STRANGER THAN FICTION: PARTIES CAN BE DANGEROUS TO MARITAL BLISS

Nothing like seeing one's husband cozied up on the couch with the girl voted "Most Likely To Be A White House Intern." Our friends love a good party.

What's not to like? Parties are a way to bring people together to share a few laughs, dance to a few tunes and remind everyone why they quit mixing beer and hard liquor after college.

So when Linda invited The Other Half and me over to celebrate a friend's return from two months on a job in California, we could hardly say no.

Linda is single -- so are most our friends around our age. People aren't getting married as young as they used to. They have "commitment issues" and want to be abundantly sure they're "mutually compatible."

Plus being single is fun. So is being married, but more in the if-you-don't-help-with-the-laundry-I'm-gonna-kill-you kind of way.

When you're single, going to a party is about meeting members of the opposite sex. You shave your legs and spend an hour or more on your hair and makeup. The night is full of potential. Who knows? Maybe Mr. Right will be standing in a corner somewhere, talking about how he just cleared $1 million on his latest trade in between his two-hour-a-day workouts and studying Sanskrit.

Of course, it rarely works out that way. Instead, you hook up with some guy who's (a) got a job and (b) didn't vomit on you. He's standing near the other party staples -- the dude watching some sort of sporting event on television and refusing to mingle and the drunk girl loudly explaining why her last boyfriend was all wrong for her.

When you're married, parties are about keeping an eye on your spouse.

That's pretty easy for The Other Half. While I tend to move about at parties, mingling here and there, my weight, sympathetic demeanor and general lack of ability to fix my hair in any recognizable fashion has assured me a place in every nice-looking male's heart as a big-sister type.

But apparently Mr. Half's new goatee, highlighted hair, earring, hemp necklace and Birkenstocks have rendered his wedding band invisible.

At the last few parties, I've discovered him with beautiful women practically sitting on his lap. He was always wearing an expression of, "Hey, I didn't ASK her to sit here!"

On Saturday, it was Sherrie, who on at least three prior occasions has shown me her tattoos. They're located near two private parts of her anatomy -- use your imagination.

She began the evening by demonstrating her dance skills, which were considerable. Elvis never even thought about moving his pelvis like that. When she tired of the bootie shaking, she collapsed on Mr. Half.

Frankly, I try not to let it bother me too much. People do silly things through a haze of adult beverages and nicotine. But situations like the one with Sherrie are most excellent to dredge up during arguments.

You men out there know what I mean. Women can reach deep into their souls and recycle wrongdoings from 20 years ago if we have to. I'll be using the Sherrie incident when we're 80.

HIM: Honey, you can't be spending the way you do. You know that the Social Security program collapsed 40 years ago. We're having to live off my baseball card collection!

ME: Yeah, well at least I didn't let that drunken trollop Sherrie sit on my lap back in the summer of '98!!!

Mr. Half, noting my obvious displeasure, eventually extracted himself from the trollop and asked me to slow dance. As we whirled across the living room, I realized that maybe being Sherrie wasn't so fun after all -- she's a little sad, really. She might collapse on a good looking, married man at a party, but I'm going home with him.

Poor girl. Maybe I should invite her to our next party.

Heidi Nieland of Pensacola, Fla., is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.