23 June 2009

Getting a Birdie Means Something Else

I don't know these guys but my Google search for "frolf" returned this photo, further validating my white trash/frolf theory.

In the past month we have frequented a nearby park for family frolic and leisure. Said park boasts a disc golf course. Based on my brief observations at the park, frisbee golf (we mistakenly* like to call it "frolf") appears to be the white trash version of real golf. Well that's the case in my neck of the woods. And when I say "neck of the woods" I mean "what I see and how I decide to pass judgment."

It requires minimal clothing, a nappy dog, and a fanny pack for a lighter, cigarettes, and other herbal remedies. A long sleeve plaid shirt tied around the waist is optional.

From where I was sitting, frolf is an intensely big deal. It made me wonder if one day frolf courses will become like country club property? But instead of condos and million dollar homes cropping up on the outskirts of the course, it will be trailer parks and mobile homes. Residents will swirl light beer instead of red wine, and converse about NASCAR instead of polo matches. They'll discuss cigarette prices instead of the Dow and they'll have pot luck family reunions booked on the course instead of upscale weddings. Business meetings on the golf course will be replaced by frolf course sexual promiscuity and a pickup elevated on cement blocks will mark the 9th hole. The course will have 18 holes, to which everybody will commit to complete, but they'll never achieve anything past the tenth hole. And instead of that little ball cleaner thing, there will be a spitoon and an ash tray.

I'm just saying, dirty white tank tops could be the golf shirt of the future.

*My brief internet research has taught me that disc golf and frolf, or "freeform golf" are different. One website states: Frolf, unlike Disc Golf, is a freeform amorphous game, played among friends in a social setting without the confines of a course laid out by professionals attempting to force conformity. "Amorphous? Conformity?" It appears that some free-thinking non-professional learned to use the MS Word thesaurus and gets freaked out by any form of disc despotism. It's so passionate that I almost respect it.

16 June 2009

Ode to Stupid

Whilst my parents lounge on the beach this week, we have been tasked with taking care of their dog. Not because we are particularly good at it but because we happen to live a mile away from them. We are dog lovers so that helps. Sadie is an overweight miniature Dachshund with a limp.

Physical ailments aside, I still feel sorry for her. She's kind of stupid. My mom even calls her stupid to her face. Sadie lets the Bean fish hook her upper lip and drag her face across the floor without putting up a fight. She chases the tennis ball but only has about a 50% return rate. And she sat idly by and peed on the floor from the excitement of an unexpected visitor while my parents' house was robbed. But inasmuch as she's a dog, I love her.

Yesterday evening I dropped by to visit, provide love, and throw the tennis ball around for her. Her whines from inside the kitchen are audible on the front porch. Poor kid. We hung out on the lawn, chased the tennis ball, and enjoyed the silence together.

When I decided to jump on the trampoline, which I haven't done for about 15 years, she looked nervous for me and refused to walk under the tramp like she does when the 60 pound nieces and nephews jump on it. Maybe she's not as stupid as I thought.

The best thing about her is if you give her food, she'll be your best friend. Since she has to be home alone for a whole week, I console her loneliness like I would my own loneliness--with food. And it's the only way I could get her to stand still for this picture.

I guess it's easy to take pictures of her while she is scrounging underneath the dishwasher for a lost piece of cheese.
God bless the dog!

13 June 2009

The First Thing We'd Do is Take Out the Manatee

Selling a house sucks. About three to four times a week my phone rings and the caller ID informs me that it's our real estate agent. I groan, turn the ringer off so it doesn't wake the Bean, and then make a game day decision on whether or not I want to answer the phone. Answering this call means cleaning, making the bed, stashing the unfolded laundry somewhere, wiping down the bathroom, replacing the non-childproof decor, and then wrangling the Bean until the potential buyers parade through our condo, ask lame questions, and then depart--leaving me wondering if they are going to offer or not. It's honestly all done in vain. Yesterday when we decided to have our agent show the condo because we conveniently would be "out," I said to Ben, "Let's just leave the place a total mess with a sign on the fridge that says, 'We know you jackers aren't going to buy it so we didn't clean it.'"

Searching for a house also sucks. At first it's exciting--especially when it means ditching condo living. You begin to imagine the cute neighborhood, the yard, a potential puppy, the solitude of your own home, block parties, avoiding getting called to the Primary as a new ward member, etc. Then it turns out that Small Town, USA is geographically and monetarily out of reach. And that the neighborhood might be cute but the neighbors could potentially be weird. Or that they might have...oh I don't know...a MANATEE for a mailbox!

Honestly, what the hell? Why must people white-trashify fairly decent neighborhoods? I don't care if this is a relic from an ancient art collection. It is inappropriate for any neighborhood with homes on a permanent foundation.

After looking at the home for sale next to the Manatee Home (the one with the nice brick mail box to the left of the eyesore), we made a pact to execute a drive by rubbing out of the manatee about two weeks prior to moving in. Manatee be warned!