I have no doubt whatsoever that Julia Louis-Dreyfus and I are going to be very happy together.

But—please!—don’t spoil the surprise if you see her before I do.

The restraining order is slowing things down just a little; I’ll admit that.

And it might have been a mistake for me to contact Brad first; I’ll admit that too.

I just wanted him to know—ahead of time—that there were no hard feelings.  And I wanted us to be able to work on dealing with the press together, rather than getting into petty competing narratives that would likely only hurt Jules and the kids.

They don’t deserve that.

I can see now as well why addressing him as “Mr. Julia Louis-Dreyfus I,” that might have been taken as a slight.  But “Brad” seemed a little too informal—presumptuous, really.  And “Mr. Hall” just seemed silly.  I mean—again, no petty competing narratives but—c’mon, “triple threat,” writer-actor-director (everybody’s a comedian; hell, I’m a comedian!)?

Whatever.

He’s Mr. Louis-Dreyfus; that’s all he’s ever been.

And—really—I just didn’t want to take that away from him.

Obviously he took this the wrong way.

Again. . . that restraining order.

I mean, I know that wasn’t Jules.  She wouldn’t have done that to me.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly bitter, I think of him—yes, a little mockingly; I’ll admit it—as “Bill-Brad.”  But—please—don’t tell him that, if you see him before I do.

I’m thinking about the kids.

Henry should be twenty-five by the time we get this all straightened out; he’ll be able to understand why things had to work out this way.  But Charles will only be twenty; he may have some difficulty with the situation—explaining it to friends at school, things like that.

College kids can be so cruel!

So it’s important that Brad-Bill and I kind of get-on-the-same-page as quickly as possible.

It’s the civilized way to go.

And I was thinking I might—all in fun—at least initially, refer to myself as “Prince Louis-Dreyfus II,” which would kind of cut several ways.

It would give “The Boys” and me something in common, what with them both having “princely” names as well, a kind of quick “bonding humor” to help us all over the early bumps that you get in any blended family.

It would show that I didn’t take myself too seriously, that I was content to admit that I was just “consort to The Queen.”  (I have a few ideas about how Jules and I could have some fun with this too—but that’s private.)

And it would also mean that we could start referring to my studio apartment as “The Castle,” which I’ve always kind of done (in my head) anyway.

We’d live there of course, Jules and me; I don’t want anyone to think that I’m marrying her for her money.  That’s not what this is about at all.

Henry can visit whenever the mood strikes; Charles can spend as much vacation time with us as he wants; that’s why I had to move Mother to The Home.  To make room.

She understood that.

Or I think—eventually—she will.

You hit your mid-fifties—as Jules and I have—you have to really take stock of your life, pick a direction, and strike out to make your dreams a reality.

Otherwise it’s just too sad; I pity people who can’t see things with that kind of clarity.

I really do.

And—just to go back to age for a moment—you know Bill-Brad is pushing sixty!

I can understand why Jules might have found an Older Man appealing when she was younger, but she’s really grown past that now; she needs to be with someone her own age.

It just makes sense.

I’ve been slow getting rid of Mother’s things; that’s true.

And I’m a little bogged down in an argument with the Super, about building a loft bed for Jules and me, to try to give us a little more space.  I figure when Chuck is home from college we can put a futon underneath, curtain the space off to give him some privacy.

Manolo says the ceiling is too low for a loft, in a basement apartment—and then he mutters some things in Spanish that he doesn’t think I understand—but I just keep picturing the kind of physical comedy Jules is going to make out of us banging our heads all the time.

Even without her here—yet—I just laugh out loud whenever I think about it!

And—no!—they can’t evict me even with Mother gone (to The Home; I have the papers somewhere).

It’s rent controlled, it’s prime real estate, it’s going to be The Castle, for Queen Jules and me.

It is. 

I just have to work out that whole restraining order hiccup.