I didn’t update yesterday.
Did you miss me?
It was for the best, really. I did nothing Monday. I think I stared into space. Monday did not exist. It was so boring that it barely registers a blip on the radar. I might have gone to work at some point. I don’t know.
But yesterday….
Oh my.
The weather has been lovely. No. Beyond lovely. It has been fucking gorgeous. And wonder of wonders, I actually have had a halfday of vacation scheduled for months and months.
And gorgeous weather mixed with a half day of vacation means only one thing:
Girl Golf.
I love Girl Golf. Girl Golf rocks. I talked Pretty Penny, Carissa and Mary (my quilting chica) into playing hooky from work and we all went golfing. In April. In Wisconsin. And it was 90 degrees. It was unbelievable.
I took some digital pictures, but I will need to download them off the camera tonight and upload them to Diaryland. But I’ll post some of them. Promise.
Considering that I had a really off summer last year and this was the first outing of the season, I actually didn’t do all that badly. I had some truly Tiger Woods hits. I love it when you make really good contact with the ball and it makes that pretty sound. Chick! Just like that. Chick! And then you watch it sail through the air and land far far away. Oh it’s just so grand.
And for a little while, you are completely focused and there are no house payments or messy homes or cat urine saturated living room rugs, there is just you and a lovely pink ball, your Lady Vipers and a water hazard. You just have to get the ball in the hole. That’s your job. You don’t have to land any multimillion dollar accounts. You don’t have to make anyone’s crazy network configuration work for them. You don’t have to apologize for a problem that isn’t your fault, a problem that you had never even heard of until that very minute. You just have to get the ball in the hole. That’s all. You’ve just got to love that.
Of course, it helps that the Girl Golf mentality is to have fun and look cute and drink alcohol while driving little lawnmower engine powered golf carts. And have side bets (“I’ll give you five bucks if you hit that goose” “I’ll give you ten bucks if you hit those golfers“) and lots of laughter. We had carts with little roofs on them, the kind where I always hit my damn head because I’m too tall and I forget that it’s there. I predicted that I would hit my head 9 times (one for each hole), so Mary kept score. Only hit my head twice though. Operant conditioning really works. B.F. Skinner would be so proud.
Carissa… Girl Golfer Extraordinaire. (She’d normally have scores of men offering to carry her golf bag for her, but she’s far too humble to allow that. She’s still got the rock star attitude with those shades, though)
Me, Pretty Penny and Carissa, showing off our luverly purple golf paraphanalia. It was a very windy day. I don’t normally sport a comb over. Really.
I white trashed it out though. I stopped at a liquor store and purchased hip flasks of Malibu and Bacardi White and stowed them in my golf bag. Need I even tell you that the Malibu is gone and there is a healthy dent in the Bacardi. I don’t know why I never thought of that before. Carissa and I don’t like beer and we will actually pick which golf courses we go to by what they serve on their drink cart. It was fortuitous that I did bootleg because this course didn’t even have the drink cart out yet, thus we were drinking sodas out of a machine.
Nice fake tan, huh? See that Diet Pepsi bottle? 50% Malibu. Yep. I’m not proud, people. If this picture showed my Monte Carlo in the background, the People for Good Taste and Proper Breeding Society would confiscate all of my expensive department store makeup. I just pretended that the streaks were a rare skin cancer. That way, I could be all tragic and beautiful. Yeah. I know I wasn’t kidding anyone.
Teeing off of Hole 3, my lucky pink golf ball saves me from a bunker. I’d like to see Tiger Woods play that thing where it lies. Cripes.
Penny got one over par on several holes, which was very nice, considering that we all suck. No, Mary doesn’t suck. Mary’s good. She’s lucky that we like her so much otherwise we wouldn’t let her golf with us.
Mary and Penny negotiate the putting. I hate putting. Don’t they make it look so easy?
By the seventh hole, however, I was getting tipsy and only hit grounders. There is a strange dynamic to my drinking and golfing. I actually get better once I’ve had a drink. But once a mystical alcohol quotient has been reached, my golfing ability plummets like J.Lo’s fashion sense. The trick is to maintain a consumption rate where I stay relaxed but not too relaxed. When I pass that point, I no longer care anymore. I just want to sit in the cart and drink. By Hole 9, I didn’t care. I wanted to hoot at the cute boys but alas, there were none to be had. The cutest boy was the bartender and he had a strange lazy eye thing going on.
My officially recorded score was 53 for 9 holes, but on Hole 4, I had 3 strokes and then I twisted my ankle and sat out, so I would have had at least two more strokes there. Also, on Hole 9, I lost track of my strokes, thus the officially recorded number of strokes for that was “MF”, which stood for “MoFo”. Technically, my score was 53 plus MoFo. I still putt like shit.
Dude… friends don’t let friends golf drunk! Or take pictures!Be a friend. Be a designated digital photographer. This has been a public service announcement.
And even the worst day golfing is better than the best day at work. Except for the time I got stung by a hornet on the palm of my hand in midswing while teeing off. That sucked. But, all in all, it was an excellent afternoon.
I then headed home to get ready to take my mom to Cabaret, but it was weird. I really just wanted to lie on the sofa and watch golf and take a nap. That’s my perfect golf experience. There is a delicious restfulness to be had after a good golf session. It might be the drinking, it might be the fresh air, or maybe just the physical activity but it always makes me drowsy. I prepped in a completely languid state, oblivious to any time constraints whatsoever.
I picked up my mom. She told me that my hair looked messy. I explained that it was supposed to look like that. In truth, I just didn’t care. I had little clipped curls framing my face and I think it looked nice. She then went on and on about how her neighbors were seen at Target, being led out in handcuffs. I just nodded, resisting the urge to remind her that I’ve never met her neighbors and don’t care if they are thieves or not.
Golf: it’s my Prozac.
We got to the preforming arts center and parked. Immediately, my mother spotted not one but two women who had “copied” her outfit of a simple black dress and tasteful leopard-print scarf. She declared “How rude!”. I wanted to ask her if she had expected them to call her and confer with her fashion choice, but I had the Golf Zen going on, so again I refrained. Note to self: golf before spending long periods of time with my zany relatives. On the bright side, she did not feel compelled to tell me about her nipples.
(shudder)
The show was lovely. Lots of raunchy fun. The Emcee had red glitter on his nipples and you’ve just got to love that. The girl who played Sally Bowles didn’t have the greatest voice, but it was passable. The only thing I disliked was that every other song, these two old people were singing to each other. I mean, it wasn’t a problem that they were old, it’s just that it got really boring. I wanted eye candy, not a balding 50 year old man singing love songs to a short dumpy German woman. Every. Fifteen. Minutes. God, it got on my nerves. The last time they started to sing to each other, I almost got up and went to the bathroom. During intermission, I told my mother that it was ticking me off, and another woman overheard and said “You just don’t like them because they’re old.” I told her nicely that that wasn’t it, but I don’t think she believes me. It’s just that I paid $50 to see dancing prostitutes in their underwear and stockings with runs in them, and dang it, I don’t want to spend half the show watching Herr Schulz and Frau Scheider sing about how old and decrepit they are and how much they like mickey fickey pineapple, even though it gives them gas! I like the song about the menage a trois! I like the glittery nipples boy! Give me innuendo! Give me girls pumping their pelvis’!
I really don’t require that much to make me happy. Seriously. I have simple needs. Just some raunch sex and possibly freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Dear Pink,
I don’t want to like you. I haven’t liked you since that abortion called “Lady Marmalade” came out and you tried to get into a screech-off with Christina Aguilera at the end. But you’re growing on me. Like a brightly dressed very sturdy fungus.
Sincerely,
Weetabix
Dear Sandra Bullock,
I was willing to believe that you were a single mother with a heart of gold. I accepted you as a slightly clumsy and inept subway worker who lies about her relationship with a man in a coma. I was even able to suspend disbelief when you were a witch with your witch-fu sister Nicole Kidman, even though you killed Luka from ER. But a serial killer profiler? Uh-uh. Nope. Can’t do it. Go back to driving that speeding bus or something. Cripes.
Seriously.
Weetabix
Dear Butcher Shop With the Excellent Bratwurst By My House,
The big brats I purchased on Saturday were very tasty. Thank you. My future cardiologist thanks you as well.
However, you might want to change that sign out front, the one that reads “Ho-Made Sausage”. I keep envisioning Penelope Cruz and Mariah Carey making bratwurst. That skeeves me right out.
Thank you
Weetabix
Dear Mariah Carey,
Those high notes? It sounds like you’re trying to talk to dolphins.
And you’re still a slutty ho. But you make a dang fine bratwurst.
Sincerely,
Weetabix
Dear Malibu rum,
I don’t care if you’re the drink of college sorority girls everywhere. I don’t care if you taste like suntan lotion in my Diet Coke. I just don’t care.
You make golfing fun. That’s all I’m saying.
Yours Truly,
Weetabix
