Okay princess, put down the Bride magazine. Cancel your plans to attend that "trunk" show downtown. And for chrissake, could you please stop with $5,000 gowns? I see you standing on that pedestal in front of the 360-mirror, wrinkling your nose and whining, "But the appliqu� butterfly doesn't look right now that I have it on!"

I hate to crash your party, baby, but you need a reality check. In the split second it takes to say "I do," you're committing to a lot of things you don't understand, those marital phenomena that don't get any press. Not to worry. Mama Erin is going to give you a head's up.

Underworld

Although you might believe that nothing lasts forever but the Earth and sea, your new husband believes that nothing lasts forever but the Earth and sea and - his underwear. Right now, the sight of his tighty-whiteys makes you giggle and want to play Naughty Spank Time, but you're closer to this scene than you think:

You're standing in the laundry room, one hand on hip, the other dangling a ragged tangle of cotton and elastic before your virile groom. "What exactly," you will say with an accusatory tone, "is this?" although you know perfectly well what it is.

"My underwear," he says.

"This," you boom with authority, "is not underwear." (Dramatic pause.) "This is a group of fibers that once collectively dreamt it was a pair of underwear!"

"Maybe," he says. "But it's also my favorite pair of underwear," then shuffles off to the garage, leaving you at an impasse. Do you throw the blessed bundle away and suffer the consequences, or toss it in the washing machine so they may live to ride again? Don't answer too quickly. You'll be making the move from Victoria's Secret to JCPenney faster than you think.

Bonus hint: Only buy him black underwear. Don't ask, just trust me on this one.

Spots before your very eyes

Not long down the path of wedded bliss, I noticed that the bathroom mirror was collecting dots of white foam at an alarming rate. The walls were amassing them as well, as were the vanity doors. Since there is no naturally occurring bathroom activity that produces such results, I've formulated the following ritual theory, which has never been captured on film:

The male of the Married Human Species starts with an inordinate amount of toot paste. Next is �berbrush. Brush brush brush brush brush! He brushes until his mouth is filled to capacity with foam. Then, in order to distribute this wondrous bathroom byproduct of which he is obviously proud, he opens his mouth and exhales slightly while moving his head back and forth in front of the mirror, the shower door and the ceiling, thereby marking the entire room. Perhaps it's a territorial thing, like the pile of Sports Illustrateds on top of the toilet tank.

A sticky situation

This evil phenomenon ensues shortly after your visions of spending the entire night slumbering like two nude human spoons, cradled and peaceful, evaporate along with the bubbles in your honeymoon mimosas.

Welcome to the long sleepless night, during which you agonize over whether or not to throw away the terrifying underwear and flop around like a giant mudskipper. You're sweaty and uncomfortable. You stick your foot out of the covers because it's too hot, then retract it two minutes later when it gets too cold.

Because Life Is Not Fair, your husband is sleeping like a cadaver. Despite your huffing, blanket twisting and endless quest for the cool side of the pillow, he doesn't move, save the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Eventually, the magic moment arrives. The image of the toothpaste foam blobs morphs into one of happy polka dots. Your body settles perfectly into your blankie nest. That tingly sensation of impending sleep washes over you as your brain releases a dose of melatonin. An involuntary spasm shocks through your wrist, a sure sign that sleep is imminent.

That's when it happens.

Just as you drift into a dream of blue skies and crystalline contrails, the man you married (on purpose) begins a slow shifting turn. Sure, it seems harmless, until you realize that the miserable warlock is slathered in a mysterious substance that is odorless, tasteless and undetectable by touch. I call it bed linen adhesive. It adheres the sheets and blankets to his furry chest and PJ pants. And as he rolls, he takes the portions covering you along with him and they drag maddeningly across your just-settled body.

Whether you yank the sheet back and bark, "Goddamnit!" or scrunch up your legs and plant your feet on his back in order to push him off the bed, it matters not. The blankie nest, the melatonin, the sky dream, it's all shit-canned. And you only have a half hour before the alarm goes off.

For better or for worse, sugartits, there it is. Now go on back to planning your trousseau. You might want to slip a flask of brandy there. It won't wash off the foam dots or bed-linen adhesive, but sharing a sip between the covers might make you forget about his underwear.

eobnow@cox.net; erin-obrien.blogspot.com.