Let's start by saying that before I headed to Sunny Florida to see my Fantasy Fiance on his turf for the first time last weekend, I questioned the wisdom of going. Several of my friends did, too. One of them asked me if I should get a GPS chip implanted so they could find me if I didn't come back. There was some mention of looking for body parts, too. I reassured them that I knew Dude's parents and that we'd known each other almost four months, even though we'd only met in person a month before. And that I'd googled him. That his face was plastered in the right spot on his employer's website and everything matched up. After all, it was my fancy detective work that got me into this thing to start with. Still, though, there was just a tiny little bit of anxiety about embarking on my latest adventure.
When I got to the Panama City airport Friday, it was around 5:30 Central time. Which means it was 6:30 his time. The time zone changes when you cross the Bay/Gulf county line between Mexico Beach and Port St. Joe. Add another 45 minutes because he got stuck in traffic and was late picking me up. He was very apologetic, but I didn't mind a bit because it gave me time to sit in the airport bar and drink a cold beer while I applied a second coat of Cute as a Button nail polish over the Gorilla Glue basecoat. I know, I know. I broke the rules with the public grooming thing. But the airport is dinky and there was hardly anyone there, and the bar was more like the food court at the mall than a restaurant. And it was the Florida coast, after all. Aren't the rules more relaxed at the beach?
Wow, if I could stay on track for a change. Let's see. Where was I going with this? Oh, the time. If we'd driven straight back, the drive would've been another two hours or so. But we stopped along the way and walked on the beach for a few minutes. Joked about how hokey that was. And that I'd be sure to blog about holding hands on romantic moonlit walks along the beach. We stopped at the gas station, too. And once more to put the top down. In other words, we took our sweet time. Which was really nice to do. So by the time we had our oysters and beer and arrived at his house, it was pretty late. And very dark. No street lights there. Which makes it nice because when you look up at the sky, there are so many more stars. Beautiful. But not so nice when you're a major clutz and have a little night blindness. And since the house is on the water, there are steep stairs to climb. But we made it up safe and sound. It felt good to walk in and look around and see and smell and feel the place I was going to spend the next three days.
I was pleasantly surprised. I'd asked FF to describe his decorating style and he said it was something like medieval-meets-frat-house. And his mother had told me it needed "a woman's touch." But I thought it was pretty perfect. Rustic, in a good way. Comfortable. Filled with lots of interesting things to see and touch. Like the Japanese glass fishing float - a beautiful cloudy smooth green sphere encased in a net of rough rope. His guitar. Maps and interesting art. A neon palm tree. Thinking back, it was a perfect reflection of his personality. And it was a huge relief to see that it didn't look like something out of House & Garden. Because when it comes to housekeeping, I have some frat boy tendencies, too. And that could be a problem for some people.
By the time we got settled in, it was around 1:00 a.m. I was tired but still keyed up. I was just starting to relax when he asked me if we'd turned off the stereo. I told him I'd turned it down when I played the guitar, but not off. He went to check, and then came back in and stood there. Then said, "Did you hear that?" I guess I heard a little something that sounded like a radio going somewhere. He started marching around the house. I heard doors and windows open and close. He went outside and came back in. Clearly agitated. And here's where it got a little scary.
He was stomping around shouting, and I quote, "Move bitch, get out da way." Over and over.
So when you mix in the ominous warnings from my friends, mild sleep deprivation and the dark, steep steps that made me wish I'd never watched Silence of the Lambs, I could've easily flown into a complete panic.
But it turned out, he was just repeating the crazy rap lyrics from next door. And Mr. Man wasn't just angry about the noise. He was angry about the stupid, misogynistic words, too. He's very evolved when it comes to women. Gotta love that. It really is hard to believe your ears with some of that shit. As a matter of fact, I wondered if I'd be able to find that "song" on YouTube, thinking it might be fun to put a link to it so everyone could see just how awful it was. It wasn't hard to find at all. I only had to type "rap lyrics move bitch" and I saw that it was indeed real, was performed by Ludacris, and judging from the search results, was very popular. I clicked on the YouTube link and I couldn't watch it past the first two repeats of "Move bitch, get out da way." No way could I put a link to that. It's sick.
Ok, I think I've made my point. Which is to say things aren't always what they seem. And that my imagination causes problems for me sometimes. But I don't mind because it makes things more interesting. Otherwise, how would I have so much to blog about?
Speaking of blogging so much, there's lots more to the story, but that'll have to be a Part II post. Because right now, I'm gonna go see if I can find my coffee grinder and make some good strong coffee. Dude ruined me for bad coffee. So hopefully, in just a few minutes, I'll start my day with strong, hot coffee in my beautiful new coffee mug and relish that memory before I get into the moment.
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