Scott has been bugging me to update the blog. I asked him what I should write about and he said Jim Courier. This is Scott’s answer to many questions. Jim Courier is treated in our house much like the Pope or JFK are treated in many houses. There are pictures of him (next to the bed and on the Computer wallpaper mainly) and while I’ve never seen him do it, I’m pretty sure Scott genuflects to Jim a couple of times a week.

But I don’t know much about Jim Courier. I’ve always liked him and thought him an affable guy when I say him on Letterman or Leno, but I never had a big crush on him (like I did for Boris Becker back in the day) and my viewership of tennis for most of my life consisted mainly of flipping past it and trying to get a good look at the player’s butts. But Scott loves tennis and he loves Jim above all other players. This is something I have some to accept and respect. I don’t think he would ever leave me for Jim Courier, but if he did, I would have to forgive him because Jim was there first.

So that’s what I’m going to write about. No, not Jim Courier. Scott, and the little things he has brought in to my life that I never imagined, as well as the things I have brought in to his life and his reactions, which I also would never have imagined.

For instance, when I introduced Scott to Trading Spaces, I never once considered that he would develop a crush on designer Doug of Lois Lane proportions. Last night, after our discussion had included the phrase “Doug’s clavicle” and then veered to the subject of whether or not Doug was in fact “Sex on a stick” I turned to him and said, “Dude, you know too much about Doug.” Scott agreed and kept the Doug outbursts to a minimum for the rest of the night.

What I have discovered is that all of the people close to me have the celebrity crush thing pretty hardcore. Lois, obviously, has some issues. My Mother and her giant Tom Selleck in his Magnum Days poster in the laundry room certainly does. And Scott, well, Scott has celebrity lust. Before Doug is was Jon from The Amazing Race. Before that is was Ryan Seacrest. I would make a joke about Scott’s taste in men, but you know, he picked me so I shouldn’t complain. Although I really should draw the line at anyone who can list “co-hosted with Dunkleman” on his resume.

This entry was going to be about the little things you put up with when you love someone, but as I write it, that’s not really my point. Scott’s habit to find the biggest asshat on a reality show and suddenly get a case of the hots isn’t an annoyance I tolerate, it’s something I love about him. Because even if he’s talking about the tufts of hair on Doug’s chest or the way in which he wants to relieve Seacrest of his t-shirt, he looks positively adorable doing it. And I know he would never cheat on me, except with Brad Pitt, and we established early on that we’re both free to do that should the opportunity ever arise.

I never thought I would know biographical details about every player on the professional tennis circuit. And I never thought I would be forced to contemplate the shape of Ryan Seacrest’s ass. But I do these things gladly now because they make Scott happy. And it’s only fair after making him sit through my hour-long speeches about the sorry state of the American soap opera or how much I used to love Michael J. Fox. His obsessions, his crushes, his neuroses -- all of it I want to share with him.

Even if they do squick me out every now and again. When he referred to Doug as being “sex on a stick”, there was an accompanying pantomime. It involved licking.

I must really love him.