). Because Kelly, Jett, Ella and I could really use another ... um... hang on, let me ask Kelly.

Kelly? What overpriced superfluous bauble should we get this week? Liposuction for my triple chin? OK, thanks, babe.

WAAAAAAAAAA

2007-07-07T12:34:00.001-07:00

giggle giggle

2007-03-02T23:43:00.000-08:00

You are so sleuthy. Thanks, Crybaby, for letting me have my way with your blog...

(you're welcome)

One more time... over here... come on, click it. I'll buy you some new deodorant.