My Best Friend's Girlfriend

I'm going to a violate a prime directive of writing and share my sources with you.

Well, I think that's just with reporting. But still. I'm trusting you with important information here.

My "Binge" material is culled from four sources: Mom1, BABF, Entertainment Weekly - a fine publication whose appearance in my mailbox fixes most woes in my life - and Husband's friend, FriendBeta1.

My relationship with all these entities are true and enduring, but it is my relationship with FriendBeta1 that raises the most eyebrows.

For the record, Husband is my best friend. My soulmate. The love of my life.

But his best friend is my best girlfriend. Even though he's not a girl.

(BABF and Friend2, I know you are reading this. You are my best girlfriends that do not have a penis. Or testicles. Or chest hair).

FriendBeta1 (FB1 from here on out) rows a boat similar to mine - he is married to an outdoorsy individual whose interest in audiovisual entertainment is criminally limited. Don't get me wrong - we are both very happy with our spouses. When you are not outdoorsy, it's great to have a significant other that is only too happy to spear nightcrawlers, row a boat, or hike a trail festooned with hidden reptiles - and take your kids along on each adventure. You are, literally, off the hook.

But what happens to that same marriage when you, the entertainment-lover, finds The Best Show Ever? When you read that Gotham co-stars Ben McKenzie and Morena Baccarin are having a baby on-screen AND off? When Josh Malina launches a podcast that makes you ache for Wednesdays?

I'll tell you what happens. Blank stares. Shoulder shrugs. Mockery, even. And - in my case - the perpetual query: Is Morena Baccarin the one that shows her boobs on Homeland? Does she show them in Gotham? No? Back to blank to stare.

It is during these times of need that FB1 and I reach for each other.

I am not his beautiful wife.

Texts fly between us. Have you seen The Affair? It's awesome. You have to watch! Or Banshee was renewed for a final season. What are we going to do without Banshee next year?! In a peculiar honor among thieves, we always respond to each other as soon as possible. It's necessary. A delay could lead to a missed episode. Or worse, a spoiler. Revealing a spoiler, I think, would put us in counseling. Couples counseling.

One balmy summer night, FB1 and I, along with our spouses and children, were enjoying a pizza night at FB1's house. As darkness descended, Husband and FB1's wife rounded up the kids to roast marshmallows.

Outside. In the dark.

FB1 and I continued our chat inside. Our conversation was dire. On his recommendation, I was in the middle of a Dexter binge. We were discussing the "Trinity" arc, which FB1 was promising me I would enjoy. We paused. Should we help Husband and FB1's wife toast marshmallows with the kids?

I, for one, was against it. First of all, I hate mosquitoes. Secondly, FB1 has a large snake living in his yard. I have pleaded with his wife to get rid of this snake. Our yards are very close. And I watch her house when her family is away. I have massive herpetophobia (insert joke here, right? Perhaps my fear is phallic rather than serpentine?). Snakes know I am herpetophobic. I mean, they know it. They always surface when I'm near.

She won't get rid of him. He's minding his business, she says. Keeping the mice away.

I thought we were friends.

Also, I wasn't wearing any SPF, and I burn.

Yes, even at night. Have you seen me?

FB1, for his part, was certain that Husband and his wife could handle four kids, marshmallows, and a fire.

We went back to the business of Dexter Morgan and his plan to stop the Trinity Killer.

You know, in this picture his wife is sitting on my
Husband's lap. 

Another time, we were at the shore. FB1 showed me to "our" room. He was joking, of course, but the thing is that room had a TV. His wife and my husband do not care about having a TV in their bedroom. FB1 and I do. Someday, FB1 and I may outlive our spouses. When that day comes, we will binge all day and night. Together. The thought brought smiles to our faces.

I'm sorry, Husband announced, intruding on our daydream. Do you two need some privacy? Am I disrupting something?

No, no, we said. We were just discussing the series finale of Dexter.

You got it. Blank stare.

I'd just like to take a minute to point out that our dowager dreams do not include sex. I don't know what FB1 will do, but I'm going to have conjugal visits with Jason Statham. It's OK. My husband gave me permission.

My own little Trinity arc.

But back to FB1. Last week, we were all at a party. FriendBeta3's wife circulated, taking pictures. FB1 and I had been discussing our rekindled romance.

With The West Wing.

As we posed for our picture, our friend's wife paused. Why, she said, are you two always together?

Why, indeed? Why can't my husband - or his wife for that matter - just feign interest? We are positive that if they just watch five minutes of Daredevil, say, or Ray Donovan, they will love it.

But they don't. For the same reason we don't roast marshmallows in the snake-infested yard or fish from a row boat in some random Pocono lake.

None of us has to do such things. We respect our differences. We take advantage of our differences. While the others are hiking, we are securing the Netflix account, scouting the newest tablet, debating the merits of Amazon Prime.

Although - to be fair - in my case, I have managed to get Husband to cross over to my side a little bit. He really likes Daredevil. I would shrivel up and die without Daredevil (read: Charlie Cox's bare chest). Husband would survive. But he really, really likes it.

And I have capitulated for Husband. I have been known to don a hiking boot or two. I have even gone fishing with him and our children. I'm a very good wife. When I'm not planning my second marriage.

The next day, there was a snake in this row
boat. Herpetophobic, remember?

Also, Husband and I are of German descent. Our Teutonic philosophy dictates that you don't need the newest anything, least of all the newest $400 anything. There's nothing wrong with what you have. Or don't have. Our first generation iPad works just fine.

I mean, do we need to stand in a stream?
We belong to a perfectly lovely chlorinated
pool.

My point is, it takes many people to fulfill you. Well, maybe not you. Fulfill me. I'm not even complete with Husband and FB1 because neither one of them live and die by the Marvel Cinematic Universe calendar or Star Trek releases. That's why I have BABF. We have a standing - into all eternity - immutable date for every Star Trek movie. On opening weekend. It has to be opening weekend.

And books. BABF is great for confabs on books. But romance-y stuff - Outlander, Karen Marie Moning's Fever series, Julie Garwood - that's where Mom2 steps in to finish me off.

No. Not finish me off. That sounds gross. That was unintentionally sexual. Mom2 does not do anything sexual - intentional or otherwise - with anyone. ANYONE. Even Dad2. Got it?

Anyway, I'm blessed to have a husband confident enough to let me go tet-a-tet with FB1. He is tolerant of my expenditures at the Regals and AMCs of the Greater Philadelphia Area. He only tells me once (all the time) to stop sharing romance-based entertainment with his mom.

All of which leaves me with just one part of me that I am unable to share. I have yet to find somebody who shares my unconditional love of all things Gwyneth. As in Paltrow. As in goop and Sliding Doors and The Tracy Anderson Method.

I mean, nobody understands me...