The Christmas party held for the fifty of us not only had a dessert buffet with SEVEN different options –don’t worry, my cohort and I tried all seven and, even though I felt slightly pukey this morning from all that sugar, it was totally worth it. What were we supposed to do? Give up the crème brulee for the dark chocolate mousse? Or the cheesecake for the fruit tart? Are some more expendable than the others? Did Mother Hubbard expel her children from her shoe when there was so many she didn’t know what to do? No, she loved EVERY SINGLE ONE and they MADE IT WORK. Just like Tim Gunn teaches us. (Um, yeah, so … can you tell I am tired and slightly disoriented? long night of drinking last night … where was I? Ah yes …)

–but the Christmas party also had four distinct couples of a disproportionate level of attractiveness. A LARGE gap in attractive levels.  The men, while sweet and successfully employed in the construction business, were somewhat dowdy while the wives were exotically beautiful, sophisticated without being stand-offish.

“Mail order.”

Was the matter-of-fact response when I politely inquired as to how they met.

Excuse me? Seriously?

Three were mailed from the Ukraine, the fourth from Thailand. Four of them in a room of fifty guests.  I had no idea that sort of thing was still a common practice, especially for women as striking as these. My dessert cohort informed me that the women weren’t necessarily from poverty-stricken families but escaping corrupt societies and familial ties to the mob. The mail-order bride business was almost as intriguing as the dessert buffet. I barely remembered to finish my tiramisu in my captivation. They all seemed quite happy –and who am I to judge –but the whole process was quite fascinating.

And really, no more ridiculous than say, still being in love with some ass-clown who broke your heart.  And, hypothetically, maybe some ass-clown from Boston who maybe texted last night to say that he missed me and then proposed marriage and I asked him to move to Minnesota and he asked if I hated him and I said not yet and he said ok, he would move and I said I do NOT finish as someone’s second place and then he proposed again and I said to get back to me when he was single. (Nothing like one long run-on sentence to confess your sins to the Internet.)  Mail-order brides are no less ridiculous than that.  Hypothetically.  My GOD that boy plays me. Life is a game more often than not, huh? Good thing I am competitive. I am done worrying about it; life will happen and we’ll just have to wait to see how I live it. Besides, for now, I have cuter fish to fry. (Is that what the kids are calling it these days?)

But good to know that I always have the Ukraine as an option.