Twenty-six years ago, I was watching Dynasty on one of those cheap hospital TV sets. There was nothing else on.
Blake Carrington was putting the wood to young Kristie Jennings, his ex-secretary, while Carrington’s ex-wife was busy plotting his new wife’s murder at the same time his son was banging some guy from school but was really interested in trying out some straight sex with the estranged but crazy wife of Kristie’s ex-husband, who was trying to screw over Carrington’s oil company and thus get revenge for Carrington stealing away his hot wife. It was all very confusing.
In the midst of all this drama, my own wife was trying to give birth to my daughter.
Just towards the end, right before that week’s steamy climax, I was distracted by the doctor grabbing up a scalpel and slicing my young wife’s va-jay-jay from stem to stern in a bloody episiotomy, the sight of which I will never manage to erase from my memory banks.
I never got to the see the end of the show.
A few minutes later, my darling daughter emerged, face up, her eyes wide open. It was pretty freaky. We should have known then that she’d be trouble.
Happy Birthday, Jamie. You asked for it.