I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm (And Not Seeing Things)
Have I ever mentioned my mortal fear of total darkness? I’m sure I have. Somewhere.
I’ve spent much of the past couple of weeks partially blind in one eye, with the medical establishment attributing my sight loss to all sorts of dread awfulness (think HIV; think lupus; think multiple sclerosis; think syphilis; think many other abominable things.) I tried to tell the host of profit-driven, lawsuit averse doctors what I thought about it, but they wouldn’t listen.
Perhaps you will, Dear Reader.
I think it’s Dean Martin‘s fault.
When I was a toddler, I sat about six inches from the giant television, waiting for Dean Martin to stumble onstage with his ice water. (Because my mother told me that’s what it was, I believed her.) I waited for his slurred grin at the camera, the sloppy spills of booze, and the luscious, decadent crooning.
When he looked into the Great Unseen Yonder, he branded his hotness into my two-year-old soul. I think I even screamed and tore my footed pajamas. (Yes, I have always been whacked.)
Perhaps he gave me a sexually transmitted disease through the television screen.
No. No. No. That isn’t possible. Even I know that.
I actually got toxoplasmosis from my mother in utero. It took two weeks of tests and a misdiagnosis of lifelong blindness in one eye to finally arrive at the truth. I will live to see another day. Yeah, American health care. Best in the world.
I am thankful to Dean Martin, for blinding me to the inappropriateness of dark Italian men at the ridiculous age of two. It took me decades to recover from that disease. I’m sure the first time I saw him, he was swilling a drink. Winking at me. Crooning this very Christmas song.