The Best Revenge

I am so happy for Sandra Bullock, I could cry. Even though this puts me in the ranks of those achingly sad individuals who believe they somehow know jillionaire celebrities, and like their opinions actually matter.

Still, she seems like the kind of woman who wouldn't be creeped out by my intense empathy. After all, I'm also a single, forty-something woman who's had her share of being dogged out by dudes (though I have to say, at least my guys cheated on me with humanoid life forms, instead of sleazy Nazi nympho lizards who look like they probably smell really bad.)

Like millions of other people around the world, when I heard that Sandra Bullock was holed up in her various mansions following the devastating revelations, I figured she was lying on her back a couch clutching a remote, with a pizza box on her stomach and a Prozac bottle on the coffee table, right next to the Glen Fiddich. Few would argue that she had earned a major funk fest, after what Jesse Jerk had subjected her to.

So I am plum tickled to learn that she was actually walking the floor over this precious little chubster named Louie. Strangely enough, it gives me hope--although I instantly snap back to reality when I realize that Sandy started the adoption process when she was about 40. And married. And worth a hundred million dollars or so. It's a lock I'll never be 40 again, and the other two variables....well, let's just say I'm "cautiously optimistic."

Still, by the time I got married and earned a hundred million dollars, there's not a country in the world that would let an old-assed woman of 50-something adopt a newborn. So for the moment, I'm living vicariously through the joy of Ms. Sandra Bullock, who the whole world assumed had been hurled down into the Valley of the Shadows, but who was actually traversing the Olympian heights of maternal love for a precious new baby.

Prosaic stuff aside, though, am I the only person capable of accurately interpreting the expression on Little Louie Bullock's face??? It's quite clear to me that instead of being all googly-eyed and infant-like, his gaze is clear and coldly-focused, and he is staring directly at Jesse James, and his little baby brain is telegraphing these words:

"When I am 21-years-old, and 6 foot 2 and 190 pounds, I am going to hunt you down, and I am going to totally FUCK YOU UP for what you did to my mother."

At least, one can only hope that's what he's thinking.