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An ode to Miss Friday
IT HAS BEEN said that the only thing more pathetic than a hopeless romantic is a hope-FUL romantic.
Well, that would have described me 20 years ago when I decided to bit the online dating bullet and find myself a girlfriend.
I had been single for a couple of years and it was time, I felt, to “get back in the saddle” so to speak. A friend had been proclaiming the merits of a dating site and actually signed me up without my knowledge or permission.
One month. I protested. I will give it one month and if I don’t find a companion, I will retreat to the monestary and remain celibate the rest of my life.
I wrote a profile with the headline: “FREE TO A GOOD HOME” and invited all the women of Toronto to examine, squeeze and probe me and decide if I were suitable dating material. Apparently five said “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”
I have written before about Le Paradis, a small French bistro in the annex in Toronto. With reasonable prices, warm atmosphere and excellent food, it was the perfect location for a first date. (It has subsequently become my local, a go-to spot I visit about twice every three weeks).
I arranged a date for dinner on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday with five different women – all at Le Paridis.
The staff were all in on the situation and I’m not sure if money was changing hands between them gambling on the outcome of each date.
In any event, Tuesday was nice; Wednesday was still grieving her husband who had died three years earlier; Thursday was an alcoholic who put away two martinis four glasses of wine and a brandy before I poured her into a taxi – and then there was Friday.
FRIDAY WAS TASHIE – Natasha – who, for the next seven years I described as the love of my life. We just hit it off right away, moved in together six months later and set about blending our two families - her son and my son and daughter).
During that first evening, we were playing “Jewish geography” a game designed to find out if we knew anyone in common. I mentioned the Village Idiot, my sister’s husband. As I was describing him and how he got to earn his nickname I looked up and, standing in the doorway of the room we were in staring at us, was none other than the Village Idiot.
He was with my sister and another couple and, of course, they all had come over to see who Richard was dating. It was months later that Tashie finally accepted that I hadn’t set that up deliberately.
Anyway, that dinner with Tashie determined that not only did I have to cancel my date for Saturday night, but every Saturday night was booked solidly (as well as every other night of the week) for the next seven years.
Years later, when Tashie and I were no longer together, Peter, my favourite waiter at Le Paradis used to rate each new date I brought into the restaurant on a sliding scale with Miss Friday as the barometer. “Very nice, but not as nice as Miss Friday” “Pretty, but not as pretty as Miss Friday” etc.)
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There’s a birthday card from me to Trudy sitting on our mantlepiece. It features a quote from Herman Hesse which says: “If I know what love is, I learned it from you.” That’s true. Until I met Trudy, I didn’t really know what it was like to love and be loved.
It's sad that we had to wait until our 70’s to discover that, but I’m thrilled that we got to experience it at some point. Better late than never.
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