What is "Cheating?"

During another one of our tipsy-making girls' nights, conversation turned to "so what constitutes cheating exactly?" Thankfully, we didn't talk about this for long, as I had pressing cat barf stories that I knew my friends needed to know about.

Is a kiss cheating? Is thinking about kissing someone cheating? How much thinking, exactly? What about the work buddy of the opposite sex that you hang out with, after hours, a few times a week? Whether you're sweet on him or not, you aren't home with your bethrothed are you? But is that cheating, or is that just mean? Obviously, you're a cheat if you have sex with someone outside of your relationship. Phone sex, online sex, thinking about asking about phone sex with someone else.... cheating or not? It isn't black and white, is it?

So I ask you: where is your line? At what point does "bad judgement" become "cheating" in your mind (or heart)?

On Cheating

I watched Oprah on Monday (my guilty secret when I'm sick). Her guests included two philandering husbands. One had engaged in various extra-marital affairs for 15 years. He eventually confessed to his wife, and she forgave him. Members of the audience told that woman that she was a horrible role model for young women.

This got us talking. First, I am certain that not one of my family or friends has cheated on their spouse. However, the odds dictate that likely two of them has cheated. At least two. I can't see it. Secondly, the wife who forgave her husband made her own decision, of (I hope) her own free will, and is trying to put her family back together. How is she a bad role model? Women are so critical of each other.

How would you react if you found out? Would you feel worse if you learned about 15 years of various affairs, rather than a one-night-while-at-a-conference-got-drunk indiscretion? Is there a difference? What if your relationship is damaged, on its way down the drain? Is cheating OK then, because maybe your committment to each other may be less than it once was? Years ago, near the end of a five-year relationship with an old boyfriend, I kissed another guy. A lot. I feel kinda crappy about that. I don't know if it was "cheating," but it wasn't right.

If it happened to you, would you forgive?

The thing I did the other night with, you know, those ladies, up at that place... by the subway

On Saturday evening I met up with 21 wonderful women to share dinner and to catch Sandra Shamus's performance. It's hard to say which was more fun - dinner or the show. I wish that both had lasted longer! Of the 21, I only knew two of the women, but I now have 19 new friends. We drank a lot of wine, and byjaysus, we laughed. The dinner bill was $880. Do the math; it's not that bad.

Sandra Shamus, if you haven't caught her act before, was wickedly funny. Well, mostly funny. Frankly, I'm a little young for her menopause schtick (just to repeat, I'm young, I'm young, I'm young), but perhaps now I can face what's ahead with the same humourous outlook that she has. Yeah, sure I can. In her routine, Shamus says that the first sign of menopause is when you "lose your nouns," and that's already happened to me. Did you see the thing with that guy with that, that, uh, thing on his head? No, not that... it was a, uh, white thing... HAT! That's it! Did you see it? The thing with the guy with the hat! Why are you looking at me like that? It's crystal clear to me.

As we made our way out of the theatre, my sister in law gave a happy sigh, linked her arm through mine and said, "Do you want a drag of my... my... this, uh... smoking thingy?" I thought we would fall into the street we were laughing so hard.

Of codeine, spit-up bowls, and a bathroom that could use a cleaning

Radmila once told me about a colleague who used to whine that she had “such a mi-graine” while appearing and acting perfectly healthy. Rada, send her over to me now, as I’m wearing my wickedly pointy boots and I’d like to kick her in the ass.

I woke up the other day before dawn with a headache. It didn’t take long to get really sick – minutes really. “Not this again.” I had to call Mr. Crabby for help. The small act of calling his name shot waves of nausea all through me, and made the pain in my head so bad that I couldn’t see. As soon as I was sick, the pain went away for just a second, likely because of the adrenaline, but came back even stronger. I crawled (literally) back into the bedroom (when did the hallway get so long?) and Mr. Crabby brought me a cold cloth, a big bowl, and my cozy quilt. He knows this routine all too well. “Call my boss,” I whispered.

It didn’t matter that I had to deliver a budget that day. It didn’t matter that I knew I had media calls lined up. It didn’t matter that an ethics exam from my professional association was sitting on my desk. I was incapacitated. If terrorists had been beside my bed with axes aimed at my neck, I would’ve thanked them. There's a joke to be had here about "incapacitated" and "decapitated" but I'll leave it to you as I don't have the energy!

For hours I lay in one tight ball, shivering one minute and damp and sticky the next. My head wasn’t throbbing – there was just constant sharp pain over my left eye. I was vaguely aware of Mr. Crabby checking in from time to time (he works from home). “More pills,” I whispered once. When the stewpidist cat on earth jumped into bed for a cuddle, I thought I would surely die. That white searing pain ripped through my head, followed by another wave of nausea. I remember thinking, “there’s chicken in the fridge that I want to cook tonight. What am I going to do about the chicken?” I also thought “Mr. Crabby, take the stewpid cat,” but I couldn’t manage to say it out loud. Then I passed out for a time.

At one point I reached for the big bowl that Mr. Crabby had placed beside my pillow, but the stewpidist cat on earth was curled up in it. I whispered “don’t barf on the cat don’t barf on the cat don’t barf on the cat” all the way down the hall to the bathroom. It’s ok, you can laugh. Now that I feel better, I think it’s funny too.

Mr. Crabby brought me a glass of 7UP. I remember thinking, “how many pills have I had? Is it too soon for another?”

I’m much better today, but suffering from the effects of what was likely too much codeine. I can’t speak in full sentences, and my stomach is testy. And I still have the budget in front of me, bugger bugger bugger. I really need a massage.

And as you might expect, the chicken is still in the fridge.