Dear Mr. Darcy,

Seattle is purgatory.

Believe me, I feel halfway

between London and Portland,

sacked from hip surgery, fog headed,

sipping tea in desperate need of sugar

cubes, listening to the peck, peck, pecking

of that clock. And the neighbors! Muddying

traffic in herds or cowering like mice at a crosswalk.

Why you see such hope for Americans is beyond me.

Darcy, don’t tell me to be sensible. You cannot persuade

your dear aunt to feel any better after attending your

engagement party in such a fragile state. Such a vexing

encounter with that woman! I cannot even mention

her name.

Don’t you understand? You are our world’s last hope

of chivalry. Men are slowly re-descending into ape-hood while

women trudge on. English women, of course. Your American

prize is already on her way to becoming a chimpanzee.

Don’t personalize this, dear. London’s Bridge didn’t nose

dive in one day. Why, I am simply fine-tuning your foundations.

Now that you are convinced to break off the engagement,

a proper courtship evades these seven deadly women:

First, Diana, a deity of sincerity and charity:

            She was the gem of Britain! My last hope in politics,

            gone. Women like her who open their hearts and their

            arms for the world will be eaten by it. Your wife

            must have a refined heart, Darcy, not a team of paparazzi.

Second, Juliet, of equal tragedy:

            These women are hopeless romantics, frantic to write your

            names in the stars and hook up in bars. I’ve only heard

            rumors of this nonsense, mind you.

Third, the Martha Stewart types:

            crafty.

Fourth, Rachel, the costly woman:

            Darcy, I have no intentions for you to become a polygamist,

            even if you waste fourteen years to buy her.

Fifth, the restless traveler:

            She takes the road less traveled, as some say. She lives

            in trains, or worse, her own imagination. She will have

            horrible table manners, Darcy!

Sixth, the bothersome bookworm:

            I hear of a vampire series that rattled senses. Reading

            such rubbish tells women gallant men must sparkle

            and climb trees. I simply won’t have it.

Lastly, the crudest concoction of all,

that woman you have since disposed of,

she settles! Like a deflated cake, she drops
out of college to answer telephones, dirties her

pants walking in the rain, loves hairy dogs, long talks,

bread, and bubble baths. She worries not for her wedding

day or resume. Worst, she needs neither to be fulfilled! Beware

her fiery prejudice, lest she melt your pride. Oh, that Elizabeth Bennet

will poison a marriage! Don’t you see what this is doing to my poor nerves?

Oh Darcy, if you find that a new woman

of interest passes my list, consider if she

has my tastes and virtues.

Then you have succeeded.

Your affectionate aunt,

Mrs. Catherine

Original- with many more sassy cultural references:

Dear Mr. Darcy,                                                                       

Seattle is purgatory.

Believe me, I feel halfway

between London and Portland,

sacked from hip surgery, fog headed,

sipping tea in desperate need of sugar

cubes, listening to the peck, peck, pecking

of that clock. And the neighbors! Muddying

traffic in herds or cowering like mice at a crosswalk.

Why you see such hope for Americans is beyond me.

I write in this dreary daze because I hear your power of persuasion

has prevented a peculiar family from Vegas scandal. Intriguing.

Should I suspect one of their sisters of slaying your sensibility, I take

it upon myself to revive you. Darcy, you simply

can’t let your good upbringing rot.

These dark days, chivalry is a dusty Mona Lisa, movie theatres mummify

cordial exchanges, emails erase calligraphy, and yet the new millennium

marvels. Big Brother might already be watching

men opening doors with buttons, men zoning out of women’s words

like frightened zoo animals. Why else do so many live at home until thirty? Clearly,

Darwin’s theory climaxes and curves in my generation. Men are slowly

re-descending into ape-hood while woman trudge on.

Don’t personalize this, dear. London’s Bridge didn’t nose dive in one day. Why,

I am simply fine-tuning your foundations.

Now, a man of such a dying species must avoid these seven deadly women:

The first tragic beauty: Diana, a real deity of sincerity and charity. Women like her will break your 

heart, Britain’s, and all the children in reach of a beanie bear. 

The second tragic beauty: The Juliets of today, the hopeless romantics, frantic

            to write your names in the stars and hook up in bars. How medieval. 

Third, the Martha Stewart types: crafty.

Fourth, a costly woman: Remember Jacob’s love for Rachel? Waste not fourteen years

            in mad pursuit. Polygamy loosens all propriety and sends you to purgatory.

Fifth, a Downton Abbey fanatic:

            How easily happy she is, never setting foot in a real abbey, hoping for no road             untraveled, seeing no importance of being earnest. How dull her lot in life.

Sixth, the bothersome bookworm:

            I hear of a vampire series that rattled senses. Reading such rubbish tells women gallant men must sparkle and climb trees. I simply won’t have it.

Lastly, the crudest concoction of all,

the woman I so worry of:

she settles!

Like a deflated cake,
she drops out of college

to answer telephones, dirties

her pants walking in the rain,

loves hairy dogs, long talks,

bread, and bubble baths. She

worries not for her wedding day or

resume. Worst, she needs neither to be fulfilled!

She will find your reserved manner disdainful and proud.

You must beware this woman’s fiery prejudice, lest she melt

your pride. American women like this poison a marriage, Darcy.

Break any knots you have tied with her,

and promise me,

            you are never ever

            ever

            getting back together.

Oh Darcy, if you find that a new woman of interest

passes my list, consider if she has my tastes

and virtues.

Then you have succeeded.

Your affectionate aunt,

Mrs. Catherine