This British actress (who shall remain nameless out of the pure kindness of my oxygen rich heart) reminds me of the time I hid in the woods spying on my husbands bachelor party. It was a cold night in October, three weeks before my wedding. My husband's best friend was in charge of my husband's final tribute to singledom. Every pore, every cell, every neuron in my body cried out that I must, at all costs, encourage him not to go. Or at least find a way to spy on him if he did. So, as was the way of our relationship, I talked my best friend into allowing her husband to go so that she could see if he was to be trusted as well. Surprisingly, this argument worked with her. We plotted and schemed for two solid weeks, pretending nonchalance that the man who was organizing my husband's final fling with the boys, did not know most of the strippers at Charlie's. Our plan was fool proof and involved the following:

1. We would dress in black.
2. We would use binoculars so we could hide far enough away to avoid detection.
3. We would tell no one.
4. We would swap vehicles.
5. We would drink alcohol for fortification.

The big night quickly approached. Everything was followed to a T. As we sat in her brother's 4- runner, half way to our destination, I asked over the little diddy about Jack and Diane if Marsha (friend) had remembered to bring the binoculars.

"Shit!" She forgot. So we turned around and I calmly reminded myself that we had plenty of time. I nursed my Jim Beam and Coke as we made our way back over the ten miles we had just come from. We pull into her brother's drive and I wait for her to get the goggles. She runs in and out in less than two minutes. My nerves calm. Other than that little glitch, everything is going as planned.

The dirt road leading to the cabin where the party was held was about three miles long. We parked the SUV about a half mile away, got our backpacks and made our way deep into the woods. We took our time because each snap and crackle of the sticks and twigs was magnified in the night. After an eternity, we were far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to feel comfortable about what we saw.

"Hand me the binoculars," I whispered to Marsha, holding my hand out as my eyes were trained on the possible den of iniquity. I felt her place them in my hand. They felt strangely...light...and singular. I looked down. "What the hell is this?" I asked in confusion.

"It's binoculars." She said.

"No it isn't. Bi would indicate two lenses. This only has one. This is a monocle. And why does it have Marlboro light on it?" I could feel the tension creeping up my spine.

"I traded all of those Marlboro Miles in and got two of them. Here is the other one. Just put them both up to your eyes at the same time," She suggested.

I looked at her in wonderment and handed them back to her, patting her hand. I didn't bother to explain that my vision would be distorted for life if I was to do that so we just sat there, saw nothing, and left.

On the way home we cranked up the radio and felt secure in the knowledge that our men were good boys and worthy of our adoration. We went home, kicked off our shoes and relaxed in front of a Lifetime movie. I am grateful for some small favors however...I chose not to change into a BURGANDY MUMU LIKE SOME PEOPLE I KNOW.

And then the phone call came.

I was still dressed head to toe in black, including a pair of black socks with gold reinforced toe. I slid my socked feet into the nearest shoes available to me. And the shoes you see above you are similar to those.

I raced back to the party in black socks. And Sandals.

Why does this picture remind you of all that you may ask? When I think back to that night, my mind does not call forth memories of my husband in a hot tub with strippers. Sans underwear. It does not recall the words I used as I informed him that he could BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. It only remembers that I entered into the most mysterious of the male domain. Wearing black socks. And Sandals.