Girls' Night Out - PMS aside, it's the most dangerous night of the month for guys. I t ' s the night husbands cook dinner (with every dish in the kitchen), bathe children (but don't hang up the towels), and read bedtime stories

(Sports Illustrated, the swimsuit edition).

Meanwhile, we women dine and w[h]ine, (or do we w[h]ine and dine?). And we talk, and talk, and talk. And we whisper, followed by loud, table-slapping laughter, making all the males in the restaurant squirm uncomfortably in their seats; their paranoia leading them to believe that we have, with our teeth, verily skinned the dignity from one of their own.

I say paranoia because we really don't talk about men . . much. We talk about shoes and purses, paint chips and fabric swatches, bra sizes and breast feeding, hairdressers and highlights, bathing suits and body fat, eyebrows and bikini waxes, plastic surgeons and the arts, garden club and gift wrap, and anyone who couldn't make it that night.

Regardless, our husbands all believe that we sit for hours absorbed in conversation about them. As if!

When I attend these therapy sessions, my one-and-only waits up. And thus, it's also the most dangerous night of the month for females.

"Who was there, tonight," he asks, pestering me until I list off names. "What did y'all talk about?"

"We discussed signing up for ballroom dancing and planning a girls' weekend at the Ritz and how fast our children's feet grow," I tell him.

"You did not," he protests, ignoring the ballroom dancing thing. "You talked about us," meaning himself and his fellow victims.

"Sort of."

He knew it. He just knew it.

"Someone suggested that we should advise our daughters to marry nerds. Nerds make the best husbands." I guardedly await his response.

"Who's married to a nerd? Which husbands fit that bill?"

I shake my head. "Only two or three men were mentioned by name." After a pause to consider how to proceed, I cautiously add, "You were not one of them." His face expresses relief at not getting labeled a Sherman, but it quickly clouds over, signaling that he can't decide if that's a good thing.

"Tell me who," he lobbies.

"Ahh, I cannot reveal identities," I reply, hoping to end the interrogation. "We each cut a palm with a butter knife. Then, pressing wounds together, we swore each other to secrecy. I cannot break the bond. It's treacherous enough that I'm sharing sacred information from the circle of trust with an outsider."

"Whatever." He glares at me, then lays a trap. "Did you tell them I'm a nerd?"

With no safe way to win this word game, I mutter, "Why would I?"

"You don't think I'm a good husband?"

"You're a great groom, but not exactly geeked-out on pocket protectors. Don't worry so much about what we say, anyway."

"I know how women are," he snaps.

"Okay," I confess, "sometimes we complain about y'all leaving your socks and shoes on the floor in front of the sofa. And we agree that we can read your minds when you come home from work, hug on us in the kitchen, and insist that we have a glass of wine. But mostly, we don't talk about y'all, at all."

Unconvinced, he queries, "Did you say anything about me tonight?"

"Yes. I told them what a superhero of a husband you are." [He glows.] "And that if you would start wearing your underwear on the outside of your pants everyone else would know it, too."

I laugh in the face of danger.

(Lucy Adams lives in Thomson, GA. She writes a syndicated column and is the author of If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny. Contact her at lucybgoosey@aol.com or visit her web site, www.ifmama.com.)