Today I plan to talk about my romantic history, starting with Susan Kieress, who I had a torrid affair with between the ages of 6 and 8.
I figure Don will be very eager to sit up and tell me to can it, for Christsakes, who wants to listen to this stuff.
Maybe I’ll fill in with what I think he’s trying to say.
Then I’ll rag on him again for calling me a martyr. This was when I was explaining that the more successful Another Country Productions, the theatre company, became, the more I ended up giving up acting gigs, having no time to write, and serving the careers of others. He was like, “Turned yourself into a martyr, huh?” Which is entirely accurate, so much so that I keep bringing it up, ad infinitum.
All of which is to say that if anyone of you who is a friend of Don’s has better stories to tell, please let me know. Because my dating and relationship history, while interesting, is also pretty embarrassing, which is why Don hasn’t heard the stories even though I tell him most other embarrassing things about myself.
Yesterday, his eyes were partly open. I asked him to open and close them. And he did. Then I asked him to do it again. And he did. We made it through a third time successfully, too. (Mind you, I’m making this up as I go along. I learned everything I know by watching Grey’s Anatomy and ER.) Then I asked him to squeeze my hand, which he didn’t do. But a little while later he moved his shoulder.
The day before, he grimaced. It was a real comic Don face.
I’m hoping for some grimacing at my stupid romantic life story.
But it’s hard, you know? It’s hard not knowing what to do. I figure that I am, in my not knowing figure it out as you go kind of way, doing some kind of good. I just wish I wasn’t so powerless. I want a magic wand, a healing potion, the power of the laying on of hands.
Instead I’ve got my stupid romantic history to tell. Or how I got away with coming home stoned when I was in high school.
I will work with what I’ve got.