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What’s the Angle of the Dangle?

Imagine you’re feeling kind of flaccid. You’ve spent the past two days in your first-ever writing workshop, where you’ve revealed your incomplete book to an actual literary professional. In the process, you adorned your “I’ve got it going on” blouse with sweat stains down both sides from underarm to hem, and you almost burst into tears during your critique more than once. You realized that you know absolutely nothing about the game of writing, but you practically turned into a giggling tot when someone in the business told you that – maybe, perhaps – you’re a good writer.

You come away knowing that you have a lot of work to do. On no sleep for two straight nights, you find yourself flying across the country to yet another conference to get continuing education that’s required for both licenses you hold. Oh, it’s all happening in your happy place, making the trip worth it, because, let’s face it, the mind-numbingly-boring class about the latest changes to generally accepted accounting principles isn’t EVER going to do it for you.

You’re wandering through the Atlanta airport, too tired to even pay attention to things like arrows that point to the correct train for your terminal, causing you to stand in line for the wrong one for precious connecting minutes. Finally, you see the curving arrow – right in front of your face all along – that indicates the correct train, and you drag your bags and your exhausted butt in that general direction.

Then, you wait, the entire construct of the airport these days. Waiting. At least you wait in the cool sushi restaurant in E concourse with a handsome companion who happens to be your soul mate.

When you head for the gate, you realize that it’s in a part of E concourse you’ve never before visited – Gate E18. As you’re walking to the end, you look to your left, and you see…….this:

Can anybody say, “Schwing!”

He Couldn’t Drive, So He Didn’t Score


Someone asked me tonight if I play golf. I’m in Myrtle Beach, making this a not entirely unreasonable question. I barely refrained from serving up an expletive with my ‘no’ response. While I tried to be civil, there are few things that I deplore more than chasing the birdies.

The reason for this phobia of hitting a crater-ridden ball with a club-ended stick into an unattainable hole in the ground? Once, I went on a date that revolved around actually playing golf. Okay, let’s be truthful. My date was too much of a jerk to pay for me to participate. I was merely along for the ride, to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and be suitably impressed at his prowess with golfing paraphernalia.

When we arrived at the golfing site – okay, YES, I know it’s called a ‘golf course’ – it was packed with old men lined up for a blissful Saturday morning of batting their balls around the greens. We had to wait for our cart, and we were required to time our departure from the clubhouse to give the old man crew ahead of us enough lead time for their game.

Charmingly, I tried to fill up the time with ‘wows’ and ignorant questions about exactly why a golf ball is round, and what the precise purpose of the various striking utensils is, and why we weren’t walking between holes instead of driving. At this point in my life (I was an idiotic nineteen), I thought men liked women who seemed interested in their stuff. So, I feigned it. Eighteen holes of golf takes a long time, after all.

On the drive down the fairway between the tee off and the hole, I guess I was a little too animated. The old man crew on the second hole shushed me because I was howling. Loudly. My date was driving like a maniac, a fact that was lost on them. They didn’t care about my safety. They just wanted me to shut my trap. We got through that hole in three strokes, a feat that I hear is usually decent.

On to the second hole. My date made a respectable drive off the tee, and we saddled up in the cart to go find the ball. Along the straightaway, he swerved to miss a mud hole. Not knowing that I needed to be belted into the cart, I went flying out of it and landed face first in the slime. My gorgeous date ran over me.

When I dragged my muck-covered visage out of the hole, I looked up to see him standing next to the cart, holding it up by the top. He’d turned it around so quickly that he’d almost flipped it. Such was Romeo’s concern for my welfare, a microscopic bit of charm that evaporated when he ascertained that nothing was broken. He wasn’t about to lose his money on the golf game, finishing up the remaining sixteen holes with a shrewish, mud-encrusted date.

Since that day, I have never set foot on a golf course. Don’t ask me to play, because I may agree just long enough to cream you in the noggin with a driving iron.

IF there is such a thing as a driving iron.


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