Sad news this past week to learn of the demise of yet another celebrity in a plane wreck. Joining the ranks of Richie Valens, the Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jenni Rivera, John Denver, Jim Croce, Patsy Cline, JFK. Jr.—this list goes on way too long—another beloved entity, lauded and followed by all, has perished: Brangelina. Brangelina came to an untimely demise in international airspace when one member of the pair apparently did something so outrageous up there in that private jet of theirs that not long after they hit the ground, the other member of the entity rang up her lawyer and started putting plans into place to dissolve the existence of Brangelina.
When she called her lawyer, she probably didn’t say, “I need you to put plans into place to dissolve Brangelina.” I bet those two never referred to themselves as Brangelina. “Hey kids, you know Brangelina love you guys, kissy kissy. Want to jet up to Disneyland Paris for a couple of hours with Brangelina?” That probably wasn’t what they said in baby talk to their brood. It was probably more like, “Mommy and Daddy love you, kissy kissy. How about we jet on over—” You get the idea.
When Angie got on the horn to her lawyer about the dissolution, she should have said that someone on that private jet of theirs didn’t read their non-disclosure clause very well and they leaked to someone who leaked to TMZ that Brad drank too much and got feisty and went too far somehow and Angie said Enough! Only the closest friends, and their work buddies, the neighborhood barista, and a few acquaintances at the gym should really know the ugly details of someone’s break-up. Poor Angie and Brad have the entire world (well, maybe not in North Korea and Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland) discussing and evaluating and judging the wreck and death of Brangelina.
Because of the scrutiny, every one of us knows now that she submitted her paperwork for the divorce exactly one minute before the court house closed. As we sympathize with her, knowing now what we do, we can picture her standing in line, papers in hand, with all those other last minute filers, letting them go in front of her so she could time it just right and walk up to that window right at 4:59 p.m. She had to. What if the paparazzi got a hold of that info at 11:30 in the morning? They’d hound her to death. At least she got another evening of peace before word was leaked out that Brangelina was dead.
In recent years, we’ve come to know Angie in more intimate ways as she shared her journey with her friends in New York, and say, maybe everyone in the world (except in North Korea and Ittoqqortoormiit) when she wrote her open letter in The New York Times to anyone who would read it, telling about her inherited risk of cancer and choice to have double mastectomy as a preventative measure. And then again sharing the story of having her fallopian tubes and ovaries removed. Of course we feel connected to her! Every time someone tells me they got their fallopian tubes and ovaries out I kind of have a bonding experience with them. That’s private stuff. When I got my ovaries out…well, never mind. We just aren’t that close yet. Anyway, we feel like we know her, so we want to know about what’s going on in her life, like about the sprawling estate she moved her kids into after that ill-fated flight that rents for $95,000 a month and has a heated pool and private doorway onto the beach. And we want to know things like “Brad is crying all the time…he was blindsided.” And that he smokes too much weed. Maybe he should take a little breather and come visit us in Colorado where that’s legal and not frowned on. Supposedly. My husband and I have an extra bedroom—oh wait, no we don’t. Two kids moved back home—we have an extra couch Brad would be welcomed to surf on for a bit while he collects his thoughts, reevaluates, smokes his weed (though we don’t have smoking in the house) and cries as much as he needs to.
After Brangelina had twins, I had a personal connection to them, being a parent of multiples myself. Plus, all those extra kids they have kind of equal out to being the same as my four-at-once brood. Twins plus four singletons, three of which are adopted divided by and one carried I think is about equal to quadruplets. I think. I’m not very good at math. Either way, with that special link, I do believe I have a little more right to claim that Brangelina meant something extra special to me. As I read the headlines along with everyone else (except North Korea and Ittoqqortoormiit), I’m going to grieve a little more deeply over this one. I’m going to worry a bit more about all the children—while I google Brad and Angie, Brangelina, Brad’s weed problem, Brad spirals, Brad in the Pitts, Angie will she adopt again now that Brad is out of the way. And if Angie wants to talk, I’m here for her. I know how hard it is to have lots of kids at once. (Though I never had a nanny. Or jet. Or … whatever. It doesn’t matter.) I’m available. I won’t blab to all my friends. I don’t even have friends. And I won’t even need a non-disclosure clause, because I work at home, so no water cooler here. Once she shares with me the intimate details of exactly what it was that Brad said and did on that plane that made up her mind to call it all off, my lips will be closed. Zipped. Sealed tighter than a juvenile record. So come on over, friend!
The only thing, just don’t pay attention to the lump over there on the couch that seems to be sobbing. We’ll go in the other room to have our cups of coffee and talk. And really, I won’t tell a soul anything.
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