How The Brangelina Wedding Really Went Down

40s chick has been a bit AWOL. It started with a diversion to writing for a fun blog that necessitated seriously weekly scrutiny of The Bachelor ,
a little dating advice for the guys on the Big Bang Theory
and a jaunt back into the 80s and 90s episodes of Neighbours. This then overlapped with some well-earned downtime in a remote part of Western Australia where it was too ridiculously beautiful to sully beach time with the presence of technology.

However, I’m back on a plane to Melbourne and feeling like I need to give the 40s chick blog a little lovin.

What I didn’t fail to miss during my time beachside, was the fact that, despite their protestations that they wouldn’t wed until there was marriage equality for everyone, Brangelina bought into the urgings of the marital mafia and tied the knot.

Given I felt the need to keep sand out of my iPad, I know nothing of how this shindig went down. I only saw the news through that flickery ticker tape thingy on the bottom of the screen while I aimed to wrestle away the pool comp title at the local pub.

I’m sure the interwebs and some lucky publication with the exclusive have the deets, but in the absence of all that, here’s what I think NEVER happened at the Brangelina wedding.

Shiloh went frou-frou

From birth, Shiloh has demonstrated an anaphylactic-style aversion to girl clothes. Early on, she became the natural antidote to Suri Cruise and just kicked some androgynist stylin’ butt.

So I’m tipping that this wedding did not see Shiloh clad in emerald taffeta, with carefully custom-dyed silk shoes and a prom-worthy corsage.

If it did, I’m thinking she kicked down some doors till she found the waiter’s ante-room, funded a superannuation fund for some poor local with this week’s pocket money in exchange for his uniform, and then happily attended the rest of the celebrations in trousers, albeit a little generous for her tiny frame.

There were Team Jen protesters

Jen’s supporters are still hurting from the way Angelina ALLEGEDLY/TOTALLY snared the married Brad during the filming of Mr and Mrs Smith.

No one wanted the golden couple torn asunder by the predatory Angelina – it spawned a Shenzen-province production line of Team Jen T-shirts and a Twitter hashtag before really understood what a Twitter hashtag actually was.

Just as the sad SaveAlbertPark clan are still attaching yellow ribbons to oak trees to protest the Melbourne Grand Prix some eighteen years after the Grand Prix took up residence around the track, there are no doubt similarly resolute Team Jen die-hards waving their T-shirts aloft.

I suspect they are still drinking NY coffee over old eps of Friends rather than picketing Chateau Miraval, but I’d like to think they are still there staging a teeny but heartfelt protest nonetheless.

Ange and Brad’s outfit

 Designers would be slitting the throats of their first born children to be dressing the couple for their matrimonials. However I’d like to think of Brad and Ange defying tradition by rocking a little double denim a’la Brit and JT

Or Ange shucking skinny shoulders into a Diana-style gigantic sleeve.

Oh Yes.

The Celebrant

 Given Brangie’s indifference to the Moses commandments,  eg coveting those married elsewhere, I suspect that they may have engaged the services of someone less religious, but rocking the following elements in their CV:

• Served as s spiritual doula, presiding over serene home-births, creating the most zen imprint on the birth of blessed children
• Apprenticed dutifully to the Dalai Lama, emerging as an enlightened prophet
• Meditated in a cave in Bhutan for a year
• Curated Gwyneth Paltrow’s green smoothie recipe collection on goop.com

No. I want the guru of the Brangelina nuptials to have been a chain-smoking, Wild Turkey-swilling Elvis impersonator, a little on the fuller side and likely to bust out of the white suit at any given moment.

How YOU doin’?

The history

 I’m pretty sure that the Brangelina celebrant, Elvis-impersonator or not, would have acknowledged the journey that brought these two together, including:

• The W magazine spread (so soon after the Aniston split that it made us all a little queasy)
• The Rainbow Jolie-Pitt children
• Childbirth in Africa – only a Hollywood actress would figure that for a safe concept

Instead, I’d like to think they ritually emptied Billy Bob Thornton’s blood from that vial that Angelina used to tote around and re-used it as receptacle to throw down some quality Tequila shots.

 

I don’t know, you tell me, what did you expect from Brangelina?

 

 

 

 

 

Wake me up when the world returns to normality

I’m sitting perfectly still on the couch, arms braced, unwilling to move my pupils more than two millimetres either way.  Not since the day after the night of the 17 tequila shots have I been so certain that any sudden move would shatter the universe around me into a million pieces.

I half expect the four horseman of the apocalypse to be standing on my balcony, quietly wheezing breath redolent of new-testament hay, horse-nostrils anxiously steaming up the glass.

I’m wondering if I’ve done one too many Bikram classes and have slid into a Gwyneth Paltrow life of Sliding Doors.  (the fact that there is a box of Favourites chocolates  in my hand rather than a cucumber, basil and lime juice would suggest not, but nothing is certain in this shaky new universe)

Nothing about the world makes any sense anymore.

For something EVEN MORE INCOMPREHSIBLE than my bestie giving up champagne, me growing a maternal gene or a Kardashian stepping out of the limelight has occurred.

 George Clooney has been dumped.

Someone voluntarily kicked this one to the curb.

Wha-hey?

I’ve burned up the google machine looking for an explanation on what Stacy Keibler was thinking in sending George back to the dating pool to the  point where my laptop is in ashes on the lounge room floor.

I even asked Siri.

“why did she dump George Clooney?”

Even Siri can’t get her head around it and needs to have a little lie down.

I’m unwilling to accept the ho-hum old chestnuts around the difficulty of long distance relationships and the likely disconnect presented by George’s avowed bachelor and child-free status.

Given none of my electronic devices are prepared to elaborate on her rationale for ditching THIS

I’ve done my own research and come up with the following

 She hates the man cave

Lord knows this can be a dealbreaker.  I’ve observed through friends how their partners can retreat to whatever form their man-cave takes and progressively disconnect from the relationship.

Sure, George’s man cave takes the form of a villa on Lake Como with 25 rooms, is worth about 40m, with a pool, lake views and a very effective anti-stalker system (trust me, I know this having driven past there whilst on holiday in the region.    Maybe 25 times. Whatever.)

And yes, it’s a LONG way removed from a 3m x 3m stainless steel shed with the fridge that’s no longer good enough for the kitchen and a view of the clothesline.

But that doesn’t mean she’s happy about him hanging out there with his buddies, knocking the top off a cold one and rabbiting on about the footy.

There’s that awkwardness about his bestie

Speaking of buddies, the long-term bromance between Brad Pitt and George Clooney has been well documented.  Two individuals, so genetically blessed, that when they hang out the embarrassment of physical talent sucks the universe dry such that every other male looks like a cast member of the Big Bang Theory by comparison.  A pairing that has lasted longer than George’s last three relationships combined.

Stace had the misfortune of putting this quote out there early on, and no doubt has suffered a touch of the awkwards / the daggers of Angelina since day one.  That stuff can just get really, really old.

She’s having that mid 30s ‘is this all there is’, meh phase

Been there, done that, have the half-started naturopathy degree, meditation mat and self-help book collection to prove it.  The mid 30s are tough.  Look closely at Ms Keibler’s life and you see it playing out in her career journey.  From kickin lady wrestler

……to a reality TV show that touts itself  as “featuring aspiring food entrepreneurs pitching their food-product inventions to a panel of industry experts, with the ultimate victor receiving a nationwide launch in a major grocery-store chain”

Chick is trying to find herself.

 Pesky political incompatibility

Nothing can kill a vibe like being on the opposite ends of a political spectrum.  George practically has Darfur as a middle name, has been awarded a peace award from the Nobel Peace prize laureates in Rome, is a UN messenger of peace and is an open supporter of Barak Obama.

Stacy has been ALMOST as prolific in expressing her political views, tweeting this during the 2012 Presidential election:

I #voted. Have you?

_________________________

Poor George.  Presumably he’s dealing with this the same way that many of us have, downing a glass of something alcoholic while brushing up his online dating profile, in a desperate attempt to boost his self esteem and search for someone to spend his next (based on the Clooney law of averages) two years with.

If there’s any fairness in my now-wonky universe, I’ll be able to let go of my vice-grip on the couch and see a wink in my email from Taurus52, sometime resident of Laglio Italy.

More likely that the horsemen will crash through the door and run off with my box of Favourites.