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Ross Matthews - Man Up!: Tales of My Delusional Self-Confidence

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    Man Up!: Tales of My Delusional Self-Confidence
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Man Up!: Tales of My Delusional Self-Confidence: summary, description and annotation

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As a young kid growing up in a farm town, Ross Mathews might as well have wished for a pet unicorn or a calorie-free cookie tree to grow in his front yard. Either of those far-fetched fantasies would have been more likely to come true than his real dream: working in television in Hollywood, California. Seriously, that stuff just doesnt happen to people like Ross. But guess what. It totally did.

Now, with his first book, Ross takes us inside his journey as a super-fan, revealing the most embarrassing and hilarious moments of his small-town life and big-city adventures. From learning to swear like a hardened trucker to that time in high school when had to face down the most frightening opponent of all (his girlfriends lady bits), Ross holds nothing back. Oh, then theres his surprisingly shady past involving the cutest pair of plus-sized womens pajama bottoms, deliciously dangerous pot butter, and embezzled sandwiches. And, of course, how hes managed to turn an obsession with pop-culture into one-on-one interactions with celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow, Tiffani-Amber Theissen, Madonna, Michelle Kwan, and countless more without ever having a single restraining order issued against him.

Infused with Rosss trademark humor, unique voice, and total honesty, MAN UP! is a mission statement for anyone who doesnt fit the mold. His hasnt been the most traditional way to build a career in Hollywood, but Ross has somehow managed to make his mark without ever compromising who he is. He is as serious about this as he is about Golden Girls trivia: You dont need to change who you are to achieve your dreams (although theres nothing wrong with a makeover every now and then). You just need to Man Up!

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In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the authors rights.

For anyone whos ever felt different
from everyone else.

by Gwyneth Paltrow

I fell in love with Ross Mathews the first time I saw him. I was watching The Tonight Show one night, and he was covering the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. He made me laugh out loudnot an occurrence that happens to me regularly when I am watching most late-night television shows. His brand of humor was incredible, razor sharp, and yet sweet.

Our paths first crossed later that same year as I was headed into the famous Vanity Fair Oscar party. I cant remember exactly what happened, the order of things or what transpired, but he called out to me on the red carpet and I saw him, standing there on the press line, microphone in hand.

He looked harmless enough, like an adorable mix between a Cabbage Patch Kid and the Pillsbury Doughboy. Plus, I recognized him from that time Id seen him on TV, so I decided to chat with him. Nothing has been the same since.

Within mere seconds, he asked if we could be best friendsthat I do remember. Coming from anyone else, it mightve been creepy. But for some reason, without really thinking, I said yes.

I meant it.

He was so nervous during our first lunch date that he didnt even touch his food. On our second date he ate a bit more (the wine helped). After that dinner, we were off and running.

Throughout the past decade, we have been through a lot together, Ross and Ilifes ups and downs, loves and deaths. I have watched his career take off, he has visited me in London, and each year on my birthday he sends me an erotic lesbian e-card. True story.

What started as a funny Why Not? has magically morphed into a legitimate bond. Sometimes in life, for reasons we dont always understand, we make these little connections. You see someones face, they say something that makes you certain you are supposed to know them and you follow your heart. Thats what happened with Rossy Pants and me. We may live oceans apart, but we are cut from the same cloth, to mix a metaphor.

Read this book. Trust meyoull want to be his best friend, too.

H ello, dear reader! Its me, Ross Mathews from television! So now that were best friends (oh, by the way, we totally just became best friends), you should know that I am possibly, just maybe a teeny bit way too excited for you to read my book. Im so excited I just cant hide it. Im about to lose control and I think I like it. Why? Because Ive always dreamed of sharing my deepest, most top-secret thoughts with the world at large and nowOMGits finally happening.

Even as a little kid, I was the MVP of TMI, yearning to connect with people in any way I could. With that in mind, my favorite day of the school year wasnt Picture Day, Sloppy Joe Day, or even Bring Your Grandparents to School Dayall fine days in their own right. The day I looked forward to most was Balloon Day.

It occurs to me now that you might be confused, dear reader. Perhaps Balloon Day wasnt a national celebration that children in schools across the USA enjoyed. Who knows? Balloon Day may have been just a quaint, small-town phenomenon that my genius elementary school principal invented for the enjoyment of me and my fellow classmates every few years.

If this is, in fact, the first time youve ever heard of Balloon Day, Im sorry that your childhood was so empty. Perhaps you might want to bring it up in your next therapy session as a possible reason for your fear of commitment. Im just trying to help.

Balloon Day was awesomethat rare occasion that appealed to naive kindergarteners and jaded sixth graders alike. But as excited as all my classmates were for Balloon Day, my unapologetic gusto put them to shame. This event spoke to me. I loved not only the pageantry of it but the symbolism, as well, and my unbridled enthusiasm for it bordered on straight-up bonkers. But unlike the time I farted on the slide during recess in front of a group of popular fourth graders, none of my peers seemed to judge my boyhood balloon obsession too harshly, for they, too, loved Balloon Day.

Heres how the big day went down: On small pieces of paper no bigger than Tootsie Pop wrappers, my classmates and I would write our most heartfelt wishes, thoughts, and feelings. Each time my school celebrated Balloon Day, my personalized note was slightly different, but my penmanship was always immaculate. I took the process very seriously, treating it like a sacred communication between myself and the Great Unknown. In addition to my most private and profound thoughts, Id also take the opportunity to humbly ask for a few actual gifts. Hey, couldnt hurt, right? You never know.

In second grade, I begged the Universe for a pony farm. In fourth grade, I yearned for a pony farm and a doughnut factory. And finally, in sixth grade, I insisted on a pony farm, a doughnut factory, and, for reasons I didnt quite understand yet, TVs Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Each time, I would include my parents home telephone number and end my message with, If you find this note, please call me!

Once the notes were written, the next and most important step of all was picking out our balloons. In the early days of kindergarten, I made the rookie mistake of being a gentleman, allowing all the girls in school to choose their balloon colors before I chose mine. It was a chivalrous gesture equivalent to putting my coat over a mud puddle for a darling damsel in distress, but it left me with a pathetically pitiful color palette of balloons from which to choose. An orange balloon? I dont think so. Im a Spring, not a Fall, thank you very much.

I should have known better. Elementary school girls are as cutthroat as they are cute. Never again. By first grade, I was a seasoned pro. When it came to grabbing the best balloon of the bunch, it was survival of the fittest. With my kindergarten mistakes behind me, I now knew to shamelessly shove my way through the throng of annoying adolescent lil ladies in order to reach the basket of uninflated balloons before those bitches could steal all the pink onesmy signature color, then and now.

After we selected our balloons, they were filled with helium and attached to our supersecret messages with a string by our gym teacher, a major hottie who looked like a cross between He-Man and Barbies boyfriend Ken. Hubba hubba. Finally, the entire student body would march onto the grassy fields behind the gymnasium, with our balloons bobbing over our heads like multicolored thought bubbles.

Hold on tight, kids, the teachers aide would remind us. Dont let go until were all together.

What a well-meaning idiot. Bless her heart. Of course I was going to hold on to my balloon, dum-dum. Woman, puh-lease. We were all in this together, and if I let go early, I would ruin Balloon Day for everyone. That wasnt gonna happen, lady. Not on my watch. So I held on to that string with my fat little sausagelike prepubescent fingers with the same protective fervor with which I held my turkey and cheddar Lunchable. Ill admit, it was tempting to let go and give my message a head start, but I fought the urge.

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