Can he even get to first base?
Dear Jamie McCourt:
I know I’m being a bit presumptuous here, but as a risk-taker yourself, you’ll appreciate what I’m about to say.
I think I love you.
You may think that’s a little weird, given that we haven’t met. But sometimes a guy just knows. Besides, I feel like I know you just from reading the court filings in your divorce proceedings with estranged hubby Frank.
And no, I’m not simply interested in the $487,634 a month you claim to need in spousal support so you can go on living in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed.
It’s not the seven estates I’m after either, even if you did spend $14 million in home improvements on just one of them -- the one with the Olympic-size indoor swimming pool, an outdoor pool, sauna, steam room, dance studio, massage room and 10 bathrooms.
As for the private jets that whisk you to exclusive resorts around the globe, honey, I’m already platinum with US Airways. And it would never be about where we go, Jamie. It would be about what happens when we’re together.
You want to know what I’m really after?
Glad you asked.
I like a woman of substance. And I’m attracted to pioneering spirits who swing for the fences.
Excuse me, Jamie McCourt, but did I just paint your portrait?
You’re a law school grad, and you were the first female CEO of a Major League Baseball team, so I know you’re motivated. You’re standing up to hubby Frank for firing you, so I know you’re a fighter. And two of your seven estates are in Malibu.
I’m motivated, Jamie. I’m a fighter. And I share your love of oceanfront real estate.
In short, my dear, we are two peas in a pod.
I won’t deny that there’s a complication or two. Yes, I’m married at the moment. But as you’ve demonstrated by dumping Frank and taking up with your driver, the heart wants what the heart wants.
Speaking of the driver, I suggest you slow down, take a deep breath and open your eyes.
Come on, Jamie. He’s a classic rebound guy.
How do I know this?
Because he’s everything your estranged husband is not, and that’s a great way to poke Frank in both eyes with a hot stick. But these flings usually flame out after a few months. You’re going to look in the mirror one morning, slap yourself in the face and scream:
I’m dating my chauffeur?!
No, Jamie. You’re not dating your chauffeur. You’re biding your time, waiting for Mr. Right.
The kind of guy who can stand up to Frank and say, yeah, tough guy, she went to Europe for 2 1/2 weeks in the middle of the pennant run and dropped a small fortune. But she was scouting French relief pitchers.
You know what really irks me, Jamie? The way you’re having to beg for a few bucks when Frank’s living a stratospheric lifestyle himself, throwing money around like hot dog wrappers.
The moron gave $45 million to Manny Ramirez for two years, and that loafer is poison in the clubhouse. Meanwhile, he lets Cleveland ace Cliff Lee get away to the Phillies, who pay him less than $6 million and end up in the World Series.
Ramirez was making $170,000 a game after his suspension, and Frank is giving you a hard time about a measly $487,634 a month?
How dare he!
As for the driver, I can give you another reason I’d make a better mate:
Not only can I drive you anywhere you want to go, but I could offer invaluable counsel on how to keep the media jackals at bay. And believe me, they’re out there, waiting to pounce.
I’m going through the section of your court declaration titled “Our Marital Lifestyle,” and I know the idea was to shoot for the moon as a starting point in divorce proceedings. But I see numerous places where you could have toned it down.
I mean, the details about the private jet vacation to Vietnam, the clothing by Valentino, Gucci and Prada, the eight full-time housekeepers and other assistants, and the dining at Spago, Toscana, Giorgio Baldi and Nobu are liable to end up in a newspaper column.
Here’s an example of where you needed a good editor:
“We removed the tennis courts” at the $20-million Holmby Hills house “in order to build the indoor pool.”
And here:
The $27-million Malibu beach house, as opposed to the $19-million Malibu beach house next door, “has a small pool, which is not suitable for long-distance swimming.”
Some smart-aleck pundit is going to get hold of this stuff, Jamie, and the headline will say:
“Boo-Hoo.”
Here’s another place where you went too far:
“We always stay in suites where available at the nicest of accommodations, such as the Ritz Carlton and Four Seasons hotels.”
Couldn’t you have thrown in a Ramada or a Holiday Inn?
As for the $5,000-a-night suite in Cabo, you’re not getting good advice from either your lawyer or your glorified cabbie.
I would have told you in the most affectionate terms to think about all the working people who bust their hump so they can afford to take the family to Dodger Stadium. Now those poor saps are going to realize they’re paying jacked-up prices for parking, tickets and refreshments so you can frolic like royalty in Baja.
You also could have done without telling the whole world that your hairstylist and makeup artist make house calls, that you have your hair colored once a month and that “the Dodgers also provide makeup and hair services.”
I make house calls too, Jamie. No extra charge.
And if it doesn’t work out between us?
Fear not, mi amor.
I’m willing to sign a pre-nup, and I’ve already discussed this with my current wife. She’s completely on board, figuring that I’ll end up scratching at the door for her to take me back.
By the way, she thinks we could get by on $200,000 monthly, somewhere in that neighborhood, but I’ve got a better idea.
I’d happily settle for one of the two beachfront properties in Malibu.
Sleep on it, Jamie, my sweet.
But not with the driver.
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