When Golf Becomes a Day at the Beach

This weekend, my husband and I decided to treat ourselves to a couple of games of golf. After all, we had the holiday (Monday) off, and completed all of our outside chores to some satisfaction. The nice thing about having a yard is that eventually you get to enjoy it. I think our target date is the first week of July. The bad thing about having a yard is that it takes an enormous amount of hard work, hence not being able to truly enjoy it until the first week of July.

In the meantime, I dutifully planted my vegetable garden, made color bowls of bright flowers and different lettuce (might as well get a salad out of my efforts), and dug deep into the ground.

In my youth, all of this would have been no work at all. It’s funny how as you get older, you become cognizant of more creaks and aches and pains than you did just five short years ago.

So, to reward ourselves (and to take a break) we decided to hit the links.

I haven’t golfed since last summer. To say I’m rusty would be a complete understatement. To begin with, I’m definitely not an athlete. My golf game is just below mediocre. Most of the time, I hit the ball without the embarrassing wiffed shot swooshing unproductively into the air. Usually, I hit my balls straight, but not very far.

Playing your first game of the season is a humbling experience. Any bad habit you are likely to pick up from five months hibernating indoors will soon become apparent. Playing after two days of strenuous yard work is just plain lunacy. My wrists were sore from digging and pulling up weeds. My hips were sore from continuous squats to the ground. (I’ll tell you in a week or so if they helped lower my excess poundage.)

In addition, have a confession to make: I am a psychologically challenged golfer. As soon as I see water, I hit my ball right into it. As soon as I determine that my ball has to carry over a thicket of raspberry bushes or a marshy bog, it magically beams right toward the center of the muck, as if magnetized by impending doom. If there is a bunker to the left of my shot, I will mis-hit and the ball will laterally travel into trouble.

Not to fear. I have a garage full of errant old golf balls, thanks to the hunter-gatherer instincts of my husband and son, who have diligently found more balls in the woods than I would need in a lifetime of troubled fairways. Personally, I won’t brave the brambles and marshland to retrieve any item that I would put there. Nosiree Bob, not even in the unlikely event of a $100 bill floating out of my bag and landing into the thick of it.

On the other hand, you can’t ignore your ball if it’s lying in the sand. It lays there on the beach, a pristine white (or pink or yellow or purple) Easter egg sticking its tongue out at you, saying “Na, nee, na, nee, naaaaa neeee” just like a petulant preschooler.

Needless to say, this weekend I spent a lot of time in bunkers.

You would think that after visiting every bunker on the course, my short game would have improved a little. I mean, I wielded that sand wedge more times this weekend than Tiger would have if he were just goofing around in the back yard on his way to empty the trash. (Does Tiger empty the trash? I hope so.)

But, no. Let me honestly report that I whacked away in the sand with an abandon I haven’t felt since my toddler days with bucket and shovel. Add to that the fact that I’m short, and some of these bunkers had lips that were a good two feet over the top of my head. However, I resisted an overpowering urge to pick up my ball and toss it over. I think I’m more mature than that now.

Still, I’m not a hot-headed golfer. What’s the use? I know I’m not going to beat anyone with my game. Besides, I’d rather make an expenditure of anger at something worthwhile, like boneheaded politicians. It’s nice to get out and enjoy the fresh air, and when golf becomes a day at the beach, I’ll accept it. It’s better than a day anywhere else.

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Dream Dog

I would like to preface this by saying that I have been looking into getting a dog from a rescue, as soon as my youngest goes off to college in the fall. My brother-in-law helps run a rescue in Los Angeles, and his belief is that you should never have to get a breeder dog because there are too many poor animals in shelters looking for homes. I’ve been taking my time and getting lots of information before I decide if that’s what I’m going to do.

This is a vivid dream which I had last night:

I dreamt that I went to a breeder of Boston Terriers. My sister has always had two Bostons in the house. They’re small and short-haired, are loyal and friendly, a perfect house dog. Except for occasional snoring, they don’t make much noise. If I were to get a dog, this would be the breed.

The breeder was a German man with a rather thick accent. He introduced me to the mother and then the father of the upcoming litters. (Seems weird.) Both dogs were very nice, even tempered, you could tell they liked each other, too. (Why this was a concern, I don’t know!) I asked if I could put a deposit down on one dog from a subsequent litter. I told the man I wanted a little girl, and he agreed, girls are the best.

We went into his home office to make the payment. He told me it had to be $300 in cash. I went to the breeder with $300 cash (very unusual, since I never carry cash), but along the way managed to spend $295 of it (I don’t know how!), so all I had left was a rumpled $5 bill. I took it out of my wallet and proceeded to dig around in my purse, hoping that I really hadn’t spent $295, but knowing that I did.

Finally, I asked if I could write a check. German man looked over his shoulder warily and said he really shouldn’t, his wife would be angry. He relented, and I started scribbling out a check for $295. While writing, I asked him when my puppy was born, could he please name it “Cooper” so she would be used to the name. He agreed, and scribbled the name down on my receipt.

Just then, German man’s wife came over, and nixed me writing the check. “NO, we can’t take deposits unless they are cash!” (She was quite the harpy.) I looked down at the counter and noticed that they also took major credit cards, so I asked if I could charge the deposit, to which both said “yes”. I was highly annoyed because I had written out the check and would then have to void it.

It seemed like only a minute, but I got my little puppy. I brought Cooper to work with me, where one of my office girls went ga-ga over how cute she was.

Then I woke up.

What does this mean?

The Case of the Negatively Charged Man

I have a theory about my husband, Mr. Demonic. I believe with all of my heart and soul that he is a negatively charged man.

This theory is not based upon the way he is inside. Inside his head, he’s extremely positive. He’s so positive, it’s scary. He cannot see the mass mayhem that is our current economy. The sun always comes up in the morning, and it’s always bright and yellow.

He’s also not negatively charged because of his credit history. We have the most immaculate credit history of anyone I know. Our FICO score is over 800.

No, my husband possesses a different form of negativity.

His body is completely taken over by negatively charged ions.

I know this sounds extremely scientific and possibly harebrained, but I have reasons for my suspicions.

My husband has a bad relationship with cell phones.

My proof? He has had three cell phones in the last two years. Every time he gets a cell phone, it immediately is unable to hold a charge. His first cell phone was brand new. Within six months, it was completely dead. I changed the battery. The same thing happened. The second cell phone was my old cell phone from three years ago. It was identical to the one he had. I had never had a problem with it. As soon as he started using it, it stopped holding a charge. I replaced the SIM card and the battery, and the battery charger. It didn’t help. His phone had to be charged every few hours.

Monday night, he left a mall and dropped his cell phone. I reported it lost or stolen, but not before some guy snagged it and made several calls to Yemen. Not only several quick calls, but several calls in excess of 60 minutes. (I hope he wasn’t a terrorist.) So, after calling the cell phone company, I dragged out a brand spanking new cell phone, still in the box, with a brand spanking new SIM card and new charger.

This morning he told me his cell phone won’t hold a charge.

The other proof to my theory is that he cannot get a call inside of our office. The building is cinder block, and there are no big towers or anything to detract from a cell phone signal. The towers are very nearby. I can get calls on my cell phone inside of the office, but he can’t. I get text messages, I get email. He gets static. Other people, who are on our plan and use our phones, can get calls and text messages in the building. He gets nothing. Heck, I can get calls in the basements of several malls, where you are not supposed to get any reception at all.

Mr. Demonic has long blamed his problems on our current carrier, who we’ve had for almost three years. I will decline to mention the name, because I have no problem with them, their phones or their service. I’m especially bowled over by their service. Even though they are probably going to charge us for those international calls to Yemen, they were very nice and sympathetic on the phone.

Mr. Demonic is another story all together.  He gets very angry when I mention that he has negatively charged ions. Now that I think of it, they don’t only affect his cell phone, but also anything electronic. He has a hard time with DVD players and remote controls.

If there is a scientist or a doctor out there with a possible cure, please contact me. I’m running out of cell phones.

A Strange and Busy Day

My Internet Boyfriend and I have been busy.

We’re always busy, but today we’ve been super busy. In addition to being busy with our business and our busy-ness, I’ve been busy with normal business and busy-ness at my business.

I should have taken a photograph of my desk this morning. I couldn’t find the bottom of the piles. (It sort of resembled my husband’s desk. I cringe when I think about that.)

In the middle of trying to run my business, MIB is IMing me to tell me to do this and that regarding the business of our busy-ness. This is because I’m a computer dummy and I can’t figure things out on my own. I wish I could, but my brain can only handle so much traffic at one time. My busy-ness made my brain extra-full of thoughts, some of which fell off the face of the earth (or my own face) and some of which didn’t.

I save all my email, so I should be able to go back and sort through the individual business to get to the busy stuff.

One of these days, I will remember the business of my busy-ness. Not today though. I didn’t learn my social security number or driver’s license number in two seconds. That took a while, and I’m sure I will learn this business.

Lucky for me, MIB is a good teacher and very patient. And he adores me.