January 14, 2004

9:58 a.m.

Not Yet a Sweet Potato -- Only What I Yam

Okay, I had a dream and then woke up, about 5:30, and I turned over and thought, "That's a good one. I have to write that one down." Now I can't remember it.

What I do remember is the one about feeling up a very willing babe-ette in a crowded room.

Sigh. I fear it's all just breast envy.

Last night I felt quite buoyant after the phone call with Dar. Such a weight lifted at last. It's interesting that I decided to begin the dialogue shortly after talking to Will, who encouraged me (yes, I was discussing the situation with him -- the two worlds collide and begin to merge) and gave me the additional modicum of courage I needed. Having said all that, though, it still was very difficult and there were a lot of long pauses where we had to gather our thoughts (and, I suspect, he had to sit down on the stairs -- he practices his lines for an upcoming play in the basement of his building, where it's private and the acoustics are good). I said buying the house wasn't the issue, but that it had raised some others which needed to be addressed -- like, what are we to each other and what are our expectations? Since we haven't been lovers for a couple of years at least, yet we're more than friends... and what if, down the road, I fall madly in love with someone? That will certainly change the emotional dynamic between us, and if that door's open, should he really be considering buying me a house in the first place?

In other words, is the house caper based on certain expectations he hasn't expressed?

Ugh.

Dar's mother ran off from his dad while he was still a baby. His father came home from work one day and there was a note for him, taped to the crib, which Dar still has. I've left, I never loved you. (He didn't see his mother again until he was forty.) When he was nine his father remarried, a witch who didn't like the kids and could not be pleased. He spent the rest of his growing up years trying to win her approval, by being very very good and squashing his own needs. This is why he has such difficulty voicing them, even now. Generous to a fault, with everyone, but he's the one at the party who stands around uncomfortably and says, "I feel like I should be helping out with something."

And me? Remember earliest memory of father: "Daddy! What did you bring me?"

Not the greatest combination but, I see, a viable lesson for us both.

This friendship will not end. This morning, in the sunny light of January 14th, the rutty part of the road seems still ahead. I'm not looking forward to that, but better movement than no movement, and in the end it will be better.

So my LA friend (I have got to think of a name for her. Any ideas, Ducky, if you're reading?) has recommended a book called The Sweet Potato Queens' Book of Love, which sounds divinely funny and could teach me how to be idolized and pampered, while remaining mercenary and opportunistic. This conscience thing seems to be a fading fashion. Perhaps I'm going down the wrong road after all... Roz Levine, a customer/reviewer on Amazon says, "they're southern, sassy, a bit naughty, opinionated, always prepared and they know everything...just ask them. Jill Connor Browne, first queen and Boss of Everything, is gracious enough to not only let us into their world, but also to offer sage advice to all who want to be worshipped and adored." I don't know if I have permission to copy that, but there you are. I plan to order it the moment I return from Florida.

Did I mention I'm going to Florida? Oh.

Time for breakfast.