This 1988 diary of a middle-class Russian woman, ending with a trip to New York City from which, apparently, she did not return home, is an unmitigated bore. Romine, now married to an American man and living in Southern California, presents herself as a middle-aged "single" on a frantic quest to meet "him"; her advertisement for herself notes that she is "not badly built," has "rather beautiful" hands and a smile that "looks good." But on the down side, she is "not one to be calm and happy if there's an excuse to do a little suffering." Daughter of a scientist and raised in a household with a maid, this member of the nomenklatura continued to enjoy a certain comfort as an adult, teaching at a publishing-journalism school in Moscow. But we learn virtually nothing about Romine's obviously untaxing work, for she is more intent on gossiping about her romances, her disagreeable first husband and her friends' love affairs and miserable marriages. A journal of a Russian woman's everyday life would be of great interest, if written by someone less egocentric than Romine.