One Fish...Two Fish...Red Fish...Pooh Fish

My date with Chase for Chinese was fabulous, of course. He was an absolute gentleman, where six-year olds are concerned.

We requested a table by the fish tank, hoping for the best atmosphere possible, for the "bestest date" ever. The waiter, captivated by our excitement for the event, became a part of it and let Chase feed the fish. What a glorious beginning to our date.

As we sat down at the table, we wasted not one second beginning GOOD supper conversation. Chase pointed out the "long, dangley thingy hanging from the big orange fish." I tried to keep my dry heaves to a minimum when my eyes finally made contact with the pooh string. I was nearly brought to hysteria when the other smattering of fish in the tank, began following the big provider, silently thanking him as they ATE the bounteous gift bestowed upon them.

I politely, but firmly, asked my date for a seat exchange, to a chair with my BACK the tank. My kind date tried to ease the quell in my throat by throwing out his perspective for all to hear.

"Well, they HAVE to eat their pooh, Mom. They have to keep their tank CLEAN. How would you like to swim around in all that pooh?"



You are welcome, cute little grandma's sitting at the table kiddy-corner to us, for the stimulating dinner conversation you were innocently sucked into. I am sorry, employees, for the soup spray you had to clean off of the walls. I am not sure what happened. It might have been the humor kicking in. Or, reverse peristalsis. Not sure. Really, not sure.


I am glad I am not a fish...I am glad I am not a fish...I am glad I am not a fish...I will not eat pooh...I am glad I am not a fish...I am glad I am not a fish...