Aloha

It's been quite a whirlwind of a week.  Friday night to Kansas City, funeral and reception and dinner on Saturday, back home to New York on Sunday, twenty million work things on Monday and FLIGHT TO HAWAII on Tuesday.

Oh the sunshine is nice.  We met my parents on Tuesday night and have done our very best to relax, tell silly stories about Grandmother (like how her three rules for men were: short hair, firm handshake and no facial hair.  otherwise you might as well just be some crazy democrat (um, hi!)).  Frankly, it's so nice to be outdoors again, to go for a run in the morning before the sun gets too intense, eat freshly cut pineapple, run around clad in flip-flops and a bikini, scrunching sand between my toes.  Yesterday, the four of us toddled around the golf course for several hours, DK and Dad exchanging tips on things like the proper stance, me employing my rather more, cough, unorthodox approach, and mom acting as the world's most cautious golf cart driver and keeping us well hydrated with iced-tea-lemonade concoctions.   I have never really taken to golf; I mean, I enjoy the ol' bucket of balls out on the driving range or whacking a ball out of the sand, but frankly, when DK was obsessed with it several years ago, I politely yawned and bid him a fond adieu as he, a maniacal gleam in his eye, headed out at 5 am in the San Francisco fog. 

But now I kind of get it.  DK was playing a different type of game altogether.  A crazy man, all walking, all weather (preferably rain since it keeps the masses away), 36 holes type golf.  Whereas yesterday, I was treated to the type of golf that include nice sunny days, and a leisurely pace and zippy little carts.  Well!  Golf wasn't so bad!  I surprised myself by not being too hideous.  I'd square up, imagine a pendulum, twist the ol' wiggly around, and let fly.  And by gum, the ball went (relatively) straight and (relatively) far.  To be fair, anytime I got some good loft on my ball, I felt like I deserved a Klondike bar, so my perception is perhaps a bit generous. 

There were a few moments though when I felt my ire rising, when I may have muttered a "Jesus Christ damn it" under my breathe when my ball zipped by that elusive wee hole again.  Putting?  Not so much.  Also, the endless stream of advice wore a little thin.  When DK or Dad settled up to their ball, all silence prevailed.  A reverend hush fell over us as they torqued up.  Afterwards, there might be some discrete discussion regarding pin placement and whether the 6-iron was too much club.  But for me?  My god, the peanut gallery would not stop talking.  My choice of club was questioned, my stance, something about putting more weight on my front foot.  I'd take a practice swing or two, take a step forward and one of my party would chose then to offer up some choice bit of advice.  Not being one to suffer such indignities (didn't you hear?  I am the world's expert on absolutely everything -- even when I am most decidedly not), I would screech in a not-very-lady-like manner for them to stow it and that I didn't want to hear boo and if they were going to treat each other with such kid gloves, well, as god as my witness, I would be given the same respect.  And then I'd self-righteously stalk up to my ball and let off some stinker that headed into the water.  But occasionally, I'd do the exact opposite of their advice (DK to my dad, "She is the most stubborn woman!" Dad to DK, "You could say that") and send off beautiful, straights shots and they were very gracious to cheer me on with a  "Nice ball, girl!" or "That's your best five-iron yet!"  Plus, that sound, that perfect wonderful thwack.  Golf, I can see your allure after all. 

I left them to it today though; Mom and I contemplated another three hours and eighteen holes (really I think 13 is about perfect; 9 not enough, 18 too many, but 13-14 would be the perfect amount of golf for me) and wisely decided to get massages instead. 

Heh.  VACATION!