On Thursday nights, my husband and I reenact the Old West in our basement. He’s the bumbling, comedic town drunk; I’m the rational but charming sheriff. I use my gimmicky button pin that says “Button Pin” as a badge.

Jimmy tells me I look like Grace Kelly in High Noon. (Remember, he’s the town drunk.) I would tell him that he looks like Gary Cooper, but I don’t, because he doesn’t. Jimmy’s a decent man, and a great fun-starter. He’s even better at pulling whiskey.

In our fake town, my job is to wipe down the bar and prevent altercations, verbal and physical. But as good of a sheriff as I am, I can’t always stop trouble in the Old West. And when I can’t, I take myself to the stable—the guest room where Leone, our St. Bernard sleeps—and leave Jimmy to snooze it off at the saloon.

When I get up in the morning for coffee, I tip-toe downstairs and find the town drunk sleeping like the baby we’ll never have. He snores like a cowboy, but inside of his tumbleweed brain, good intentions are there somewhere.