Snagging a man has everything to do with using the right bait, and little to do with finding a honey hole. And let’s get real. You can always get a man to bite any time of the day.
Whether or not he’s a keeper is totally for you to decide.
Chief thought I was a pretty good catch right up until I out-fished him on our honeymoon. Two days earlier, he’d proudly stood in the receiving line after our nuptials explaining to all who passed that his lovely bride had chosen Lindsey’s Trout Resort in Arkansas for our honeymoon destination.
He thought I’d chosen it because I knew how much he loved to trout fish when I’d actually selected the resort because we’d be out of cell phone range and farther than a shout of “Mom!” away from the crumbsnatchers.
It was the first time he’d misjudged my motives, and if I continue to hone my skills, it won’t be the last.
Point is, we were both happy with the choice for whatever reason. Until the honeymoon disaster began. It started with the simplest of requests of the Wal-mart cashier. “Where’s your beer?”
“You passed it about 45 miles back,” she said, letting me know she’d marked us for tourists–and that apparently they only had one way in and out of this no-beer town.
Chief smiled and told her, “Thank you,” while placing his hand over my mouth before I could say, “You do know prohibition ended, right?”
Lucky for us, he’d brought along the leftover wine and champagne from our wedding, saving our marriage for at least another 30 minutes. We found our love shack situated on the banks of some twisty river that promised to excite Chief with its trout action. Good thing because I didn’t want to set a precedent for the rest of our
prison term blissful years of marriage that would lead Chief to believe he’d be getting a lot of action from me.
As we relaxed on the porch of our love shack, a bat swooped past giving us his best “Top Gun” impression. I hit the deck. Chief, being my newly nuptial-ed protector assured me the bat wouldn’t return.
I was disappointed to learn that my husband of barely 24 hours was a freaking liar. Fifteen seconds later the bat dive-bombed me. Wine glass went flying, arms flailed and I ran into the love shack slinging the sliding glass door shut behind me. When I finally opened my eyes, it was to a vision of Chief on the porch doubled-over in laughter.
The next day, we went fishing. Chief rigged my rod with a red plastic jiggly worm and I was catching trout left and right.
Big ones, little ones, brown ones, rainbow ones. Chief half-heartedly cheered me on so I decided to let him use his red plastic jiggly worm so he’d stop pouting like a two-year old whose pacifier had been yanked from his mouth. He tossed the line in the water, and at the other end of the boat, I caught Granddaddy trout with the bait he’d been using.
Maybe it ain’t about the bait after all. 😉