writes our pal the Twisted Spinster (reporting the welcome news that the herd’s been thinned again…)
but when I was in my twenties my friends and I had a rule for dating: no YLMs (Young Latin Males). Not only were they jealous macho pricks (all the smooth, romantic Latin lovers died of some plague in the Fifties), but the insanity that seems to overcome them when they get behind the wheel could have gotten me killed.
You don’t have to tell me, sweetie. Whenever someone told me I should watch The Sopranos, I always said, “If I wanted to listen to a bunch of fat loud stupid Italians yelling at each other, I’d just move back to Hamilton.” In Grade 13 those of us left at the girls’ school (the Gina’s all got married after grad; college? whazat?) had to take some courses at the boys’ school across the street, and let me tell you: I felt like Dian Fossey…
