Mr. Snooty and I just returned from a weekend golf tournament (with our "Desert Duffers" group of golfing pals) up around 30 minutes past Abilene, which for most of us, is approximately a thrilling 2-1/2 hours drive (Seriously, I'm kidding. It's ugly as all get-out). It's as dry as a prehistoric bone and flat as a pancake with the only signs of green being the Mesquite bushes, which all seem to suck whatever water and life there may be, until it's gone. Much like nasty cockroaches, Mesquite will most likely survive nuclear war. They often have roots that extend to well over 20-30 miles. I kid you not. It's a greedy weed of a plant (tree), but it really makes some incredibly fabulous wood furniture, counter-tops, and more, once it's been harvested. Luckily, IT ISN'T ON ANY ENDANGERED BOTANICALS LIST. And, I can guarantee that it never will be. Unfortunately, it makes for a lousy shrub unless you embrace the whole Xeriscape concept of landscaping, which many people do in this arid, dry climate.
So, we made our way up to Baird/Clyde, Texas for our annual (and most favorite) golf tourney with our crrrrraaaaazy *Dessert Duffer* buddies. It's a *couples only* tournament, although no one plays with their spouse or *significant other*. The format is always a Shamble, everyone gets one mulligan for each of the two days (if you're sober enough to remember you have one) and no one has to hit out of a sand trap, which all makes for a tremendously fun *tourney with friends*. It's so crazy that one never knows what the final outcome might be until it's all been said and done.
Okay, so the first night they drew everyone's pairs for Saturday and I drew a *YOUNG GUN* who was joining our tournament for the first time. His name is Kyle and I think he was like in his late 30's, but then anyone under 50 looks like a baby to me, right? Anyway, this kid could blister (as in: almost stripping the outer layer off) the ball and since the only shot we shared was the tee shot, I was in 7th Heaven, although I did have to bail him out with my drive a few times. I actually shot a 40 on the front nine.
Then we hit the back nine and we each began to fall apart like a House of Cards. It was so ugly that I would have cried had I not been having so much fun with my pard (or had we not each gotten so inebriated). Kyle and I kept getting the hurt-your-tummy-giggles, to the point that all we had to do was hear the other make a muffled giggle sound and it would start all over again. Honestly, you would have thought we were a couple of 12 year old knuckleheads the way we'd just start howling with laughter over.... like... nothing. Except, perhaps, when I accidentally let a toot escape me, thinking no one had heard. I forgot he wasn't old and deaf like us. He teased me unmercifully about it for the rest of the night, which would once again force us into hysterics and tears of laughter.
So, he thought I was truly awesome until we both got entirely too greased and experienced a complete and total *GOLF MELTDOWN*. Trust me when I say that it was UGLY. I ended up shooting a 52 on the back. By golly, I came through like the true hack that I am. Wah! Wah! Wah! I got over it far more quickly than I'd ever have imagined, which made me realize there are even more perks to aging than I'd previously imagined.
Sadly, we both completely choked ourselves to death on the back nine holes. Thank goodness Kyle has such a goofy sense of humor (like mine), otherwise he probably would have put me at the very top of his Sh*t List. Permanently. When it was all said and done, he was still speaking to me, so I guess there were no truly hard feelings.
That night, there were apparently some very drunk puppies in our group, as I saw this faux pas on my way to get ice on Sunday morning-------->
Then today(Sunday), I had the sheer luck to draw one of my good friend's hubby. They are actually the hosts of this tournament every year and they always manage to make it waaaay too much fun for all of us, God Love 'Em. Since Mr. Snoots and I were were the very first to cut and run when everyone finished playing their rounds, we still didn't know how it all ended up until today. Amazingly, my partner and I won 3rd place on the second day, winning a big $63.00 dollars a piece. Color me happy!
I had been so confident that neither Mr. Snooty or I won anything this year, in spite of the major expertise of our oh-so-capable partners. Last year, I could not miss a putt and was able to pull off 1st Place the first day and 2nd Place the second day. This year, most unfortunately, I could barely sink a putt, but then I never do well when someone tries to school me in putting but at least I didn't allow it to put me in a *mood* this year (which is another of the few perks to my aging process.... I don't throw near as many infantile tantrums on the golf course as I did during my impetuous youth). But really, I have no idea why I listen to anyone. I'm a putting genius, I swear. Until. Someone. Decides. To. Show. Me. Where. To. Putt. My. Ball. Oddly, I become a blubbering mess and can't sink a putt, which all makes me want to wail like a newborn baby (never attractive at any age).
WHY CAN'T MEN JUST KEEP THEIR GOLF TIPS AMONG THEMSELVES AND LEAVE US LADIES ALONE? You know. Like unless we actually request they share their immense knowledge of the game with us (since they're all obviously on the Pro Tour, right?). Does anyone have an answer? Uh-Huh. I'm pretty convinced we'd all give the same answer, unless you're married to a freaking saint.
I awakened at the azz crack of dawn to some strange noises outside. When I opened the door, this is what I saw. Llamas. Very. Loud. Llamas....