Tee time

The biggest difference between Boyfriend and me is that he's a boy and I'm a girl. That would make for a lame blog post if I just left it at that, wouldn't it? You can learn the differences between a boy and girl from a book. This blog is for a hoot, not knowledge. Boyfriend and I shared an experience just a couple days ago (yesterday?) that made me realize just how different the two of us can be. Oh no, wait, it was two days ago. I remember, because I went to the gym in the morning. Not just a hat rack here (K taps her temple knowingly with an index finger).

One of the few interests that Boyfriend and I share is golf. He's been into it for aeons (or eons if you will). I decided that I liked it a couple years ago (yesterday?). There's a great amount of satisfaction when your club connects to the golf ball and you knock it into oblivion. What's that? Am I a good golfer? I will have you know that my golf outfit matches my golf shoes which match my golf clubs. Who cares what my abilities are when I look so good? And believe me, it didn't just come together. I somehow offended many a golf shop owner when I asked them for cute clothes, not the lesbian apparel they had on display. Boyfriend doesn't think I know what the word lesbian means. I use it to describe his relationship with Mutt. Lesbian means an adorable idea that doesn't appeal to everyone, does it not?

I've have known for many moons that I'm artsy fartsy. I don't live in the real world, but frankly, it's a lot more fun for me that way. This train of thought has brought me back to my first year in college and I found myself in a biology class. The subject was digestion. What the prof said then was one of the few things of use I learned in college: "I know you're art students because none of you had an interest to know why feces sometimes float." There you have it kids. The mystery of the subjects scientists ponder, solved. I want to say that the reason for floating had something to do with fat content, but if you're curious for an actual answer, google it. If you google it, it means you're not an artist. The facts speak for themselves.

Anywho, believe it or not, there was a break in the Vancouver rain and it was actually somewhat sunny here for awhile...on Tuesday. Boyfriend came up with a brilliant idea: we should go to the driving range and hit some balls around rather than hang around the apartment where one of us busted the others balls. We grabbed our clubs and headed out the door. I have yet to adjust to carrying my own clubs around, so I'm sure I spooked more than a few of our neighbours when my bag banged against the hallway walls. Neighbours, I'm sorry, but frankly I can't feel too bad, especially to the woman who dresses her dogs. Yipes.

We made it to the range, which was actually quiet. Too many people exerted themselves during the weekend of the Masters I suppose. Yeah. I know golf things. Masters means the green jacket dealy, not that I care because Ricky Fowler wasn't playing. Now he has a nice golf wardrobe, so bright and fancy. Also I don't care because based on what I tuned into of Boyfriend's words, they don't let women play at that course. What kind of backward-ass etiquette is that? Everyone is welcome at my golf course that I don't have. BYOB.

Boyfriend grabs some baskets and we both watch as they fill with golf balls.

Ooh. Yellow. Pretty.
There's a reason they're yellow.
I know. I've been thinking about the pink ones I have. They don't match my golf stuff.
Grab your basket.

Now Boyfriend takes his golf seriously. He stretches out, rotating his shoulders and all that fun stuff. I put on my golf glove, which I need to replace. I Cruella De Ville'd the tips with my fingernails. They poked right through the glove. Terrible workmanship. My only prep is to put on my sunglasses. I pick through my clubs and pull out the seven. I don't know why. I still don't know the difference between all the numbers on the sticks.

This is how I take a shot:
I put the ball on the ground.
I stand shoulder width apart.
I shuffle left to right.
I shuffle closer to the ball, then further away.
I end up standing essentially where I started with my feet shoulder width apart.
I wiggle around a little bit to make sure my stance feels right.
I hold my club out and gently tap it to the ball's surface to instill some memory of where it's meant to connect when I swing.
Most importantly, when I pull into a back swing I start to hum.

The humming is effective. I hit the ball much better when I do that and that's not just the opinion of this lady. Believers are out there. There is a theory that humming relaxes me somehow helping with the delivery of my swing. Golf, go figure. Boyfriend sees my technique and offers me tips and I shoo him away with fluttering fingertips. No, no. I'm here for the fun, not improvement. If I care and try to hone this craft I won't enjoy it so much. There's a reason I never keep score when I golf. Boyfriend doesn't get understand.

Boyfriend's technique is slightly different:
He picks a target.
He takes a few practice swings.
He eyes the distance and direction.
He wets his finger with saliva and holds it up to account for the wind.
He stands shoulder width apart.
In a fluid motion, Boyfriend swings backward, then forward with a practiced transfer of weight from back to front.
He whacks the ball way the eff out there.

Wow! That was a good one! When I say this he just looks at me. He winds up and hits another.
Wow! That was a good one!
You don't have to say that every time. Boyfriend hits another ball.
Holy! Did you see that mother fly? Boyfriend shakes his head. My enthusiasm does not amuse him.

When we're both through our buckets of yellow golf balls, I feel great. I had fun, which is my only incentive to do things. Boyfriend though, is already trying to figure out when he can schedule more time at the range so he can improve. Yipes.

Time for tea,

K