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Rescue Me - What it's really like to marry a firefighter "Rescue Me" just returned to the airwaves, and a lot of people will be wondering what the life of a firefighter -- and his wife -- is really like. Well, let me tell you ...

I often joke with my single friends that if they want to meet a guy, they should move next to a firehouse and adopt a cute dog. That was certainly the formula, unplanned as it was, that led to my wedding.

When I arrived in New York from Boston and moved right next door to a firehouse, believe it or not, I didn't pay much attention to the firemen. Over the years I'd see the familiar faces standing outside in between jobs and I'd say hello, but I never considered going out with any of them. Instead, in the meantime, I dated an artist, a chef, an actor and an Internet guy.

It was only when I got a Jack Russell terrier -- named Jackson Pollock -- that I started to become friendlier with the guys. It was easy to understand why: I walked Jackson at least three times a day, and he was a natural icebreaker. In fact, it was on one of those unassuming daily walks that I met my future husband.

He was standing there with another guy I knew from our talks about the film industry (I'd recently gone to the Sundance Film Festival), and I won't deny it: The double-whammy of his good looks and fun-loving sense of humor caught my attention. His name was Patrick. He was tall, dark, handsome, and seemed thrilled to play ball with Jackson. That was also endearing to me -- anyone I'd date would have to accept my dog.
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While we were "just friends" at the beginning -- he was still recovering from a recent breakup -- he seemed to want to spend most of his free time with me, the girl next door. Was it the proximity of my downtown Manhattan apartment to his firehouse that made it easy for him to ring my bell after work to chat?

I certainly wasn't sure why this straight-laced Irish-Italian guy from Brooklyn wanted to spend so much time with me, whom he jokingly called the "bohemian" (I was writing a book and doing a lot of yoga then) when he seemed so brokenhearted. But we spent that summer together talking, laughing and exploring our different versions of New York City.

He'd take me on tours of the areas of Brooklyn where he grew up, and to restaurants he liked, all the while telling me about his crazy life growing up, which was fascinating to me. I'd take him to cozy bars and restaurants in Manhattan or to places he deemed "esoteric." But it was the way he made me laugh that endeared him to me most.

Then one Thanksgiving, about a year and half after we met, Patrick proposed.

Our lives together became a sitcom of sorts, one we aptly named "The Fireman & The Bohemian." In our sitcom, I star as the eccentric writer-traveler-yoga girl who writes in cafes, sipping lattes, for a living, while he's the fireman with the steady paycheck, secure job and health benefits (for which I am grateful). As someone who writes about and loves food, I'm definitely aware of our differences, beginning with the culinary: I love dining out at new Manhattan hotspots, or in an off-the-beaten path hole in the wall that serves amazing food -- and I am always in search of something new and amazing to cook or eat.

Meanwhile, Patrick has his go-to roster of restaurants, including his favorite Italian restaurant in Brooklyn we frequent, and the sandwich shops where he buys his beloved chicken Parmesan "heroes." While I love cooking dishes that require at least one trip to a far-flung spice shop or specialty store, he's perfectly happy making homemade meatballs with ravioli he buys fresh from his favorite Italian grocery.

And there are other differences, too: He enjoys the hierarchical, organized way in which the FDNY operates, and I abhor all that (for myself), preferring my freelance writer life that requires only a laptop and an Internet connection. But we've found our own common ground -- and it's more grounding than all those things, and that's what makes it work.

While "Rescue Me" draws me in for its four-alarm plotlines, our real-life TV show has its own drama and comedy -- not to mention an abundance of stuntmen. One night I heard a knock at the window, and opened it to find a fireman in full regalia, offering Jackson some steak. While conducting a drill, they'd propped their ladder up next to my window.

How I fell in love with a firemanThere have been countless other jokes, but also touching moments, too, all of which add to this feeling of being inducted into a tight-knit brotherhood. The night Jackson lay dying from cancer at the young age of seven (some of the firemen believe it could have been as a result of 9/11, since my apartment is near Ground Zero), Patrick was working. When I called to tell him that I thought Jackson was going to die that night, a fellow fireman stepped in to take his "tour," and he raced Jackson to the animal hospital while still in his bunker gear. It wasn't enough to save Jackson, who, after all, had brought us together, and now the board in the firehouse dining room, where everyone convenes, bears the inscription: "Jackson, RIP."

Although I enjoy my independent, autonomous lifestyle, it's also nice to be a part of this extended, organized family, with its arranged events, dinners, and dances, not to mention the non-organized ones, like weddings, parties and barbecues. When our daughter, Sabrina, was born, the firehouse sent flowers, and the guys were the first to lay eyes on her when I arrived home from the hospital.

It doesn't matter who's working, one of them always yells hello to her when we leave the building or plays with her for a few minutes before we leave. When we moved to a larger apartment upstairs, it was the firemen who, of course, helped us move. And there's certainly a feeling of safety knowing that they, and sometimes my husband, are next door should I need something. If ever we were to move (my husband would like to go to Westchester upstate, while I'd prefer the more, well, bohemian West Village), I'll miss that safe feeling, and no matter where I live, I'm sure I'll still hear the noises of the firehouse in my mind -- the revving of the saw, the sirens, and the cries of "chow time" over the intercom that are a welcome disruption to my writing reverie.

While friends have asked if I worry about Patrick since he's doing such a dangerous job, I truly didn't at first. From my apartment I can hear the tones go off that signify a "run," and then the engine or truck speeds out the door. When it returns a few minutes later, I know it was just a stuck elevator or false alarm. If the truck doesn't return for a longer period, it might cross my mind that something was going on. But it wasn't until I woke up one morning at 5 a.m. to the sound of helicopters buzzing by that I suspected something might be very wrong. Thankfully, my husband came home safe a few hours later -- being so close, he could come upstairs to see me -- covered in ash and smelling of fire. It was only then, in that moment, even after attending so many funerals, that I began worrying about him while he was at work.

But it's hard to worry about a guy who's so giving and so strong. One who will run into burning buildings without a backward glance, or jump into the murky East River on a cold night to try to rescue someone who's attempted suicide. He always "has my back" -- a firehouse term -- and even though we're so different, and I am often straddled between two different worlds, ever since we've met, being with him has felt like coming home.

Tracey O'Grady is a hectic writer-mom-food lover who chronicles her NYC food adventures on her blog, The Busy Hedonist. She's working on her second novel while her first, Pandora's Secret Cookbook, is being shopped around by her agent.

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