Free Day

I took the day off yesterday. Nana V came to babysit, and Bump and I played golf. I haven't played golf since the last Fat Drunk Golfers Association Tournament, circa October 2004.

I shot a 71. Let me put that in perspective for you non-golfers: Tiger posted 71s on the second and third day of the Masters.

Now, before you go all "wooo, she's a good golfer," let me point out some important factors.
1) I did not play Augusta National. I played a dipshit muni course in Falls Church.

A secretive attempt to get a rating for Augusta National produced a Course Rating of 76.2 and a Slope Rating of 148. The course I played had a rating/slope of 64.9 /103 for men from the back tees. (non-golfers: that means I played a bullshit-easy course)

2) I only played nine holes.

Did I forget to mention that? Oh.

What the pros need 18 holes to accomplish, I can do in nine.

You know what? Not playing for a year and a half? and not being very good to begin with? Means you can shoot a 71 in nine holes. Because I'm just that bad at golf.

Some highlights of my round:

Bump and I got to play alone. Just the two of us. I even got to hold his hand a couple of times. (tee hee)

I whiffed three times. Three. (non-golfers: a whiff is a swing-and-a-miss. Like a strike in baseball, except, you know, the golf ball isn't moving. It is still. Completely still. Yet I missed it. Three times. Because I'm just that bad at golf.)

For one whiff my ball was under a pine tree (because I'm just that bad at golf), and a branch caught my club on the backswing. So that was kinda excuseable, except for, you know, being under the pine tree to begin with.

The other two whiffs were on the tee for chrissakes. I have no excuse for that, other than being just that bad at golf. It was with my five iron, a club that is dead to me. Once, while playing golf with Peter, I complained that the fifth hole at Bowie was between clubs for me; my six iron came up short, and my four iron went too far.
Peter: [beat] Wait, what?
Me: My six iron is too short, and my four iron flies the green.
Peter: [really confused] Um, five iron?

Yeah, that club is dead to me. Can't hit it for shit. I forgot about that, apparently. Hence the two whiffs from the tee. Gawd.

At least Bump and I kept the pace. We stayed consistently ahead of the four old ladies behind us.

My tee shot on the 6th? Long (for me) and straight down the middle. And that's how the golf gods keep you coming back. Fuckers.

Oh, and I parred the 9th. That's the golf gods just toying with me. Because on the 8th? I posted a 13. Officially, I can't score a 13. I have to stop at double par for the purposes of calculating my handicap. But I really had a 13 on the 8th.

My first shot over the water on the 8th went skip . . . skip . . . almost dry . . . plunk. That was exciting. My second attempt was well-struck: so well struck that when the ball squarely hit a tree on the other side of the water, it went straight backwards and landed in the pond about five feet from where I was standing. Good times.

My third shot hit a different tree on the green side of the water, but stayed dry. I should have taken a drop after that first ill-fated attempt, but I am just that bad at golf. Even my decision-making is poor.


After the Great Golf Outing, Bump, Lumpyhead and I went to Aunt Bob and Peter's for a seder. It was lovely; the food was great, and it degenerated into a contest over who could make the best fart noise with their arms. We're so classy.

And I drank waaay too much wine.

Quite a day, huh?