Say Good Night, Grace

I actually missed the series finale of Will & Grace. And I shouldn't have; I should have been there in that Manhattan apartment. But instead, I was standing in line at Wal-Mart to pay for a six pack and a 30-piece Western playset, complete with cowboys, Indians and a covered wagon, but that's another story.

Earlier today, Hotass and I talked about watching it, since we were there in the beginning, taping every single episode. But we both agreed that we had lost touch with Will, Grace, Jack and Karen over the years, and if we felt the need to get caught up, we could pick up the DVD tomorrow.

About the time that Will and Grace debuted, I met my Grace, an always-nutty, frequently-impractical, sometimes redhead expertly played against my always-practical, frequently-cynical, and only-once-platinum blonde Will. And we had standing Thursday night dates to drink gallons of wine and watch our imagined lives played out.

She is the only person in the world who, in a game of Password, will respond to "jaunty" with "scarf." She knows why me being terribly effusive for cheese bread is funny. She's witnessed drunken emotional purges on stormy North Carolina beaches. I know that on vacations she doesn't want to go to historic landmarks, because it's just someplace where stuff used to happen.

But the show jumped the shark at some point. Maybe when Will and Grace decided to have a baby. Maybe our lives didn't closely resemble what we saw anymore. Or maybe our lives just got too complicated for TV. Whatever the reason, we lost interest.

I hadn't watched since Karen scattered Stan's ashes from the boat. So I didn't feel so guilty about missing the final episode.

When I got home from Wal-Mart, I had this e-mail from Grace.

Tonight is it. The last night we'll be together, me with my flaming red hair, cooky wardrobe and curiously large baby belly, with a dork of an exhusband who looks remarkably like that jazz singer. You with your quips, smarts, savvy wardrobe and expensive shoes. Your plethora of hair care items will sit alone in the bathroom that the rest of the world has only seen once. I'm sorry to have had relations with your older brother, even though Sam was a hottie. I'm sorry we fought and had to make up in a vomit-soaked inflated castle at a child's birthday party. I'll always remember our talks, our jaunts, our watching gay porn until the wee hours of the morning; our shared coffee with the loudmouth, brash drunk, and the loudmouth brash actor/dancer/nurse/tvexec/host. You are my friend, my love, my split apart, my psychic word game partner, my right arm, the right side of my brain and my rock. I'll always love you.

Now I feel guilty about missing it, but Grace, I'll see you July 1.