Let's talk about infidelity for a sec. Grab a glass of pinot and consider. I mean, if what they say is true, and more than half of all marriages end in divorce, don't you ever ask yourself, "What part does infidelity play in all this?"

As in "infidel." As in "unfaithful to a moral obligation." I mean, when I sad "'til death do us part," I was naïve enough to actually mean it. And obviously, not all marriages end because of cheating. Or it's a symptom, not the cause, I guess. But here's the thing, a lot of marriages end because someone was screwing around. In the dictionary (yes, I still own one, I'm like the definition of archaic) infidelity comes between "infest" and "infighting." How fucking appropriate. And I say that with love, by the way.

But apparently, I'm alone in my genuine surprise. Let's take Annabelle, for example. She says everybody's doing it. "Open your eyes, Esme. No one's wearing a chastity belt unless they've got a bondage fetish and it's part of their kinky routine."

And at first I'm thinking, "Oh, she's just being a good friend. She's saying this to make me feel better. You know, about my SITUATION." Being a textbook case of mid-life menopause and all. (Note to self: getting A boob job apparently delays menopausal symptoms. Annabelle's still hiding tampons in her socks like a fourteen-year-old girl).

So we're out at dinner (Robata Grill, our new favorite Japanese meat on a stick place where they have sparkling sake which is seriously, a gift from the alcohol gods) and this is one of the few times I'm out now, you understand, due to aforementioned writer's strike and the sake is yummy and warming and the subject comes up. And Annabelle tells me that this friend of ours, Liza, all her friends are having affairs and then coming back to Liza to confess their little guilty sins. Which, incidentally, Liza thinks is a real turn-on and is bringing back into the bedroom to Tim, her rocking second husband. And maybe I'm looking a little shocked, because Annabelle (she of the boobs you can bounce a quarter off of, pardon the participle) looks at me, like she's surprised I'm surprised and she's like, "C'mon, Esme, you're such a Pollyanna. Everybody's doing it."

And I look at her, this is my best friend, you realize, and it's like I'm seeing her for the first time — the Botox, the boobs, like she's this shiny, new penny of a girl and I suddenly realize - "Oh, my God. Are YOU?!" And she shrugs her perfectly loohfahd, exquisitely smooth shoulders and laughs and says, "Well, I was. But he dumped my ass. Can you fucking believe it?! For a younger, tighter model."

And then Annabelle proceeds to tell me this story, about how she's catering on the set of the number one drama on network television — this medical show where the doctors mostly have sex in closets and on elevators and occasionally one or another of the characters has the good sense to save a life or stick a band-aid on a boo-boo before it really starts to bleed.

Anyway, she's on the set and it's late at night. And you know, hospital sets have lots of little rooms with BEDS and whatnot and one thing eventually leads to another and well, before she knows it this grip, (that's a guy who moves stuff around, for those of you who have the good sense not to know) who is totally muscular, never wears sleeves and has been making her mixes from his ipod, this faux-Adonis, who lives way the hell out in like Westlake or Idylwild or somewhere far away enough that no one from his family could possibly show up at work, this guy with hands the size of baseball mitts pushes her onto a gurney that's still covered with fake guts and intestinal blood and as fast as you can say midlifecrisis they're going at it like rabbits.

So I'm looking at her like, "Do I even KNOW YOU?" and she just shakes her head and sighs. "Esme, seriously, monogamy is not natural." And I'm like, "What do you mean it's not natural? It's what we DO." And she takes my hand, like I'm really in need of help here and looks into my eyes and says, "Esme. It's not natural for dogs. It's not natural for cats. It's not natural for chimps and it's not fucking natural for me."

And I'm all like, "Wait a second. When Jeffrey shot his wad into some other mommy's vagina you were all supportive. You were all ""Get him out of your life, Esme."" All, ""That bitch he was landing his gear on should be subjected to a daily Brazilian."" And we did that voo-doo thing with the Felicity doll from American Girl Place, you know, the one with the pinafore, where we stuck those acupuncture needles you stole from Dr. Chen into her ovaries! We were fucking subversive! What about that?!"

And Annabelle looks at me and says, like I'm some petulant child, "Esme, I'm your best friend. I love and support you and I always will. But monogamy is for the birds." And I'm like, "What kind of birds? Parrots? Because I have one named Raoul and he definitely doesn't screw around." And Annabelle wrinkles her perfect nose and goes on, "Esme, my lovey, we live in a puritanical society here in the good ‘ol US of A.

(And I'm thinking, "Puritanical? Really? Have you watched Real Housewives of Orange County lately?!) but it's like she's determined to get her point across and she just keeps on going — "You know, Esme, all the other, more advanced cultures of the world, which would be most of them, like take, for example, France, well they all know better than we do. Sure, they may mate for life, why the hell not? It's pleasant to have someone to eat brioche with in the morning. But they've all got something extra going on the side. I'm telling you, it's NORMAL."

And so I put this question to you, dear reader — because for sure I like sex as much as the next girl (I even checked out Raoul the handyman the other day, but seriously, that is too much of a depressing cliché) and quite frankly, I have sex on my brain all the time now, and in various other places, since my hormones have started going haywire (oh, more on that later) but I put it to you this way — would you sleep with a married guy? (This is the royal "you" we're talking about here) Really?! After everything that's already happened in your life? The divorce? The singlehood? That's what you would do?

By the way, I might add here that for a few panicked hours, Annabelle actually thought that the grip with the mitt hands had gotten her pregnant.

She took like five home pregnancy tests which cost her well over a hundred smackaroos before she realized that teenage girl periods or not, she's perimenopausal and her hormones are so fucking all over the place that the tests were reading wrong and she wasn't, thank-God, pregnant after all.

So the moral of the story (and you know in general I'm not such a moral-puss) is this: a) Don't start hanging out with grips because they're usually really hot and cute and have awesome taste in music that turns you on and on top of that live somewhere far like Idylwild where they have a wife and five kids and a minivan with an extra row and b) Monogamy may not be natural but if you're gonna do it with a married dude, remember, in this country, we're puritans at heart.

And even if we do all sorts of crazy shit to stay young and sexy and hot to other people while we're still married — even if we do all THAT and then some — for better or for worse, this is America, and while it may be the land of the free and the home of the brave, the last time I looked, it wasn't fucking France.