Sunday nights are good for little more than reflecting on the weekend, and laundry. There are no guarantees either will be interesting.
A white dimpled ball pummeled my self esteem into a trembling pool of goo Friday night, and taking into account it's considerable mass, that's a difficult task. I had agreed to participate in a golf tournament on Saturday, but after a revealing, mentally crippling trip to the driving range Friday night I promptly cancelled my participation, retired to a dark living room and found a corner in which to sob and rock.
Saturday morning I slept until around 10, then spent a big part of the day walking the mall searching for a gift for myself, an as yet unidentified personal reward which was intended to artificially boost my amour propre.* After failing to find a gift sufficiently big enough to accomplish such a leviathan task, I took an hour to stop at an auction, a charity event for the Make A Wish Foundation. There, I took a hearty ribbing from my would-be golf team, who were also present. It seems Dr. Mike, who had accompanied me to the driving range, had narrated the story of my embarrassing performance. That prompted me to privately and bitterly wish for his untimely demise.
My haughty nemesis, the god-forsaken game of golf, had completely stolen the joy from my weekend. I spent the evening with my daughter, had a steak and beer and watched Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on DVD. Having not read the book, she found the movie quite uninteresting.
Sunday I awoke fairly early and went out of town for a birthday party, driving a total of 200 miles and burning $350 in gas. Afterward, I returned home and finished writing an ad that will appear in next Sunday's paper touting the quality of the set of golf clubs I am selling.
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Why do we continue to allow restaurants to use the word "homemade" to describe their food? It's NOT homemade, now is it?
Besides, if I wanted homemade or homestyle, I would stay the hell home. Give me restaurant-style food, "just like your fry-cook brother used to make."
*amour propre = self love, in case you're not Chinese. ;-)
9 comments:
I have visions of you, crying & rocking in the corner, sucking your thumb.
It's OK.
It's OK.
Golf should not be taken seriously. Just amble about, swinging fruitlessly, taking time to smell the birdshit. Good exercise for the amble and the nose.
I think with golf you really do have to go all out and get into character. I'll bet plaid shorts would have helped some.
I'm so sorry you had a terrible Friday evening.
Best of luck with your "for sale" ad. The good news is? You can probably get more money for them by touting them as "gently used."
(sorry)
The homemade or homestyle thing gets to me too. This also applies to those canned soups in the grocery store aisle.
David... You forgot to mention the reason you volunteered for the game was so that you could rub in the gentle words, "Gee, Mike... I hit one further than you!"
I hate to repeat the obvious, but it was pretty pathetic!
Cure:
Terry Hauser = golf pro in O'Fallon. I'll pay the $100 for ya.
;)
I love golf, but totally suck. I've only done 9-holes at a time and my score equals that of an okay 18 hole shooter.
I suck at golf. My career highlite is breaking my Dad's Big Bertha. It was a relationship building exercise to tell him I mangled his most expensive club. We survived, but I am out of the will. Compromise.
Blake
Sorry about your golf game. I do the same thing when I need a pick-me-up, I go look for a present for myself. That was nice of Dr. Mike to share your golfing adventures:( That sounds like my brother who is a Mike and a doctor as well. He is still a good guy though :) I can't believe you spent $350 on gas, that is outrageous. Well, I think you will have a good week, you are due.
out of curiosity...
is your voice insured?
just wondering, because with all that sobbing it could go hoarse.
but seriously; I was thinking about your livelihood and I wonder if you can insure a voice.
Golf angst, eh? Try Tequila. As for most psychological disequilibrium, my advice is Tequila. I'm sticking with it.
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