Scared Ya, Didn't I?

It isn't very often that I get an upper hand around here.  But today I did.  And it was thanks, in part, to a technique I learned from my dad as a girl.

The Boy and I were running errands in the neighboring town, and o the way home we were going to pass our favorite burger joint.  Slowly and steadily I drifted the car to the right side of the lane, all the while telling him that the car's steering is defective, with increasing franticness, as such:  "I can't get the car to go straight! It's drifting to the edge!  Oh NO!!  We're being sucked into the JCW's parking lot!"  It so worked.

I stopped to get us each a hot fudge shake. 

Maybe it was the almost-a-driver-observations he has been making lately, but he was sincerely worried, then scared then panicked!

Awesome.  I giggled all thew ay home while he grimaced and ate his shake.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Yesterday we ditched The Kids (who each had a "cousins' camp out" with their respective genders at Gma's and Aunt Lori's places) and WE had a HOT date on the golf course --and I mean hot, it must have been 95 degrees (with more humidity than I am comfortable with at course)! Genius Golfer, certainly, is always ready to play any round and 9 holes is like a warm up to him. Well, it has been probably 3 years since I played an honest to goodness 9 hole round with him--or anyone else for that matter. The real clincher in this deal for me was GG promised me lunch at the clubhouse and a Diet Coke refill before we played.

We get there just before noon and head into the clubhouse grill. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and the requisite Diet Coke. I hadn't had breakfast, so the burger tasted great! Fries are simply a delivery method for fry sauce, as Dear Friend Micheale says, and this fry sauce wasn't up to snuff. GG ordered some steak sandwich and fries and we sat to wait.

Just as the grub makes it out to us, a Golf Course employee--I think GG called him Steve--rounds the corner and calls out "Morning, Mr. Genius Golfer". He then walked on to his assigned post in the pro-shop and I started chuckling. Loudly, and with greasy burger in my mouth.

Genius Golfer smiles and says hello in a nonchalant manner, still gripping his steak sandwich.

"MR.?" I asked my beloved husband as soon as I had swallowed, with not so subtle sarcasm dripping from my voice.

"Uh, well, yeah." He replies. Then he adds, trying to convince me of his position, "You know, I've been coming here for seven years and a lot of the same guys work here all the time. They get to know me." Now he is really starting to dig. "Plus, it is really no different than when you and your girlfriends go to The Barn. I am just a Regular Customer at the golf course."

I burst into audible giggles now. "Right," I assure him, "I get the R.C.-love factor here. But they do not call us Mrs. So-and-So at The Barn. We are on first name basis with our favorite burger joint employees." [Which, I know gentle readers, is actually pathetic in a greasy, cholesterol filled way.]

"Well," Dear Husband says, "He was just being professional."

That cracked me up all afternoon as I hacked the life out of my Nike Mojo ball. Genius golfer had a decent round, no surprise there, and we did enjoy an afternoon outdoors together. Good thing for me MY par for the course is 9 strokes at every hole. That gave me an overall score of 67--not a bad score for the pros, if I were playing all 18-- but I was 14-under par if you count my way.

Maybe I can call dear Husband, MR. Genius Golfer at home and I could get the same reaction as Steve! Nah. I'd probably have better luck just calling out "NORM!" when he walks into the kitchen each evening. Cheers!