My marriage succeeds on many levels. Groom lets me sleep big many muches, when I need it. Groom cooks me food and sets out large plates. Groom laughs hard when I'm mean and small and petty.
Even better, Groom and I have spent many-an-easy hour making lists of "Famous People Jocelyn Gets to Sleep With If She Ever Encounters Them in the Febreze Aisle at the Target, and They Happen to Proposition Her There." I know many marriages have this List; such Lists can provide mental comfort--an emotional escape hatch--to those who feel that commitment somehow closed doors, snipped options, and dug the first foot of the grave.
For me, I don't think The List is about that, though, as every inch of Groom's 6' 3" frame is hot and tasty, like a Wendy's Double Classic Burger without Pickles. I'm completed by my commitment to him.
Don't I maybe need something new to talk about at family gatherings, when we all meet year- after-endless year, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with our glasses of lemonade, staring at the lake, whiffling on about the weather? Wouldn't it make for a memorable holiday reunion with Great-Aunt Ruthie if I could announce that, thanks to Groom dropping me off at the talk show host's condo in Santa Monica, I shared afternoon delight with Jon Stewart? Wouldn't that put some stuffing into yet another limp family Thanksgiving?
Truly, my List of Possible Celebrity Bangs doesn't reach so high. I get nothing from mainstream hotties like Brad Pitt, save a small annoyance at his slanted Oklahoman vowels, one that leaves me wondering, "Is he really talking about a pin, or did he mean a pen?" Sit up straighter, Bradley, and speak righter. And stop wearing those silly newsboy hats.
No, I go for a more off-beat, quirky, intelligent, full-voweled kind of appeal. Give me crooner Lyle Lovett or producer Don Was or interviewer Charlie Rose over leading man Shia LeBeouf and his wispy faux-brooding any day.
But more than anyone? I would like to have Michael Kenneth Williams "meet me by the Febreze" at--how do you say it?--exactly this very minute, pulling behind him a fold-away bed and a cart full of candles and perhaps Cesaria Evora in the flesh (except she is required to turn away and examine the paper towels as she serenades us, for she has a mug so scary that it could suck the oxygen right out of a conflagration even as searing as mine and Michael's).
If you have never seen HBO's The Wire and basked in the multi-faceted brilliance of my Michael's turn as Omar, Killer with a Code, then you have not only missed out on "One of the Ten Reasons to Still Love Television," but you have missed out on previewing my next date, and how else can you seal your approval onto the man who will be plying me with a 2002 cabernet just beyond the hand brooms and bleach?
That he plays a homosexual on The Wire is irrelevant to my attraction; just ask either of my Prom dates in high school, both of whom have since gone on to post-Jocelyn loves named Scott and Jason. I like to think I helped define their course.
But my Michael? Groom agrees: he's already coursing.
When Evora's final note dies away, and the candles sputter their last, and the shelf-stockers stop their blushing, I'll aright myself, hitch up my garters, run one last tender finger over Michael's scar, and tromp off to meet Groom over by the clearance grills.
Although I'll have mopped up what I can with the available dryer sheets, a clean-up will most definitely be needed on Aisle 12.