Blonde on Blonde Caught on Tape

Mega-lawyer Elle Woods of Legally Blonde and spurned woman Elin Nordregan Woods are reputed to have held a tete-a-tete behind closed doors at Bloomingdale’s in Orlando recently. A TMZ reporter claims he taped the following conversation between the two women while staked out in the dropped ceiling above their fitting room.

Elin: Elle, I called you because, as a blonde — a Swedish blonde to boot — I need a lawyer who will take me seriously.

Elle: Oh, I take you seriously, Elin. As serious as an Escalade attack. Everybody knows that a Swedish blonde is the highest form of blondness, so I’m honored that you called. Now, put down that Prada — the color is sooo not you — and dish.

Elin: Well, I’m stunned. My mother is stunned. My father is stunned. Sweden is stunned.

Elle: Tell me about it! Shocking how a man getting that much meow-meow could look so glum all the time.

Elin: Yeah, but between you and me and these four mirrored walls, I missed the warning signs. I mean, I married a player, right? Not just a player– the player of the year, year after year. He’s famous for his grind game, and I should’ve given more thought to that. Back when I told him I was pregnant with our second child, he said, “Are you sure it’s yours?” That should’ve told me where his head was at.

Elle: I’m a Harvard Law grad, Elin, but I’m not quite following you. Can you put it in terms I can relate to?

Elin: Well, there were clues in the products he endorsed.

Elle: Products! Now I’m super-focused.

Elin: He collaborated with TAG Heuer to develop a watch capable of absorbing up to 5000Gs of shock. What’s he doing with a watch that it needs to withstand that kind of impact? He was spokesman for the Buick Rendezvous. Rendezvous where? With which one of his poodles?

Elle: Well, sweetie, poodles do make wonderful pets. The teacups are petit enough to slip into a Gucci bag. What’s the latest poodle count?”

Elin: As far as the media knows, there are 12 or 13 of them.

Elle: You must feel flatter than a crushed lingonberry, Elin, so I’ll break this to you gently. Ever since you retained me as counsel, I’ve been doing my own research. Without going très deep into the woods here, he’s got a poodle in every port. According to my calculations, Tiger has tangled with a third of all Playboy bunnies born after 1967, 62 percent of the cocktail waitresses in this country, and David Letterman’s wife.

To sum up, your so-called husband beds more women before lunch than a Mormon elder does in a lifetime.

Elin: What’s my strategy, Elle?

Elle: First, totally buy that white angora wrap dress. It shows off your bootie and sends the message that you’re the pure-as-snow wife. Two, it might be time to file, and I’m not talking about your nails.

Elin: So, kick his rumpen to the curb?

Elle: Absolutely, unless you want to be chained to someone who makes a living endorsing Trojans, Ambien, and Hooters.

Elin: But I feel too depressed to get my Viking up about this.

Elle: Of course you feel lower than a flat pack Pöang from Ikea right about now. But it’s nothing personal. When my ex Warner broke up with me, he said it was because he needed to marry a Jackie, not a Marilyn. Certain men marry high and cheat low.
They used to call it the Madonna Whore complex, but then Madonna came along and sort of ruined that expression.

Let’s start with the basics. We’ll buy you something pink. It’ll cheer you up. How about getting a tiny dog?

Elin: I have a tiny baby.

Elle: Good. They’re almost as cute. Dress the baby in pink and hand it off to the nanny if it gets fussy. You don’t want anything bringing you down right now, Elin.

Elin: What else?

Elle: Get a mani, a pedi, and a massage by a hot man wearing something other than polyester golf clothes. Fight the urge to be all Nordic-heavy sweater-Ingmar Bergman bleak. You’re the beautiful, blameless young mom with two babies to raise. Tiger is the new Michael: a man with proclivities the press will feast on for years to come.

Elin: I know that. I didn’t just fall off the bathing suit truck.

Elle: Your strategy should be to get super-involved in something super-fabulous right away. Send the message that this Swede will not be made into a meatball. You know, I consider myself a fem-fem, so —

Elin: Fem-fem?

Elle: A feminine feminist. So I stomp my Blahnik alligator boots in frustration when I see the Mount Rushmore of wronged wives growing into one of the super-biggest mountain ranges in these United States. Hillary, Elizabeth, Jenny, the wife of that gay guy from NJ who used the governor’s mansion as a giant walk-in closet full of feather boas. When a woman is cheated on in a public way, our society blames her. She somehow drove him to it by being a nag. Or a doormat. Too old. Or too cold. A martyr. Or too perfect — which, by the way, is what you are in that amazing silk top.

Elin: What’s your point?

Elle: Follow the cardinal rule of golf. Play the ball as it lies. Be the first wronged woman in recent history to super-maximize the marketing potential of your position.

Just this morning while doing Kegels and flossing I thought of a bunch of things you can do. Endorse a line of makeup called Defiance or an SUV called Resilience. Write a memoir with a catchy title like Out of the Woods. Put your name on a line of designer luggage called Outta Here. How about a Vengeance perfume, marketed as the scent of empowerment? A line of apparel for women called Tee’d Off, versatile enough to take you from picking up your kids at daycare to divorce court.

Elin: Okay, I’m starting to get it.

Elle: The rules of revenge are simple and finite. You’re going to bury that man so deep even his Nike heel lift system won’t save him. By the time we’re done with him, the only thing that big cat will have left to endorse is his big Titleists.