Weeping Madonna (and child)

Dear Madonna,

I see you over there. I see what you're doing. Calm down.

You've flung yourself on the bed, bawling, and you're using that young man to wipe your nose. (Some of us use kleenex, by the way.)

When I said I wished you'd give me your slinky, pull-it-up-or-pull-it-down, zip-zip-zippy dress because it reminds me of a cool, similarly adjustable dress I coveted in the 80s, I was in no way implying that you are old or culturally irrelevant. I don't know where you get this stuff.

Are you not Sticky and Sweet? Do you not still rock a leotard? Have you not put Malawi on the map? Did you not make out with Britney? And Justin? And A-Rod? See? You're still THE QUEEN.

Now put the young man down, give me the dress, and I'll take you out for an ice cream cone. Okay, a human growth hormone shot. Or a Kabbalah water. As you wish, my lady.

Zip, zip, zip!