One Friday evening a few weeks back I found myself camped on the couch with an unwelcome summer bout of strep throat. The huz had been more than a superstar over the previous week, answering every call for cranberry juice and SpaghettiO’s and carting me, feverish and grumpy, to the doctor. Sensing his need to break out of sickbay and avoid another night of old romantic comedies, I said, “Any plans tonight? You should go out. I realize I’m about as fun as my high school principal.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was thinking of heading out for a drink with a friend.”

“Cool. Who are going out with?”

“I’ve been texting with Katarina.”

“Katarina?” I croaked. “Who’s that?”

“You remember?” he said. “I told you about her. We worked together on that short film.”

“Oh. No, I don’t remember. Have I met her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, what does she look like?”

“She’s a blond surfer chick — looks a bit like Kate Bosworth …”

“Yeah, no, I don’t remember you mentioning her,” I said.

He sat texting on the couch as I attempted to focus all my energy on Meg Ryan’s girlish glee in French Kiss. But Meg’s tragic wardrobe was distracting and I felt a touch miffed. Had subjection to too many rom-coms made my man want to date? Or had 40 hours of atrophy on the couch robbed me of all perspective? He is your husband — I told myself — he is allowed to have female friends. But is he allowed to have hot, mysterious friends I don’t know? I needed to get a grip but despite my intentions to give him the benefit, a Friday night Margarita with this new model-esque amiga, sounded downright date-esque. I decided to hold my tongue, took my thoughts to the bedroom and called a girlfriend.