OK, it's time for the much awaited revisiting of the Great Dating Aquarium that I introduced you to back in September last year. Apologies for the wait, but I've been busy gathering molluscs and mussels and little pearls of the ridiculous.. and these things do take time. Plus there's always the propensity to wet myself laughing with all the nonsense that occurs in the online dating world.. necessitating a change of my old lady diapers. OK I'm not quite there yet, but my daughter keeps cheekily touting the Depend underwear to me (peach for the ladies and grey for the men, lol) so it's perhaps something to consider going forward, if only they came in some decent colours...
Damn, just got distracted AGAIN.
So I dragged out my long hidden barnacle-encrusted briny profile, rearranged a few things to reflect this week's inner wisdom and positivity, crowned it with a few of my favorite happy snaps, and voila! I waited for the sea creatures to ambush me again from all sides.
I checked an hour later. Nothing. Hmm. I viewed my profile. Then I checked to see who else had viewed me. Hmm. Lots. Lots of follically challenged nursing home candidates, a couple of fat guys with crusty greying beards, and then the ordinary guy with lips firmly clamped shut. (Remember what I said about the no-teeth rule and photos with no smiles?) These fishies had had a brief nibble, and decided I wasn't to their collective taste.
Well, that's simply NOT ON.
It's clearly in the wording. I'm being too cerebral, too deep, too thinking, even too bloody demanding that these losers heaven forbid actually READ something I take the time to write. But easily fixed. Highlight, delete, done. What was about six wordy paragraphs became one and a half of light and fluffy mornay, designed to entice but with no substance to give them that heavy bloated feeling afterwards. OK, hook rebaited with more whimsy fare, I cast it out there and logged off (and went back to watching Willy Wonka on the box for about the hundredth time while munching my way through a bag of chocolate bullets)...
Just as an aside, it's a bit disturbing that Mr Wonka (who as a child I used to think was a bizarre looking, eccentric crusty old fart with rather amazing blue eyes and hair like yellow fair floss and questionable dress sense), now has gone past looking kind of interesting and contemporary, to now looking a bit young for me, although a man with a chocolate factory and geese that shit golden eggs should never be lightly discounted. Give me another ten years or so, and I'll be thinking I'd love to be his mother-in-law, especially if he's sharing the chocs around.
PING! PING! PING! Sometime around when Violet Beauregarde was blowing up like an obnoxious gum chewing blue beach ball, the fishies went into a feeding frenzy, and my iPhone was fairly groaning under all those notifications. Hehehehe. Note to self: that's some good shit I've used as bait this time!
After a bit more, I figured my net might have a few choice catches in there, so I shook the net and peered inside. Some of them had added me as a favorite. Well, the only favorites I've got on my mind at present are Cadbury ones, but still I'll take those as they're free. There's a few messages from the bolder ones, and then there's a whole pile of gasping carp who have designated that they want to meet me; it's the lazy cod's way of saying "Please pull me in, gut me and fry me, because I've no energy to do this anymore." So after ascertaining nothing of any great interest, I emptied the net, put the phone on silent, and went to bed. I know from experience that fish bite most during the wee small hours when they're apt to get lonely, and it's when an abalone starts to look like a full blown cray... so it was best to ensure no disturbance of my beauty sleep. Once netted, I could sort them in the morning at my leisure.
So this morning I arose, brewed my morning cappuccino and then settled down to examine the overnight haul. The net was bulging with fishy surprises. Big ones, little ones, skinny ones, incredibly short ones (might even be illegal to keep, those ones!), old crepey looking ones, gummy ones, and tall ones with hats. I noticed a few recatches in there as well; those I had hooked back in September on my last fishing foray, and which I'd hastily thrown back, had come back for a second hopeful nibble, either knowingly or unknowingly.... at any rate, there were a lot of critters in there, competing for pole position in the net.
Quite frankly, it can be a little bit overwhelming if you don't have a system. Luckily, I do. My first attention goes to the ones who have actually written something. In a message. And to me. Most of those deserve some sort of reply, even if simply for their effort and sheer optimism. Tell em they're dreamin' springs to mind, but I'm not quite so harsh. So once I've inspected what I call the Grade A catch, I then move on to the Favorites. These are the fishies that swam over, had a look, liked what they saw, but for whatever reason, couldn't act on their natural urges at that moment of discovery (likely because their wife was lying next to them in the marital bed.
Most of the Favorites I do nothing with, unless they appear to be a prime catch, which doesn't often happen I'm afraid. They get consigned to swim in the Unwanted Favourites pool until they eventually find their way out back into the deep blue, and someone else's net.
Finally I get to the Class C, which are mostly carp, bottom suckers and mud eaters, so dispirited or inarticulate they can't even send you a message or even click the favorites button because they're too depressed to aspire thus far. Those ones stay in the Unwanted Contact Pool forever and a day because they haven't the gumption to ever find their way out, and also never seem to disappear off the site, which is the only way this particular pool seems to get emptied. My pool still contains some sludgy looking leftovers drifting around in the muddy current in there from September last year, and unfortunately I'm not only powerless to cut them up and feed them as burley, but also to distinguish them from the newer freaks that have recently entered the pool. Not that it matters, as long as they don't start to smell.
There was one particular fishy in the Grade A catch, a persistent little bespectacled minnow who had messaged me repeatedly months ago, but whom because of his sheer lack of photogenia I had never gotten around to meeting; it just was never a priority. And here he was again, AND he remembered me from the last casting. Well, I had to give him fish bites for his resilience, and there was obviously a bit of quality sushi still floating around in amongst the grey matter if he'd remembered me as well. So I messaged him back, and there began the latest game of "We should meet" and "have a great day, maybe we can catch up later" which again was likely to leave him disappointed. Except this time I took the fish by the gills and suggested we meet. Today. In an hour's time. At the beach, and with our dogs. I figured Boof would sort out his kneecaps if he gave me the shits. I am a thinking woman.
He didn't reply for the longest time (I can picture the poor little fellow, lying gasping on his back, fins flapping in shock, spectacles akimbo and wondering how to reply to such a burst of spontaneuity he could not have seen coming), and by then it was time to take the lovely daughter to school. So I bundled the Million Dollar Dog in the back of the wagon, did the school run and then we headed across to the dog beach regardless.
As we headed down the hill onto the beach, pausing briefly to bag about 2.2 kilos of dogshit that Boof obligingly provided before we got too far on to the beach for a change, because usually he prefers the tideline) I could see this little fellow standing all alone, madly flapping a fair old set of hands at me. From that distance, he looked like little Johnny Howard. Well, I like John Howard. I thought he was an amazing PM, likely the best we've had. And while I couldn't envisage Mr Howard in the bedroom with his clothes off, evidently Mrs Howard had thought otherwise, so maybe I could too. I approached him and tried to spy his dog. You can tell a lot from the kinds of dogs people own, and while that theory means I'm big, bull headed, brash and dominant, it also means I'm good looking and competitive and athletic, so it kind of works for me.
Johnny's dog was a most unusual coloured "grey merle apparently" designer collie dog, with weepy pale blue eyes and mountains of silky hair. It was exremely thin (like its owner) and had the rather delicate name of Crystal. Went well with Boof, I must say. Anyway the two dogs looked at each other, and then Boof turned away rather pointedly to find someone a bit more interesting, which he did, in the form of two racey brown kelpies who had just arrived with their big burly bare chested owner. I turned back to Johnny, and accorded him the respect of a quick peck hello on the cheek, and waited for him to pick his jaw up from the sand where it had fallen when he first laid eyes on me apparently. And no, I'm not kidding.
After we got the formalities out of the way, his being "You're so beautiful, way too attractive to be single, where have you been? We've got so much in common, I can't wait to get started, and I own that huge house opposite the beach," and mine being, "Geez you look like Johnny Howard, do you ever get that??" - which apparently he did, and from his ex that he hated! - we then started walking and talking. His dog disappeared a few times, and I would call it, as he seemed to have forgotten he owned a dog.. and Boof stuck close, being my macho red boofy man, eyeing the ex-PM doppelganger with frank suspicion in his eyes. So thus we reached the end of the beach, turned around and began walking back. Shirtless twin kelpie guy was heading our way again, tanned and magnificent, and I couldn't help casting a mental longing look in his direction, which luckily I was able to disguise as a "Oh look at Boof, he loves those kelpies doesnt he" kind of look, just as the ex-PM was looking a little perturbed at the direction my attention was taking.
By the conclusion of our walk, the information he'd imparted was that he was a squillionaire, had never had kids (didn't like em!) had two dogs but the other one was too fat to walk and had to be carried everywhere, an ex he hated, and every toy and watercraft known to man and couldn't wait for us to use them together, like yesterday. He's mostly retired (like the good ex-PM is wont to be) but works occasionally when he's bored. He can fix and build anything, and has been sucked into repair mode by countless women who use him for his skills. He apparently even pays for the materials! A thought briefly flitted through my mind that here was my big new garage to house all MY toys, come to find me, and then sadly put that one away. I've never been able to do that, often to my own financial detriment. He also gave me his address and suggested I come over and check out his house. Can't miss it apparently. I might, but from a safe distance!
On our parting, he asked me for some feedback. Um, maybe you try too hard, and I've never been attracted to the ex-PM or his kind of look, although I admire his intelligence tremendously, and this guy too was very intelligent. So we left it at that, he giving me a little flounce of his head when I delivered the feedback (hey it's honesty if nothing else!) and I wonder if I'll hear from again... Damn, I wonder how Anna Nicole Smith used to do it... maybe her choice of feedback was somewhat more tactful...
Anyway in the words of famous Ms Durham, we've only just begun... I'm glancing over at the phone, which has been pinging its way through the afternoon, and the newer fishies are jostling in their net with the more established ones, so it might be seafood basket for dinner tonight...
Stay tuned, I'm sure there's more mileage in this topic yet!
(Ps the dudes below bear no resemblance to any that I've netted today...)
