I am in receipt of a long, somewhat disturbing letter from your husband, Stephen. The gist of it is that even though you and I are strangers, you adore me. You read everything I write, you talk about me incessantly, you even cried for joy when I won the Pulitzer Prize. Stephen's letter went out of its way to point out your personal desirability ("Tina Fey's mind in Kate Hudson's body"), but for some reason he didn't seem upset by your infatuation with me. Stephen is an idiot. For the sake of your marriage, you must be cured. I shall now do my best.
When I am working at home, I rip off pieces of paper towel and chew them like gum until they become a shapeless cud, at which point I spit them out, usually onto a nearby surface for disposal at a more convenient time.
I am extremely absentminded, a dysfunction that sometimes extends to failing to remember to deal with the tabletop cud deposits.
Stephen says you're a good cook. That's swell. If you cooked for me I would be greatly appreciative, so long as what you made contained no trace of any of the following: cardamom, cumin, Indian curry, coriander, saffron, paprika, turmeric, cilantro, celery seed, mustard seed, caraway seed, Tabasco sauce, chervil, garlic salt, Old Bay seasoning, American radishes, chili peppers, cayenne pepper, red pepper pizza flakes, dark chocolate, or more than a VERY light touch of salt. Also, if you make chicken, no matter how you prepare it, I'll eat only the skin.
I just took an inventory of the contents of my underpants drawer. The majority were purchased in 1997. The newest are from 2007. Most of the waistbands retain the elastic strength of wet bubblegum.
Because you follow my work, you are aware that I drive a 1991 model car and that it is not cosmetically appealing. What you may not know is that the trunk still has some of my dead father's clothing, which I have not gotten around to donating to charity. He died in 2006.
I will not dance. And by "I will not dance," I mean I will not dance with you, specifically, ever. Or anyone else. I will not get up at a Jewish wedding to do the hora, a traditional dance so simple and clodhoppy that an armadillo could pull it off with a modicum of skill. I will not dance even if everyone else is dancing, including people in wheelchairs. If ordered to dance by a drunken cowpoke with a gun, I would be the guy who gets shot in the foot.
It was once proved to my satisfaction that I had worn the same pair of jeans for seven consecutive days.
I have only one hobby, but I pursue it fanatically. So my house is full of antique chiming clocks kept in perfect repair and uninterrupted operation, meaning that once an hour, every hour, all day and all through the night, my home detonates.
Because I have never once in my life thought to replace a toilet paper roll after finishing the previous one, to forestall disaster each of the bathrooms in my house is decorated with a minaret of toilet paper rolls.
If my toenails were my fingernails, I would look like Nosferatu.
That's about it, Karen. For Stephen's sake, I hope this has done the job; as a final impetus, I include the following testimonial from an attorney of my acquaintance:
As an officer of the court, I hereby state and depose that, to my own belief and knowledge, each of the above representations is true and accurate.
Gene Weingarten can be reached at email@example.com.