Golf...sorta

Golf, invented so the men of Scotland did not have to talk to each other, and drink, guilt free, all day, without needing an excuse.

I'm still not sure why they opted to chase/hunt their own ball, as opposed to having someone else ruin a walk, but I'm sure they had their reasons.

Golf, like wine, is an acquired taste. It's also an acquired sport. I swear, you hit "adult" status, and golf clubs, bags, balls, and tees, miraculously appear in your house.

You try to fight it, and somehow the sport sucks you in. Not a total bad thing, but interesting on how it happens.

It's like a black hole, it just sucks you in. Then, before you know it, you're wearing plaid, knickerbockers, and and ripping grass out of the ground by its roots, and watching as a tiny white object skips and richochets its way into water and sand.

What have I learned about golf? The sport is not to chase the ball, but controlling your frustration, as the ball lands, yet again, into another trap.

And why are the traps there? It's not like it's hard enough to keep the ball straight, but other challenges need to be added, so the world can mock you. This includes trees, that are excellent at stopping the ball, and sending the ball back to the person that just teed off. Yes, that is me teeing off, and yes that is my ball that landed behind me. GO GOLF!

I'm not giving up on the sport yet, but let me know when business begins to use air hockey for all dealings, wheelings, and meetings.

2:1 Ratio, not always great

Getting sick is not preferred. In fact, I don't know any person who is excited to be lying on the couch trying not to die. It's especially crumby when you're hardly ever sick, because, in my opinion, you're hit harder than normal. It takes stronger bugs to take out a strong immune system. And this time, it was a HGH, 'roid raged, Rambo type bug that sent us running, litteraly.

It is especially crumby when you're no longer young. When I was little and I became sick my mom brought me orange juice, soup, took my temperature, grabbed movies, and somehow made me feel around better. When you're an adult, you're on your own. Good luck, suck it up.

Chris is also fantastic when I'm trying not to die. He brings me what I need, lets me choose what I want to watch on TV, and makes me soup, sometimes even sharing his chicken noodle soup. (Before we sound insane, I like double noodle, Chris likes chunky chicken noodle. If I'm out of double noodle, he'll make his preferred kind.) I do the same for him, and we've both made the run to the store to get the other OJ, or whatever.

It's a good system, until two people are beyond sick, so sick they can barely move. So sick the toilet wants to run and hide. Not only is it a pain you can't ask the other person to bring you something, and you have to suffer the five steps to the kitchen, that has absolutely nothing to offer. (The downside to getting sick the day after you come back from vacation.) You also have to will your body not to explode until the other person is done being sick. This is not easy, and I'm pretty sure the only thing that kept me from puking over the balcony was I could not remember how to open the door. I have new found sympathy for birds who fly into windows, it hurts.

The other part that sucks about getting sick when you're an adult? You have to be the one to clean up your own vomit.

It's nice to know we both survived the 2011 Attack From Hell Stomach Flu, and now we get to attack the toilet and bathroom with bleach. Yippie-Kai-Aye! And if either one of us gets sicks ever again, it will be to soon.

Passive Aggressive Milk Cartons

Weirdly shaped, and awkward to carry, frumpy, and space monopolizers, milk cartons are also passive aggressive.

Many people, and now objects seem to be taking up issues with my car. Okay, three pairs of skis, skiboots, snowpants, gloves, rollerblades, hockey stick, etc, is a bit much. I admit it. I should probably take out something, especially, when going to the grocery store.

Packed around my hobbies, the bags are secure, but leaves little room for frump cartons. I wedge them between the bags and the back passenger side door. Close the door, and drive home. As I open the door, the milk carton gives its, nice little, Jackie Chan impersonation, and falls to the cold wet ground.

I pick it up, along with a couple other bags and head up to my apartment. Placing things on the floor I run down to repeat the process. Except, this time, there is milk all over the floor. There doesn't seem to be a hole (at least not one I can see). Down the stairs I go.

There is now a milk puddle forming in the sink. Okay, obviously there is a hole in the carton. Luckily I had finished a carton of milk off earlier and had a place to put the refugee milk. BUT, that's not the point. The point is, these stupid cartons should be better reinforced.

Dear, Dairy Farmers of America packagers, Can you please reinforce the cartons to tank proportions? Some of us struggle with life and need a way to keep milk inside the carton.

Thanks.

Middle Aged Men=AUJDSFBKDFBISIBH

I am a smart, independent women. I scare you, but you just have to get over it.

Somehow, men over the age of 40, did not get this memo. They waltz into the store, after parking their BMWs, Lexus's, and Audis in two spaces.

I greet them with a simple "How's it going?" or "How are you?" These are called manners, we learn them in the Midwest.

Somehow, these men don't understand that this is a greeting and not a reason to either a)flirt or b) assume I know nothing about skis.

As far as I'm concerned, if they respond in either of those fashions I should be allowed to kick them in their shins.

Today, a man waltzed in, after nearly taking out the front window, and the first thing he asks me?

"Do you know anything about skis?"

Let's see. I've grown up skiing, I spend most of my winters on skis, have demo'd more skis than the store has to sell. I've spent my winters catering to the rich and the wanna-be famous, and convincing them which ski is best for their ability.

"Yes," I snap.

A woman across the store begins laughing.

"See," he tells me, "she thinks that was a good question."

No sir, she's laughing because you are being a JACKASS!

To scream this would cost me my job. I think that would be an okay consequence to going off on this guy.

"I haven't done any research, but I need the most advanced ski you have."

Okay, showing up to a ski shop demanding the best ski, WITHOUT research, is like showing up at a car lot and demanding to drive the best car, without knowing how to drive a manual.

"Alright, well let me show you what we have," I tell him in my best attempt at keeping calm and not punching him.

"These aren't advanced enough," he tell me.

These are skis that Bode Miller and Lindsey Vaughn ski on.

"How about you go and look on the Internet and see what there is, and then come back tomorrow, and we can find a ski that's perfect for you," I suggest.

"Excuse me, miss? I was wondering....."

Oh, dear God/Buddha/Elohim/Allah, let me make it through this afternoon.

Next to being thought of being stupid, calling me sweetie, sugar, babe, or darling, will cause me to lose it.

"Hey, honey, I'm looking for ski boots, but I want them to be comfortable."

One, I'm not your wife, two I have no idea who you are, so why are you giving me a nickname, and three, ski boots are not comfortable.

Luckily, my coworkers have been able to step in before I lose it on a customer.

"Ass hole on line one."
"Idiot on line two."
" needs boots."

And my male coworkers usually go ballistic that these men are causing me to call for reinforcements.

I'm not easily intimidated, in fact these men don't intimidate me at all. Make me angry as hell? Yes. And needing to keep a job, is winning out over going nuts on them. But look out, old men. On my last day, you will wish you were nicer to me.