Christie and I have this on-again-off-again friendship and I really think she’s a sweet gal, but she keeps marrying down. I told her on her first marriage just as she was ready to walk that aisle, “Christie, this is your one shot at true happiness. Don’t blow it.” Did she listen? No. She just laughed and said, “Too late!” Crass. Husband number two, I’m talking to her from Spain as she’s ready to walk down the aisle … again. “Listen, the starter marriage got you a house and a car. Don’t spread yourself too thin on #2.” She giggled when I said that and added, “TOO LATE!” God she can be so crass. Husband number three. God almost takes them both in a helicopter crash in Colorado in 1994 and I tell her, “Defy god! Go back and get married where the copter crashed and make this one stick!” Again she giggled, “WHY DO YOU THINK I’M MARRYING HIM?” Ugh. She always shouts into her cell phone. And again, crass. She didn’t even bother calling me this last time when she married Peter Cook. And you know what? I would have still given her words of encouragement. I would have said, “Listen, third strike and you’re out – but not in pee-wee league. You keep swinging until you get to first base!” I imagine her chortling and adding, “Oh, he’s already made it to home plate … along with his team!” God she can be so crass, even when I imagine her talking.

Christie stumbles out of her Cabrio and runs to the door, screaming all the way. Kind of like that Marianne Faithful song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan. As I walk up to the door behind a now-sobbing Christie, Ithink to myself, “God, if there’s one person you shouldn’t get marriage advice from, it’s Courtney, who completely redefined the term shotgun wedding but whatever, Christie, whatever.” Always the gracious hostess, Courtney invited Christie to join us at IHOP and she sat there in our booth, makeup smeared and crying about something that Peter, the now-ex-husband, said to her. Apparently she’s a little long in the tooth , if you know what I mean. Her pantry is now a two-car garage. Her crawlspace is now a rumpus room. Her vagina is as sloppy as a Rush Limbaugh at a drug store filling a photocopied receipt and using fake id to purchase narcotics with cash while coming down from his last Oxy pill. That’s not a euphemism, and I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. He said if she were a dynosaur, she’d be a Sloppylottapuss.

I couldn’t order anything. I just had a coffee. And then a thought came to me.

“Christie, it’s not like you haven’t had a little work done here and there to freshen up the years,” I said, taking her roadmappy hand. “Why don’t you hire a ‘decorator’ to trim the curtains in your basement?” She gave me the Evil Eye, but deep down (and probably dangling outside a little bit) she knew it was the perfect solution. “And if that doesn’t work, Christie, maybe they can cast you in the next Harry Potter movie with your big pink wizard’s sleeve.” Courtney kicked me under the table. “OW!” I exclaimed, exaggerating the pain.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Just as long as no one finds out,” Christie relented. “Oh, no one will, Christie,” I assured her, as I wrote down the number of an amazing gynorejuvenator that I know, “no one will.”

Now, I’ve read enough to know that the Evil Eye isn’t like the boogeyman, or Condileeezaaa Rice. It’s more like a wandering, wicked thought that gets caught in our lives, distracts us from truth and love … which technically Condi does, so cancel what I said earlier about her! And I certainly know enough to know it’s not going to swoop down out of the sky and get me, or like one of (I’m sorry, I have to say it!) the cheesy “acrobats” in Madonna’s latest “concert” on those so-obvious wire harnesses. And can I further just say that there’s nothing worse than someone (Madonna) who screws up their whole life (Sean, Warren, Dennis, Sandra), finds religion (Kaballahahaha), and then expects everyone (me) to justify their existence (my honesty can be direct sometimes) through their own microscope’s eye piece (crystals, yarn, pilates). I just personally don’t think a red piece of yarn worn around your wrist can ward of negative energy, regardless of what some secret, old, dusty religious book says or who its followers are (especially important to note is that most of them live in LA!). And I honestly wouldn’t be bothered by this event, except that it’s like the seventh time she has done this to me. And of course I can expect a call on Rosh Hashanah with an apology from the Material Girl (god she hates that label!) and a request for forgiveness from me. And I will forgive her. Not just because she’s Madonna. But because she’s Madonna and because I forgive people. It’s kind of what I do.

So back to the phone call. First of all, I didn’t break up Madonna‘s and Britney‘s friendship – the Kabbalah did. More accurately, the Kabbalah as according to Madonna, who Britney now refers to as Madabbalah – don’t tell Madonna! Britney was vulnerable and needed guidance in her new marriage to Kevin. And who better to give marriage advice than the woman who self published lurid pictures of herself and baudy poetry to her vagina in a book called Sex. Sure, the red Kabbalah red wrist string is like a pay-one-price-ride-all-day pass that gets you into the best parties without having to pay cover or wait in line, but it’s about so much more than that – it’s also about the hosted bar by the pool. But, Britney was born Baptist and you know what they say about those Baptist girls: “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!” Truer words were never spoken. “Except in the Kabbalah,” I imagine Madonna interrupting me to say. And I’d respond, “Yes, Madonna, except in the Kabbalah.” And then I’d probably roll my eyes and she’d see the tail end of it and she’d hit me and say, “You’re an asshole!” But then she’d laugh. And she’d say something mean about Britney’s failing marriage. I know she would because she did it all the time. She actually told me, “Watch the awards show tonight. I’m going to surprise Brit and make out with her. That’s going to piss Kevin off! I can’t wait” And I said, “Madonna, sometimes you really are an Evil Eye, you know that?” And she said, “That’s why I bought Brit the wrist band and not Kevin.” Sometimes Madonna is too smart for her own good.

About Brit’s bad nuptials. Britney said she’s been seeing this “Crystal Lite Coach,” and I was really excited to hear more about it (just think what you could learn!!!) until I found out that it’s actually a “Christian Life Coach” who was helping Britney save her tattered marriage. “I really wanna wurk this owt with Kehvun!” she announced. I couldn’t help but look at that tattered red piece of yarn on my wrist from Madonna. “Yeah, Brit,” I said, “There are some things worth saving, but sometimes you just have to let things go.” And I’d be lying to you if I said that at that very minute that piece of sad, soggy, mystical yarn didn’t come undone on its own and fall onto the coffee table on top of the new Entertainment Weekly … and made a big circle right around the headline, “People and Things We Love Right Now” … and neither Madonna nor Brit was on that list! “Beeep … Listen Brit, I gotta go … it’s You Know Who on the other line …” I said, immitating the callerID beep Brit falls for again and again. She kind of sighed in a drawal and said sadly, “Well, y’all have a good day.” Yeah, Brit, you too. You too.