I wanted to write something about Norway, but I can't. Not directly anyway. The unthinkable evil necessary to bomb a building, then to massacre a bunch of children is so foreign to me I'm having a hard time processing it. So, instead, I'll write about how my day meant more to me that it usually does. It started with watching a movie with a friend, then helping that same friend's brother move. Both things I would have done anyway. However, instead of just doing it because these people are friends of mine, I really took the time to appreciate them. That was a shared moment that we had, just people helping each other out, spending time together, laughing, cursing, and strengthening our human bonds. Love, not romantic love, not something selfish that needed to be returned or paid for in someway, just simple human brotherly/sisterly love. It's a powerful thing.
Then, I went to a birthday party for a guy I've known since I was 9. I met him on the playground at the school across the street from my parents' house. He has CP and all of his friends are "special." I've only missed three of these birthday parties in the years between 9 and now. They're always fun, but last night it was more so. I appreciated the opportunity I had to be in this man's life. The fact that he chose me to be included in his celebration, being selected as one of the few to remain in his life for so long - it's a precious thing. And between the hugs and laughs, and songs, there was love. That same brotherly/sisterly love, the love we're supposed to have for all humanity.
It was an early night, so I decided to visit my parents. Said "hi," and sat on the couch with them and my niece (who was over for a sleepover). We watched Tangled, but that wasn't important. It was just the act of being there, being in the presence of these people who I love and who love me in return. Just their nearness was enough to bring me to tears. My niece said it's only a movie, so it's not real and there's no reason to cry. But I couldn't think of anything more real. Not then, not now.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, October 22, 2009
My b*tch
Last time I had a terrible issue with my 7-iron. So, I hit a jumbo bucket of balls with the dang thing, leaving frustrated and not quite sure how I felt about the whole "golf" thing. But, being the mule-headed gal that I am, I gave it another shot.
Ordering up another jumbo bucket, I set out to make the 7-iron my b*tch. That's right, there's no such thing as surrender when it comes to golf. If something isn't working, you keep doing it until it is. Or maybe that's the definition of insanity and not golf. Or maybe they're the same, seeing as how grown men and women spend hours at a time using sticks to put tiny balls in a hole several hundred yards away. Whichever it is, that's how it's going to be with me. Just keep doing the same thing until you get a different result. And I did.
About half way through the dang bucket, I hit the sweet spot and watched as that sucker flew all the way to the back marker (not the fence, that's just silly, but the one in front of the fence). Not only that, it flew straight. As did the next one and the one after that. You get the picture. So, after a bucket and a half of balls, I had made the 7-iron my b*tch. I could hit it as far or as near as I wanted, adjusting the loft, the speed, the direction. Everything was awesome.... until the last ball. And boy was that a doozy, but not in a good way. Same grip, same swing, same timing, different result. The ball popped a mere ten feet in front of me, but not directly in front, off to the side. And it sat there laughing at me. Mocking. I could hear the club, too, as I put it back in the bag. "Who's the b*tch" now?"
Ordering up another jumbo bucket, I set out to make the 7-iron my b*tch. That's right, there's no such thing as surrender when it comes to golf. If something isn't working, you keep doing it until it is. Or maybe that's the definition of insanity and not golf. Or maybe they're the same, seeing as how grown men and women spend hours at a time using sticks to put tiny balls in a hole several hundred yards away. Whichever it is, that's how it's going to be with me. Just keep doing the same thing until you get a different result. And I did.
About half way through the dang bucket, I hit the sweet spot and watched as that sucker flew all the way to the back marker (not the fence, that's just silly, but the one in front of the fence). Not only that, it flew straight. As did the next one and the one after that. You get the picture. So, after a bucket and a half of balls, I had made the 7-iron my b*tch. I could hit it as far or as near as I wanted, adjusting the loft, the speed, the direction. Everything was awesome.... until the last ball. And boy was that a doozy, but not in a good way. Same grip, same swing, same timing, different result. The ball popped a mere ten feet in front of me, but not directly in front, off to the side. And it sat there laughing at me. Mocking. I could hear the club, too, as I put it back in the bag. "Who's the b*tch" now?"
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The 7-iron
At the driving range, my father said that most people warm up with the 7-iron then move on to something else. So, that's what I did, except I didn't really move on to anything else.
See, the problem with the 7-iron is that it looks like a normal club, but it's not. It's evil. The 7-iron likes to sit in your hand, cradled really, like any other club. It looks like it would hit the ball like any other club, like it would provide a little loft, or maybe distance. No. It won't. Because the 7-iron was wrought from the devil's forge, and there, managed to pick up a little bit of the bad man's soul.
From the top of the swing, it feels fine, through the swing, okay, but at the point of impact? No. Sometimes there is no impact because the club magically shortens or curves or lengthens, causing a rather painful shock when the head hits the ground behind the ball.
Other times, it'll deign to make contact, but maybe it'll just kiss the ball. This makes the ball barely dribble off the mat into the grass. It'll sit there staring at you, accusatory, like you purposely failed it. But it wasn't you, no, it was the 7-iron. And, this little yellow ball sitting a mere four feet from your mat serves a testament to your suckiness. Everyone who walks by, from the just starting tyke with his dad to the seasoned pro, knows what happened. They know that something went terribly wrong with your swing, that your grip was wrong, or your eye left the ball, or your head came up, or your swing was too fast, or that you forgot any of the other myriad of things you have to know to make the ball not sit there and stare at you from a couple feet away.
It would be bad enough if it were just the one ball, but I had a jumbo bucket. JUMBO! So, there they were a couple hundred Easter egg colored balls, laughing at me because I wouldn't relenquish the 7-iron. Wouldn't let it go. Wouldn't move on to something I can actually hit. The 4 maybe? The driver? The 9? No, that whole dang bucket of jumbo balls fell victim to the 7-iron. Their wounded bodies scattered across the outskirts of the battlefield, but never making it into the frey.
ARG! Who plays this game?!
See, the problem with the 7-iron is that it looks like a normal club, but it's not. It's evil. The 7-iron likes to sit in your hand, cradled really, like any other club. It looks like it would hit the ball like any other club, like it would provide a little loft, or maybe distance. No. It won't. Because the 7-iron was wrought from the devil's forge, and there, managed to pick up a little bit of the bad man's soul.
From the top of the swing, it feels fine, through the swing, okay, but at the point of impact? No. Sometimes there is no impact because the club magically shortens or curves or lengthens, causing a rather painful shock when the head hits the ground behind the ball.
Other times, it'll deign to make contact, but maybe it'll just kiss the ball. This makes the ball barely dribble off the mat into the grass. It'll sit there staring at you, accusatory, like you purposely failed it. But it wasn't you, no, it was the 7-iron. And, this little yellow ball sitting a mere four feet from your mat serves a testament to your suckiness. Everyone who walks by, from the just starting tyke with his dad to the seasoned pro, knows what happened. They know that something went terribly wrong with your swing, that your grip was wrong, or your eye left the ball, or your head came up, or your swing was too fast, or that you forgot any of the other myriad of things you have to know to make the ball not sit there and stare at you from a couple feet away.
It would be bad enough if it were just the one ball, but I had a jumbo bucket. JUMBO! So, there they were a couple hundred Easter egg colored balls, laughing at me because I wouldn't relenquish the 7-iron. Wouldn't let it go. Wouldn't move on to something I can actually hit. The 4 maybe? The driver? The 9? No, that whole dang bucket of jumbo balls fell victim to the 7-iron. Their wounded bodies scattered across the outskirts of the battlefield, but never making it into the frey.
ARG! Who plays this game?!
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