I was sitting at the PC one morning last July typing an e-mail to one of my best friends.

We're the kind of friends who tell each other everything. Sometimes it gets on my husband's nerves - "Can't we have a few secrets?" he always says after he hears us chatting.

But this particular morning he was on a stepladder a safe distance away, prepping the walls for a fresh paint job, so I felt safe in conveying a recent episode in e-mail.

We had attended Paul McCartney's concert at Citifield in New York City the previous night. We're longtime Beatles fans and had been looking forward to it for ages. We've seen him in concert a few times, but last summer we really splurged, spending $250 per ticket for field level seats.

The day before the concert, Jeff got an e-mail from Ticketmaster reminding us that no audio visual equipment was allowed at the stadium. No cameras, no recorders, no camcorders, etc.

Now you have to understand something about Jeff. He is a former Marine, and he's a by-the-rules kinda guy. So when he gets what he calls an "official communication" telling him not to do something, he takes it seriously.

I, on the other hand, am a long-time proponent of situation ethics. Look it up.

So this pair of baby boomers set out for Citifield that night, and one of us had a small secret: a tiny video recorder in my jeans pocket. Despite frequent loudspeaker warnings that picture taking and recording were grounds for ejection from the stadium, searches on the admission line were perfunctory: many concertgoers had the contraband items, but I didn't see a single one confiscated.

Sir Paul was astonishing. We made our way to the front, maybe ten feet from the stage, and when he dedicated "My Love" to his late wife Linda - "She was a New York girl," he said - I couldn't resist whipping out the video camera to record the song.

Jeff - despite the fact that camera flashes were going off all around us - was irate.

"You brought that damn thing after I specifically told you they weren't permitted?"

"Didn't seem to stop anyone else," I said evenly. And went on recording.

He just raised his eyebrows and gave my ass a little pat.

Oh, well, the damage was done. I knew I'd be getting a spanking when we got home, but it was worth it. The video turned out splendidly. (You can find it on YouTube - user name RosyCheeks.)

Jeff didn't even wait until we got in the house. He pulled me across his lap in the car, right there in the driveway. My jeans were down around my ankles, and he did a number on my bare ass for a good 15 minutes. I slept on my tummy that night.

And true to form, I was relating the story to my pal in e-mail next day. I was just about to hit send when my teenage daughter came up behind me, and I quickly minimized the window.

"Hey Mom? Were you writing something about...*spanking*???"

I could feel Jeff's eyes on me from up on the ladder.

"Oh...no, honey, that was a typo. I was telling Lori what your dad was doing - you know, spackling."