So You Think He Can Dance?

1. the act of catching fish

2. the technique, operation or diversion of catching fish

3. a place or facility for catching fish

Fishing-noun

1. the act of engaging in major retail sales

2. Pushing, shoving, biting, tugging

3. Filenes Basement/The Basement

My extra curricular activities, once, consisted of illustrating, making gingerbread houses and an occasional needlepoint project. Then I got married. I don't recall a clause in my marriage vows stating, till hobby do us part.

Mother's Day 1976 brought me my first fishing pole. It was small, lightweight and...white. Not my color of choice but who was I to complain. My husband had taken the time to carefully screen my capabilities and my worthiness, as a potential play partner, prior to my induction into his hall of game. I'd been drafted.

The first few fishing seasons went smoothly. Investing in a few small motorized fresh water boats over the years fishing had become a relaxing family tradition. Before I knew it we'd invested in a "real" boat and our weekends were spent traveling back and forth to our cozy marina on the Connecticut River. The Man Game began. A season of slow river cruises, an occasional anchor in Hamburg Cove to sunbathe and family trips to secluded beaches suddenly ended when he saw the sign. Blue Fish Tournament! Are you saying those are not fake flower holders on the back of the boat! The man vs. woman test begun.

I was asked to join him for a quiet weekend of calm waters, some light fishing, sun, food & drink. He was my husband, I trusted him. I knew there would be a problem when he told me I couldn't bring my overnight bag. Make-up, fancy undies, my blow dryer and all other female incidentals were to be left at home. My suitcase was a shared pull string bag with barely enough room allowable for an extra roll of toilet paper. What was he thinking! I could sense my womanly "I despise him but I'll show him I can do it and he's not winning" inner ego begin to appear.

We were joining friends at the marina to engage in this adventure. My husband's best friend and his dad were to be our boat partners.

Boat Partners-noun

Two or more men on the same, or separate, fishing machines engaging in acts of stupidity without the enhancement of alcoholic beverages.

Nearly three days and two nights amid fish guts, tangled lines, stray hooks, bad breath, butt burps and soggy sandwiches I had technically, now, become a member of the idiot club.

The last day on the water lunch was suggested. I didn't see a problem. We'd drop anchor along side each other, take a much needed fishing break, and eat what we had left over on the boat. That was not the case. They wanted lunch out. Now this may seem crazy but any female will tell you that lunches out do not consist of Long Johns, an over sized flannel shirt, jeans with blue fish guts, no makeup and a hair do that would make Ellen DeGeneres look like Jennifer Aniston. No amount of perfume, cologne or deodorant was going to eliminate the sweet smell of decaying sea urchins emitting from our bodies. I was thrust into whirlwind of men scents.

Debbie's Diner. Like a scene from a Dukes of Hazard remake we were seated in a small booth....together. Close together. This was not the time for a once anal cleanliness attitude. The menu arrived. Fried Fish, Broiled fish, Scallops, Clams, Fried Oysters, Calamari ....wait a second....we use squid for bait! Baked stuffed Sole, Crab legs, sea bass....I understand this was a restaurant on the water but for the love of God the entrance was on land. Just as I began to calm down the waitress appeared. Having not made my mind up the men ordered first. One at time, as if the movie reel rewound, the voices outside my head listened. Fish Chowder please, Fish Chowder here also. I'll take a bowl of fish chowder also. Are you kidding! The Man Game was won. The opposing team scored last. I was finally out of the game.

Last week I signed up for Ballroom Dancing. The Woman Game has begun.