I don’t have the movie star hots for Tom Cruise. I don’t even like him much as actor. He seems like a shiny little alien on Scientology overdrive. But while in a crowded line at the grocery store, I read about his controlling, obsessive behavior toward his wife Katie Holmes and I begin to wonder if Tom Cruise would mind micromanaging me as well.
The headlines claim that Katie (or Kate, as Tom would have her called now, since she’s a “child-bearing woman”) is stuck in a Cruisian prison. As I struggle to manage my many bags of groceries, I wondered how I could become a fellow inmate with Kate.
I bet you I wouldn’t have to fumble with all these bags if I was stuck in a Cruisian prison. I wouldn’t have to break out in a cold sweat as the cashier processed a credit card that’s just about maxed.
It’s easy street with Tom and me. He tells me what to eat and how many bites to take, when to bathe, what to wear, how to wear my hair. He tells me how long to sleep, who I can talk to and where I can go. When Katie, I mean Kate, pulls me aside to plan our great escape, I break free of her bony grip and run back to Tom, asking him what he wants me to do next.
He tells me firmly and with authority how to manage a number of situations in my life, like my health insurance denying my recent claims and my molar needing fixed and my car desperately requiring repair (it’s making some weird whistling sound that gets louder each day.) I ask him how I should handle the juggling act of my credit cards and overdue bills and unreliable cash flow. Tom would have the answers. Tom Cruise would know.
Of course, there’s the Scientology issue. That would be problematic. There is nothing I find more abhorrent than having some whacked religion shoved down my throat. But Tom would like the challenge. Everyday, he’d try to convert me and every day, I’d be this close to letting him. Then I’d say, “Let me think about it.” He’d remind me that he thinks for me now. Okay, fine. So I convert to Scientology. Egad. It’s what he wants! Whaddya want me to do? Who am I to question the ways of Tom Cruise?
I purposefully do things to upset him, like wearing scantily clad outfits and acting garish in public. He feels the need to lecture and punish me. Heck, maybe he even grounds me. I’ve never been grounded in my life. I think it’s high time I was grounded for a couple of weeks. Put me in my place. Give me time to think about my behavior.
Of course, I’d love this controlling behavior to translate into kinky sex, but unfortunately, it doesn’t. He withholds sex. It’s part of his master plan for me (and his whole sexuality issue…shh.) I beg, plead, cajole…but alas, I secretly have sex with my somewhat militant Cuban personal trainer Paulo instead (I have my needs!)
Tom catches me in the act and I’m back to being grounded again, this time for a whole month. I lay poolside, crying every time Tom walks by. “I’m sorry, Tom Cruise,” I sob. “I’m sorry!” He walks away abruptly and I pull out the margarita I have stashed under my lounge chair. It’s a peach margarita. Made with real peaches! My personal chef Kenneth makes them for me on the sly.
My well-managed fantasy life is ruthlessly cut short by one of my over-packed grocery bags breaking open as I leave the grocery store. The contents spill all over the icy cement. Of course, the effin’ eggs have to be in that bag.
As I chase rolling eggs around the parking lot, I look up to the heavens and whisper, “Tom Cruise, help me now. Please!” And you know what? He appears by my rusty 1990 Toyota truck with that eerily dazzling smile of his. I begin to cry with relief. He says, “It’s over. The struggle is over. I’m here now.”
A bodyguard grabs the bags from my arms and leads me into the passenger seat. Tom takes the keys from my coat pocket and starts the car. The whistling sound is gone. It’s gone! Tom Cruise’s mere presence has fixed my car. As we drive home, he tells me to cross my legs. I look like a slut, he says.
My pleasure, Tom Cruise. My pleasure.