Dear Wigleaf,

Last night I dreamed Alex Moffat, who used to play preppy schmucks on Saturday Night Live, was my attorney. He was bad at it and needed a more experienced lawyer to instruct him. His adviser was a human-sized Christmas ornament—or not a Christmas ornament exactly, but a very large ball-shaped personage. She was terribly sexy and commanding. I was a chunky gal sporting a spandex bralette. (In real life I am built like a long wet noodle propped on its end). We all fell in love. In one scene—this was a romcom, after all—we sat in a movie theater, arms draped around each other, exchanging fond, knowing glances. It was the kind of movie where Alex Moffatt, formerly a bastard, was revealed to be a good man all along.

Later on, my childhood pal Denise, former David Letterman bandleader Paul Shaffer and I were performing a beautiful folkdance, Ma Navu. (This really is a folkdance). Denise, Paul Shaffer and I swung our hands and sang the sweet, mournful tune that accompanies the steps. At one point I was en pointe with my knees bent, not to mock little Paul Shaffer, but as a show of solidarity (he's 5'5"). I looked fabulous. I dreamt all this on my second night as a resident of Philadelphia PA, which is what you call burying the lede.

Love, Suzanne