The distance between things

Mr.D and I had poured over google maps, cross referencing potential house rentals with its satellite visuals. Me in Oregon him sitting in the warmth, my local Charlestonian expert.  He just kept repeating sure the map say’s twenty minutes but you won’t want to drive that long trust me.  I had been living in the middle of Wyoming. The closest big box store was a two hour drive from Jackson.  A majority of the working class had to traverse the most dangerous commute created carved over the Teton range. An engine work out 30 mile an hour please go faster climb followed with a brake smoking please go slower decline.  Twice a day an hour of your life crossing your fingers the guard rail would hold just in case.  So why would Summerville be that bad?  Mr. D insisted that I might as well never see Charleston or him if I chose to reside in Ravenel.  Looking at the map thirty minutes to downtown and not having the Rockies in between to me seemed like a great cheap option.

Day one of my scouting trip started with an amazing Chai latte and pastry from Wild Flour bakery and some even more impressive only way to wake up action from Mr. D.  With an all knowing shake of his head my patient man in shining Toyota drove us to Ravenel. There we had the opportunity to step under the threshold into some tropical storms appetizer.  A manufactured home sweet home.  Located on the edge of a lovely swamp. 

My simple priorities for my domicile were that I refused to live with some crazy roommate, or share a wall that the neighbors would hear me role playing out some fabulous naked game with my lover.  My dog needed space to run. I needed a bath tub and a decent size kitchen.  Well this place had a great tub. 

I could argue until the alligators came home that the country life could be great.  Riding along through the woods and over the bayou on our way back to the inner sanctum inside the 526 loop, it seemed like I had way too long to process the opportunity of living in a trailer.  I learned an important first lesson about my new relationship in that very long thirty minutes.  Mr. D is always right.

From the beautiful Angel Oak to the infamous direction post for everything of the Wal Mart at Goose Creek nothing was filling the bill. If I hadn’t got my twice of three a day nookie demand fulfilled I would have lost my patience with Ms. GPS.  She kept screaming please U turn please U turn until we finally found the little street and the white house in North Charleston.  It always is the last one isn’t it?

Present day- yes I live in one of the highest crime rated areas in the US. I prefer to call it an up and coming neighborhood.  Well I have a giant black dog that seems to scare the be-jesus out of the majority of my hood. I have a spacious house with an even larger fenced yard.  So the homeless crack heads house squatting across the street are outside all the time. I like to think of it as neighborhood watch.   Home ghetto home it is!  
And Mr. D is still always right, even when he's wrong...