What Sandra Bullock could learn from Jennifer Aniston

We’re now entering week two of the Great Bullock Betrayal, with poor Sandy’s face plastered on every tabloid, in a context she could not have imagined just weeks ago, on the night of her Oscar triumph. It’s the story that won’t stop, of course, because it is every woman’s nightmare, and has finally eclipsed the long-running saga of  another humiliated Hollywood girl next door, Jennifer Aniston.

Of course, there was slightly more dignity in Jenn’s story, since she was abandoned by hunky Brad Pitt for Angelina Jolie, a woman who, despite the tattoos, was at least a star in her own right, and a beauty by anybody’s standards. Sandra was left reeling by a guy who hosts something called Monster Garage and a number of women most notable for really bad hair dye and over-decorated flesh.

So in my mind, I’m trying to figure a way out for Bullock, some way for her to reclaim that sunny smile. I imagine a coterie of blindsided female stars, flying to her side to offer solace and advice. Maybe our favorite octogenarian—and Bullock intimate—Betty White could moderate.

Betty: Now, Sandy, you’re a girl known for your humor, not your looks. Take this as raw material. Monster garage! Women with Nazi tattoos! He’s handing it to you on a plate! Well, maybe not the Nazi tattoos. I’d stay away from them.

Debbie Reynolds: Tattoos, sha-moos! Honey, you think this is humiliating? How would you handle your husband running off with the World’s Most Beautiful Woman? A woman who just happened to be your best friend? You know, I was the girl next door before there was a next door, and I survived! I’m still kicking up my heels in night clubs, the World’s Most Beautiful Woman can barely waddle out of the house, and as for that crooner—have you seen his face lately? He’s starting to look like Madame Butterfly.

Carrie Fisher: Yep, that would be my dad—do you think the Bad Men gene is hereditary? I’m no girl next door, and still, my guy ran off with…a guy. Thank God I’m a comedy writer. And of course the drugs helped. Not that I recommend that.

Jennifer Aniston: Certainly not! Carrie, we’re talking girl next door here. No drugs, Sandy. Maybe a donut. You could have a donut.

Carrie: And a drink? A donut and a drink could do it.

Jennifer: No! Well, okay, maybe a glass of wine. But the big thing here is, Sandy, keep that body taut! Look at me! Forty years old and killer thighs! I can get into those red carpet minis even without Spanx! Meanwhile, check out the blood-drinking serial adopter. She’s starting to look like Dracula’s grandmother.

Sandra: But she’s got somebody to watch her back.

Jennifer: Her back? How is it different from her front?

Debbie: Ha! At least Elizabeth had breasts! But let’s not rush off into any new romance, Sandy. Ricochet affairs are the worst. Take my second husband, Harry Karl.

Carrie: I wish she would have taken him. Somebody should have taken him.

Debbie: Yeah, well, he was ugly, and unknown, so I figured he was a better bet.

Betty: Sandy’s already had ugly and unknown. Maybe she should go for a crooner.

Jennifer: I do not recommend that.

Carrie: I had a crooner, too. Paul Simon was a nice guy. I think. Hard to remember those days. But as I point out in my bestselling book and one-woman show—have you thought about that, Sandy? Taking it all onstage?—I did follow my mother’s pattern, going for a short Jewish singer.

Sandra: I don’t know any short Jewish singers. My mother was an opera singer.

Betty: I believe Pavarotti was a cheater, too, dear.

Debbie: They’re all cheaters! If they don’t cheat on you, they steal your wallet.

Sandra: I don’t carry a wallet. I’m a star.

Betty: It’s a figure of speech, dear. Debbie’s talking about Harry Karl, the shoe magnate who wasn’t a magnate and stole all her money. The same thing happened, sort of, to Doris Day. Her husband died and guess what? She finds out she has no money.

Jennifer: Whatever happened to Doris Day? She had a great body.

Betty: She lives with her animals, dear. Dogs never disappoint.