The lovely and talented Orange visited yesterday, and shlepped my sorry, oversized bod to Target, where we indulged in $0.67 Mac & Cheese and some other assorted treats. The trip really wiped me out, but we had a really interesting conversation about marriage, monogamy, etc. Orange, who knows far more people than I, had fascinating stories about couples who eagerly share stories of their conquests and spicy extras.

Which brought me to a question. Does the license to "cheat" -- whether on a partner, a diet, etc. -- take away some of the urge?

I'm definitely the monogamous type, if only because I am too tired for sex anyway, and the possibility being rejected is awful to me. The concept of having to date again, ever in my life, is repellent. Of course, I wasn't a total nun before I met DH, so I at least sowed some fairly wild oats. But I love my husband, think he's even more attractive than the day we met, and really have no desire to go elsewhere. If I want more attention, I know how to get it -- he is a man, after all [wink wink nudge nudge].

Considering the crazy hours my husband keeps, he's on a pretty long leash. Many women would freak about their husbands regularly coming home after midnight, with little to no contact. But I know my guy, and he's a workaholic with an extraordinary conscience. I can log onto my computer and IM him at night if I miss him or I'm desperate for him to pinch-hit with the kids. I don't worry about him cheating on me because he's pretty serious about commitment; I would be more concerned about him falling in love with someone else than just going elsewhere for kicks.

So I can't really get my brain around open marriage. However, I can apply my theory to the concept of a diet. If my diet is completely restricted, and I'm being held prisoner without hope of chocolate, I'm going to obssess about it. It will keep me awake (okay, maybe I'm being a little dramatic, but you get the point). If there is ice cream in the freezer, I completely calm down. The irrational daydream of asking a neighbor to keep an ear out for a waking child while I run to the corner store dissipates.*

What do you think? Does the license ease the urge?

*Don't worry; I've never, ever left my kids alone.

["The Simpsons" -- Marge: "We're home!"   Lisa: "We got beets!!!"]

G-d help me, I'm sitting here watching fucking Mischa Barton get Punk'd. I spent my night sleeping on and off, discovering various cats lying against or on me and trying to adjust myself without too much pain. In between bouts of sleep I flipped through an issue of In Touch magazine -- the preferred trash of anyone unwilling to spend more than $2.00 a shot for gossip.

Along with the crap on the OC kids, Jen & Vince, J-Lo and Marc, etc., there's the obligatory two-pager on Brad & Angelina. Every other freaking picture shows someone carrying four-year-old Maddox.

I know the poor child is adopted and exploited and an absolute certain future morphine addict, but could someone please explain to me why he still needs to be carried everywhere? Is he disabled? Is he a flight risk? What's up with that?

Which reminds me:

Every year, the Rosenbergs arrived at the same Palm Beach resort in a stretch limo to spend their winters in the sun. Every year, the doorman watched as the limo driver would come around the car, and with Mrs. Rosenberg hovering, gently lift the small Rosenberg boy out of the car and carry him inside the resort.

The first few years, the doorman was not surprised at all. But as the boy grew older, taller and heavier, the doorman's curiosity got the best of him. His tenth time watching the tableau, he finally whispered to Mrs. Rosenberg, "Welcome back, Ma'am. And I've never told you how sorry I am that your beautiful son cannot walk."

"Can't valk?" replied Mrs. Rosenberg. "Danks Gott he doesn't haff to!"

I'm telling you, there is something wrong with this place. I just caught my cats with the camera:


I'm sorry. I don't mean to be all judgemental, and I generally try to live and let live in terms of people's lifestyle choices, but this is just too strange.