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It's the one thing they don't tell you in the Newlywed Handbook. I call them the Sisterhood of the Traveling Tramps: Those women with guts, guile and enough gall to hit on your husband right in front of you.

And that's the thing: I've had my share of serious boyfriends before. Without incident. I swear it's only since getting married that this new breed of chick has materialized. En masse.

Isn't that crazy? You finally agree to sleep with one person forever, and he with you -- and all of a sudden the competition oozes out of the woodwork, and they're not playing nice.

In fact, I never would have believed it until I saw it with my own two eyes, but now I'm convinced. For a certain subset of women -- you'll meet them in a minute -- a man in a wedding band is shiny, silver shorthand for, This Guy Will Commit. Let's get him!

Never mind that he already has.

Part of it, of course, is that this is the first time my husband and I are going out to "meat markets" together. As a couple. (By the way, I don't usually use terms like "meat market," but I can say with authority that this particular beer garden was one, because on the way to the bathroom a German tourist, who looked he'd play the terrorist in a Bruce Willis movie if not for the fact that he was wearing a suit, said to his German friend, "Vat a meat market.")


And the place, in the backyard of a rather fabulous new hotel, was teeming with attractive 20- and 30-something men and women. But, as is often the case in New York, more women than men.

I mention this because I think the recent rash of Tramps I've met is directly related to the laws of supply and demand. I'll explain: The other night, I was meeting old friends. Mark, my husband, hadn't yet materialized, but when he did, my friend Zoe said to her motley assortment of co-workers who were in attendance, "This is Mark, Beth's husband."

"A husband," drawled a 30-something blond co-worker, giving him a once-over. "That's a rare species in New York."

And this is when things get interesting. We all move to another smaller, dirtier, divier bar, where the waitress, with her painted-on jeans and bare midriff, looks straight out of "Coyote Ugly." And, wouldn't you know it, straight at my husband.

"And what would you like?" she coos, her boobs dusting the bar. My husband asks about a beer on draft.

"Would you like a sample?" she purrs, pouring it as languidly as a lager can be poured, while studiously ignoring me. Mark does his best to avert his eyes from her girl parts in an effort to be polite.

This dance continues for another five minutes, until she snaps back up, one boob at a time, and says, all business, "So, what can I get you, girlfriend?"

"Nothing, girlfriend," I reply acidly. And think to myself: Make that wife.

But fine, OK, she's in a service industry: Her tits in his face = better tips. When she sidles away, I look at my husband, and we laugh. "Good for you," I say.

But before I can even take a sip of his drink, Ms. Husbands Are Rarer Than Unicorns arrives on my other side and plants down on a bar stool. I should mention here that my husband and I are both journalists. As such, we tend to ask a lot of questions. And we both start interviewing her.

So, how'd you become a copywriter? Really, a PhD in art history? That you never finished? We're chatting, the bartender is stalking other prey, it's all good -- except I'm quickly noticing that A) she's sharing far too many intimate details for a first meeting with two relative strangers, B) she has that kind of wide-eyed, overly intense stare you often see in the homeless, and C) I have once again ceased to exist.

In fact, she keeps leaning further in, over my lap, staring intently at Mark, and doesn't break eye contact for a second. I ask her questions. I might as well be talking to the wind. Finally, I get up, in the middle of a long-winded story about her relatives in Arkansas, and just walk away. She doesn't miss a beat. My husband, when he notices, looks around the room, confused.

As am I. What part of this-is-my-husband didn't translate? Have I suddenly become invisible? Has the ring I'm wearing? I don't think so. So, tramp-girlfriend-sisters, I'd like to know what gives.

Don't get me wrong: I don't think flirting should end when you say "I do." And I never begrudge giddy, drunk women (or gay men, for that matter) who want to run their fingers through my husband's crazy, curly hair. But I do bridle when the likes of you cross a line and conveniently forget that the ring on my finger means I'm his ... bride.