A word of advice for all those Russian women who are rushing into blessed union with American men: It is not necessarily an improvement.I know that Russian men deserve their share of censure, believe me. I have conducted my own private poll -- admittedly, on a statistically insignificant portion of the population -- and found them sadly lacking in some of the refinements that 20 years of feminist battles have forced on the American male. I have a running war with one of my coworkers, who insists that "Women must be weak. Otherwise they stop being women." I cannot imagine an American man having the nerve to say something like that in the workplace. He'd be up on a sexual harassment suit before he could say "Gloria Steinem." In Russia, where linguists have not yet even agreed on how to translate "sexual harassment," men can afford to be more cavalier.Take, for example, old Fedya. I recently had a long conversation with him about his new female friend, a Russian. I asked him about her, what she was like, and he was predictably enthusiastic, in a Russian sort of way. "She has great legs. When she wears a miniskirt, other guys turn to look at her on the street," he said proudly. "She looks terrible without lipstick. But that's a minor problem, I can deal with it."Big of you, I thought sourly, wincing internally as I imagined how he must have talked about me in our romantic heyday: "So-so legs, getting on a bit in years, but at least she's a Westerner," is how I picture his description.Since Fedya and I left the ranks of the celestially entwined over two years ago, I was only theoretically discomfited by his talk of his new amour, who, as it turns out, is a fashion designer. This did not, however, make me feel any better about accepting Fedya's birthday offering -- a bathing suit made by his new lady love. Fedya always did have flare -- I wonder if he presented his wife with a similar gift. Who knows? Maybe he orders them by the gross. At a discount.I asked Fedya if he were considering a more permanent union with his Russian designer. He looked at me, aghast. "Of course not," he sputtered. "She can't cook."An American man, drilled in "sensitivity" would know better. Asked to describe his sweetheart, someone like my friend Stan, for instance, would be more apt to say, "She's a strong woman who knows what she wants. She's intelligent and funny." Then if he wanted to add "And she's got great legs," no one, least of all I, could object. And Stan can cook.But when push comes to shove, I wonder just how different the American male is. Stan tenderly presented me with jelly beans and chocolate bunnies at Easter. Then I learned from a friend of his that a not-so-former love had sent them to him, Federal Express. I threw them away.The final blow came last week, when Stan and I bid a tearful adieu, since, as he told me, he was urgently needed back at his company in the States. As I waved goodbye across the customs barrier, I consoled myself with the promises of true love we had exchanged. Until Tuesday, that is, when I phoned him at his workplace: "Stan?" they answered in surprise. "He's on vacation. Won't be back for weeks."Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, but I have the uncomfortable feeling that Stan is off with the jelly-bean-sender. I hope he gets cavities. Maybe Fedya wasn't so bad after all.