Tuesday, October 28, 2003

Not enough restaurants are picking up on the communal table idea. But soon I will change all that.

However, reading this article really depressed me. I feel sorry for all these lonely people.

Hell! Screw them! North Americans are cold fish. They like being alone. What about me? I am Latin and hot-blooded - the ways of the hermit are not for me; I need consistent human interaction.

My back-up plan: as soon as I have enough cash (spring 2005) I am heading off to Europe again and I'll meet my husband in Croatia or Romania, unless some nice Milanese fellow steps in to save me. I would have liked to share a common language with my husband but the proverb "beggars can't be choosers" haunts me. A pretty face looking for a sugar mama is good enough for me.

The exact methods I will go about meeting him trouble me somewhat. I am not a bar person and, furthermore, I don't want to meet a drunk � oh! alcoholism, the scourge of Eastern Europe! I never meet people in bookstores or supermarkets, like someone in my condition should be doing, so I scratched that method off my list long ago.

I know no one in Croatia. I just hear that there are enough handsome fellows for everyone there. It'll be like Helsinki; I step off the plane and the guy at customs will have me swooning. I imagine employing a Viking looting tactic; throwing the first fellow I see over my shoulder and re-embarking the plane with my new husband. I will have enough time to think it over on the plane ride to Zagreb so I can put that off for a while.

(The Czech Republic apparently is just as good as Croatia. However, it is over saturated with North American women, making it unlikely I will be able to find a fellow. After all these guys will be used to the presence of my kind and might even know that my flashing dollars are but a camouflage for poverty awaiting in Canada. I am looking for virgin territory, where they still think every Canadian has diamonds in their coffers.)

I don't really know too many people in Romania...that would adjust to Canadian life. A Romanian thief, like my back-up marriage guy, would make problems for me here. I am honourably poor, after all. I am not the nasty version of poverty that Hogarth described: I don�t sup on gin and drop babies. My reputation would be ruined. A transplanted Romanian pimp, likewise, might infringe on Canadian pimps� prerogatives.


I had no idea what this thing called the right-hand ring is. I saw it last night in an ad in the latest issue of Oprah magazine. I read and reread the article trying to figure it out. Apparently it is the ring a woman gives herself when there is no one else to give it to her.

Having looked at lawsuit photos of what happens when diamond rings rip off fingers, I have decided that rings aren�t for me. That is one thing I can be thankful for when I am an old spinster. At least I will die intact, all fingers in place.

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