curse of the christmas ball

--
course:  presidio

holes: 1 through 10, 18

balls lost: 0

balls found:  2

-- 

regular callaway solaire ball

common misconception:  golf balls are white.

i thought this too, until last december, when i was taught the the art of "marking the golf ball."  according to my golf-pro teacher, the mark should be small and classy - a dot or line that hints at the owner's favorite color/s.

meanwhile, my pack of 36 colored sharpies had been in a drawer since the move to san francisco, collecting dust.  what better time than this to bring them out to add a little waterproof character to my otherwise boring balls?  {sidenote:  i was gifted two dozen womens callaway solaire golf balls for my birthday, and in complete fairness, they are not completely boring.  they are all covered with a translucent iridescent sheen.}

i took a pristine white ball straight from the package and began to "mark."  i began by making one little green dot.  but, before i knew it, the dot turned into a line, the line started to zigzag, and the zigzag became a full-fledged pine tree.  possessed by the christmas spirit, i just couldn't stop myself.  first it was the tree, then it was the star, then it was the "merry christmas" note... and then i dated it - 2010. 

6 or 7 sharpies later, i had created a custom christmas ball.

merry christmas 2010 callaway solaire ball



this ball has been used on 2 or 3 occasions; it has disappointed each time.  maybe i'm nervous to hit a work of art, or maybe the christmas star reflects the sun into my eyes, but anyway you cut it, i just can not make decent contact with this ball.  i took it out for another whirl this past saturday only to whiff it, top it - but, not lose it.  adding insult to injury, my new found, un-holiday-ed balls flew (obvious exaggeration) far better than than their christmas sister.  the golf gods must be punishing me for being too colorful with what is widely recognized as a boring, traditional, all white [golf ball] sport.

valentine's day ball coming soon. cupid may bring better luck.

ball, haha.



learning to squaw



top of siberia lift, squaw valley



growing up in oklahoma - "where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain" - i left skiing to the skiiers, and focused my attention on activities that required no mountains. 7 years in new york city only enhanced my incline-incompetency.  my skiing inadequacies went largely unnoticed - until i moved to san francisco.

this city is one with a unique vocabulary:  sandwich, translate, burrito. walking, translate, jogging.  driving, translate, biking.  cotton, translate, spandex.  summer, translate, never.  and since summer never happens, people make the most of the wintertime. on weekends, squaw becomes the new hamptons/long island/jersey shore/dewey beach; and le chamois, the new talkhouse.

eager to get a piece of the action, the boyfriend and i joined a ski house close to the lake, in tahoe city.  what could be better than weekends away, new friends, old friends, house parties... and skiing?  skiing, not so much.  having an i-have-skied-for-as-long-as-i-have-walked boyfriend doesn't help boost my confidence, either. but, with the help of lessons, i was/am determined to get better (note: physically impossible to get worse).  3 lessons later - my pizza wedge morphed magically into parallel form (with only hints of triangle). 

then, things took a turn for the worse.  the boyfriend met me after my last ski class and determined that i had graduated from belmont, links and east broadway (all greens) and that i was now ready for s i b e r i a.  i resisted, saying that me and my rental skis were not ready to go down a run that paid homage to one of the coldest, darkest, scariest locales of exile.  the boyfriend was encouraging and insisted that there was an "easy way down," and that "siberia would boost [my] confidence."  with my trust in his hand, i hesitantly got in the lift line.  how bad could  it be? 

bad.  i got off the at top and headed towards said "easy way down."  all i saw was a narrow path, with what seemed like infinity foot drop-offs on either side. my army green helmet was not enough for this battle.  the wind picked up and the ice started blowing. so, there i was, stranded, with the squaw valley under-8 ski team whooshing by me, one after another, bullet-style.  "petrified" and "embarrassed" did no justice in describing how i felt.  there i was:

with the wind howling,
with the ice blowing,

so, i did the only logical thing that would help me down the hill. 

i started to cry.

under my goggles, of course.

"skis and poles may break my bones, but stix will never hurt me."