Huguette Clark.

Please sit down.

Please, I’m serious.

I need to share what may be surprising—and perhaps sad—news with everybody.

All 11 or 12 of you who regularly read this blog, anyway.

Although my wife, Kerry, and I have been married for 30 years this coming Monday, we have decided to call it quits and get a divorce. It’s me, not her. Kerry’s a beautiful, loving woman, and I couldn’t have asked for a better wife.

Unfortunately, I recently fell in love with another woman. Her name is Huguette Clark, but I call her Huggy for short. I find her adorable in every way. She has long, blonde hair, and is incredibly feminine in a traditional way, a wearer of frilly frocks and lace, what you might call a woman’s woman. She’s fond of music, well educated, collects dolls, and speaks perfect English and French.

I’ve always been drawn to simple, intelligent women with foreign accents.

I first met Huggy through the newspaper. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, given the fast-paced world that we live in. But Huggy is a somewhat shy woman who clings to the best of the old ways. There I was, reading about her life—it’s interesting, trust me—when suddenly I just knew in my heart with unshakeable conviction that I had to talk to her, meet her, take her out to dinner, dance a slow dance with her. One thing led to another, and now we’re madly in love. It sounds silly to you, I’m sure, but inside I feel like a 16-year-old schoolboy who’s about to get his first kiss.

Huggy and I have much in common.

I love New York City, she lives in New York City. I’m attracted to mature women, she’s 104. I’m a dysfunctional co-dependent caretaker, she’s pretty much nonfunctional, bedridden and hospitalized. I love money—really, I do, and I mean a lot, more than I care to admit, actually—and she’s an outrageously wealthy heiress with no heirs of her own who single-handedly owns the titles to a $100 million estate on the Pacific Coast in Santa Barbara, a $24 million country house in Connecticut and a $100 million, 42-room apartment on Fifth Avenue in New York City that overlooks Central Park.

I don’t want to overemphasize the size of the vast, comprehensive ocean that is Huggy’s fortune, but she shells out $342,000 a year just for the taxes and upkeep on her Manhattan apartment, which is the largest apartment in that part of the city. $342,000! More than I make in, oh, forever. She’s fucking loaded. She probably uses $1,000 bills to wallpaper her guest bathroom, $100 bills instead of toilet paper, $10 bills in place of Kleenex tissues, and $1 bills to pick up kitty litter and dead bugs.

But we all know that money’s not everything.

No, everything is love, all you need is love, and love is what makes the world go ’round. Love, love, love, love, love. And that’s precisely what I’m looking for in a woman. I want a loving, passionate, highly profitable and extremely brief relationship. I’m sure Huggy isn’t looking for anything long-term, either, mostly because she doesn’t have much choice at this stage of her life and will take what she can get.

So, here again, we’re perfect for one another.

Love.

Love, love, love, love, love.

Michael hearts Huggy, and Huggy hearts Michael.

It’s a matchmaker’s dream, and I intend to marry Huggy just as quickly as the two of us can find a willing county judge with a liberal attitude about presiding over May-December nuptials and an experienced estate lawyer who’s prepared to make sure both our wills are in iron-clad order.

I know what you’re thinking–that I’m a cad suffering from a mid-life crisis, or that Kerry is emotionally devastated by this development in our lives.

But don’t worry about Kerry.

Kerry’s a modern woman, and not at all clingy. We’re still very good friends, and she’s extremely supportive of my relationship with Huggy.

Extremely supportive.

In fact, while I’m off taking a bite out of the Big Apple and making Huggy mine, all mine, Kerry’s going to keep the house and the cars and the flat-screen television while I wholeheartedly enter into the welcome bonds of matrimony with my darling Huggy. And Kerry’s promised to remain in close contact with me—very close contact—just in case my second marriage ends even sooner than I expect and I need to rebuild my life.

With Kerry.

In our new apartment.

In New York City.

Overlooking Central Park.

While we wipe our asses with $100 bills.

Good God, how I do love you, Huggy!

Love, love, love, love, love.