This post is about my recent dates with Mr. Plane (so named because he owns a plane). Last weekend’s adventure (our first date) involved him whisking me away from the treacherous lands of New Jersey to Martha’s Vineyard. Epic. First. Date. After reflecting upon this experience for two days, I concluded that a more subtle approach to a first date would have been preferable. I expressed my concerns to him and he suggested that our next adventure entail true torture: camping.
On Wednesday, Mr. Plane and I met for date two. It was a traditional dinner date at a restaurant in Lambertville, NJ. To my satisfaction, he appealed to me even in a simple setting. About five minutes after we sat down at the table, while I was mid-rant about what was surely some inconsequential bullshit, he asked for my hand. I paused the rant and curiously gave him my hand. What was he planning on doing with it? Palm reading? He placed it in his. I still wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish. I asked, “What are you doing?” He replied, “Holding your hand.” This freaked me out. I couldn’t regain the train of thought necessary for rant resumption. The scenario reminded me of the movie Avatar because like the Na’vis connected to each other using their tendrils, Mr. Plane was connecting to me by linking our hands. But I’m not an avatar, so this was fucking weird. After several minutes, my discomfort with the hand-holding situation dissipated. Once again, the topic of camping came up. And, once again, I expressed my sheer and utter dislike for this uncivilized activity. He said that he would take me camping the upcoming weekend. I thought, “Surely Mr. Plane is joking. Why would he want to subject me to that?” My thoughts were incorrect.
The following day, he asked if I was excited about the imminent camping trip. I said, “Are you serious?” He made it clear that he was absolutely serious. I asked if he could just pitch a tent in his backyard, so that if I found the experience of sleeping outside like a feral beast to be too traumatic, I could go inside. He told me that not only would the tent not be in his yard, it wouldn’t be on a campsite. Instead, his intention was to expose me to real nature. Princess MoMo in the woods?! Unreal. And, what in the world was wrong with the MoMo mental state that I was even remotely entertaining this nonsense about camping? At least I was lucid enough to make clear to him that the camping excursion would be limited to one night of outdoors sleeping. Before I went to bed (indoors) that night, it dawned on me that if we really were going camping in real nature, how the fuck was I supposed to clean the oral kingdom? I texted him at 1:35 a.m., “How are we supposed to brush our teeth during this camping shenanigan?” He called me Friday morning to inform me that there would be a stream in which we can perform our teeth cleaning functions. What?! A stream?! Streams are giant fish toilets. The thought of brushing my teeth with fish toilet water truly frightened me. It left a figurative bad taste in my mouth, which I did not want to transform into a literal one.
I had to strategize. How could I minimize the time I was potentially going to be exposed to the flora and the fauna? On the drive home from work, I concocted a scheme. I knew that Mr. Plane had to be somewhere at 10 a.m. on Saturday morning, meaning I could be home and out of the woods in time to shower early enough in the morning. But, the night outside time had to be limited. I dial pad-ded Mr. Plane and said, “Remember you said you wanted to see my hair straight, well, I’m going to straighten it tonight.” The breaking of the disulfide bonds that make the MoMo hair curly takes at least one hour and fifteen minutes. This meant at least one hour and fifteen minutes less time outside! Brilliant. He didn’t understand why I wanted to straighten my hair for camping. I explained that I wanted to optimize my prettiness in some way since he had already told me heels and dresses were out of the question for this date in the wilderness. Surprisingly, he endorsed my hair straightening idea.
Later in the evening, he called and instructed me to meet him at a restaurant in Frenchtown, NJ at 8:30 p.m. I breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared that the night’s menu would consist of cultivated cuisine, as opposed to shit-on-a-stick camp food. (Side note: I do LOVE hot dogs of the turkey variety. For some years, I sustained life through almost strictly the consumption of turkey hot dogs, cashews, canned soup, water and Goose – all of the necessary nutritional staples.) Anyway, I still had to pack my overnight camp bag. Here’s what I packed (and in this order): flat iron, makeup, deodorant, onesie pjs (a pair other than the zebra ones from the previous week), jeans, two sweaters, contact lens items, socks and a tank top.
During my drive to Frenchtown, I dial pad-ded two people to provide them with the restaurant name in the event that MoMo went missing. When I arrived, I parked the MoMo-mobile and was greeted by Mr. Plane. I was under the false impression that we were going to enter this restaurant, so I left my device and overnight bag in the MoMo-mobile. But, Mr. Plane instead led me to his car. I asked where we were going and he said, “You’ll find out when we get there.” I asked if I should bring my bag and he said yes, but to leave my device in the MoMo-mobile. I responded, “You know, a lot of people know I’m out with you. Some of them have your name and phone number, so if you’re still planning on chopping me up, you should think twice about it. And, I need my device so that if you do chop me up, they can locate my body using the gps tracking in it.” He replied, “But your device won’t help them find you because it will be up a river somewhere.” I told him that I was not compromising on the device situation.
His car driving is far more maniacal than his plane piloting. Fast driving in and of itself doesn’t scare me, but he was Mario Andretti-ing me out of New Jersey through back roads with lots of curves, trees, deer and other such obstacles. I stated that his operation of the vehicle was unsafe, not because he couldn’t handle the car, but because if something unforeseeable was to pop out on the road, he could possibly lose control. He said, “Yea…things pop out on the road all of the time…like sharks, or brontosaurus.” I responded, “I wouldn’t be surprised if there are dinosaurs in those woods…this is Pennsylvania.” (Unfortunately, there were no dinosaur spottings on this trip.)
I still had no clue to where I was being transported. Finally, he parked the car somewhere within the realm of civilization. We walked out of the car and I said, “We’re not going camping, are we?” To my extreme relief, he said, “Not tonight. It’s too late. It won’t be good to start this late for your first time because you won’t be able to see anything and the bats will be out.” Bats?! Wow, as if bugs weren’t bad enough. We dined at an Italian restaurant. Thankfully, there were no servings of s’mores that night. His adult beverage choice improved as compared to the previous week. He ordered sangria – two of them at the same time. I ordered a chocolate martini and soon learned why he had ordered two sangrias – the serving size of the glasses was appropriate for an alcoholic ant. As a result of the small portion size, I had four chocolate martinis.
After dinner, on the walk to his car, he showed me a “community garden.” He pointed to the first plant and said, “That’s a tomato plant.” Then the next one, “That’s a marigold plant to keep the rabbits away.” Then the third one, “I’m not sure what that one is.” I said, “It’s a strawberry plant.” He responded, “No, it’s not strawberry season.” I said, “Look, I’m no horticulturalist, but I’m pretty fucking sure that’s a strawberry plant.” He asked, “How do you know?” I said, “Because I see strawberries growing out it.” With this, I looked up to see that he was publicly urinating. He must have forgotten that is was a community garden, not a community commode. Or maybe he was just practicing for camping. He tried convincing me that he was providing nutrients to the garden through his penis. I wasn’t convinced.
Once he put his junk away, we got back in the car. I was in the ever familiar position of not knowing where he was taking me. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is a scary place. The roads were all dark and windy. When we arrived at the destination, I was totally creeped out. It was a vast open land with ghoulish-looking trees and odd man-made structures. Evidently, one of these structures is a barn. He parked his car in something that was obviously a former farm related building (my farm structure architectural knowledge is limited), but now served as a garage. As we walked up a path, I asked him if clicking my heels three times would put me back in New Jersey. We then entered a house. His house. As it turned out, he is the landowner. Now, let’s be clear, Mr. Plane is not a farmer and, perhaps more significantly, he does not own any flannel shirts. But, he lives on a farm. The farm doesn’t house animals, nor does he grow crops, with the exception of ten basil plants. I can’t say I’ve ever spent a Friday night at a farm before this. Farm, barn, ghoulish trees and all were wayyyyyyy better than camping though.
In the morning, I saw the farm in daylight. This was not a typical farm. In the back, there is a tennis court, a pool, a trampoline, dirt bike path and, the most important of outside furniture, a hammock. If that’s what farm living is all about, it doesn’t seem so bad.
Ok. I’m tired of writing now and there really isn’t much more to tell of this story. The end.
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