All the news that gives you fits

Yesterday's "news"
Man gets on plane with monkey under his hat
Woman has pencil removed from head after 55 years.

Does anyone know what's going on in Afganistan or Washington, DC?
Just asking....

Meanwhile, it's literally 100 degrees here today and I had to cancel my tee time because I am not, after all, entirely crazy. Have your heard what kind of a golfer I am? I'll fill you in...starting with my inauspicious start, two seasons ago...

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What Fore!

I’m on a quest to find my inner dyke. In contrast to my long-standing and well-deserved reputation as a non-athletic, non-mechanical, non-outdoorsy brand of lesbian, I am tackling some of my demons. If I suspected I’d live to 114, I’d call it a midlife crisis: Golf.

In the cupboard of dykedom, golf is a staple. And with our local league starting for the season, if I wanted to see my friends it would have to be on the fairway. If only I could get that far.

Day One – I met Bonnie and a golfer friend Barb at the driving range. Immediately, I broke a strict golf tenet. I parked in the nearest spot I found. “Nooo!” Bonnie hollered, noting that my car was dangerously close to the 9th hole and therefore a candidate for boinking with golf balls the size of hail. I moved the car.

Next, I purchased the storied bucket ’o balls and strode up to the driving range tee for a lesson in swinging the club ( “Practice like an elephant swinging its trunk.”). So I stood there in full view of Route One swinging my arms for a while like Babar and fighting the urge to make circus sounds. Then I moved on to aiming for the ball on the tee. Whack. Nice for bocce ball.

From what was, for me, the dribbling range, we proceeded to the Par 3 course. As explained to me, Par 3 meant that I had three chances to humiliate myself before I was technically worse than the median average.

As a wordsmith I was struck by the contradiction in the term par. Why was below par on the course a good thing and feeling below par after a night of Cosmopolitans a bad thing? Conversely, being above par has always meant better than average to me, so why, when I hit the ball 8 times before it reached the green was that not, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing. You see my point?

Day Two: On my way to the driving range, I stopped at our local golf store, because much like the White House Press Corps and Congressional Democrats, I needed balls. What’s more, here was a whole shopping experience I’d never discovered. Golf shirts, golf shoes, wind pants, gadgets, fuzzy animal golf club covers – I was overwhelmed. Bonnie managed to get me out of the store with a dozen pink golf balls, a copy of Golf for Dummies, and a rubber suction cup for the end of my putter so she wouldn’t have to hear me groan and perhaps fart when I reached down to the cup to retrieve my ball.

Day Three – Dressed like Nanook of the North and trying to remain upright against a 30pmh wind in the parking lot of the Golf Course I wished I’d bought those wind pants. Barb and her partner Evie showed up with snazzy wind wear and a special clear plastic golf cart cover with zip up windows. It looked like Oklahoma’s “Surry with the Fringe on Top- “with isenglas curtains you can roll right down, in case there’s a change in the weather.”

A change in the weather I get. When it starts out this way, I question the point of going. But off we went, clad like Abominable Snow-women, blowin’ in the wind.

Despite the gale force gusts, or perhaps because of them, I marched steadily forward on the course, 20 yards or so at a time. Then, occasionally 30-40 yards. One time the wind caught my ball and accidentally tossed it onto the green, where, to my delight, I soon sank a putt.

My self-congratulatory phase ended when I realized that the next hole was three football fields away, around a corner and past the 7-11. And it was getting colder out. Say, do those little knitted golf ball covers double as hats?

Day Four: My insecurities reared their little golf club covered heads with flashbacks of my being the last one picked for sixth grade softball. But this is not like softball, basketball or volleyball where a klutz like me is never invited on the team. In our golf league, all levels of players need apply- in fact, it’s encouraged. So while that provided some comfort, I still had the pre-tee-off heebie jeebies. I may have had a dozen pink Crystals, but did I have the balls to do this?

League Day: I arrived at the course to find a gaggle of golfers ready to set out and golf carts lined up nose to bumper like a Disney World tram. Off we went. It was sunny and windy, the course looked beautiful, and I hesitantly stepped up to the tee for my first shot. Amazingly, the ball went up in the air for a short distance.

Since we were playing “best ball” I didn’t have to struggle to keep up. Everybody just used the site of the ball that traveled the farthest for the next shot. It was actually fun. And once or twice, the quartet was reduced to using my ball –while theirs had traveled way farther, they had suffered unfortunate landings in bodies of water.

One time, I whacked a shot towards the rough and when it landed, three bunnies came flying out of the woods as if I’d rudely interrupted naptime. Me, communing with nature! Our foursome laughed, talked, and scooted along the fairway, leaning out of the carts to retrieve balls like polo players leaning from their horses. I received lots of good advice.

Overall, I made a bunch of crappy shots, dug up an unfortunate amount of turf, and routinely whiffed the air instead of the ball. One, I got a Rider....a shot that went far enough for me to ride to retrieve it in the golf cart.

It goes without saying that back at the Clubhouse I was good at beer, camaraderie and post-game round-up. At that part of the sport I am above par, meaning good. Or would that be below par, meaning good? I really need an answer on this.

And, prior to next week’s League night I intend to practice a little at the driving range and try to find some fuzzy Schnauzer golf club hats. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.